#almost the same sound and EXACTLY the same rhythm. without stopping. same sound over and over again with a consistent rhythm for like a full

[frascospecimen]

Baby at my work right now that sounds EXACTLY like baby mario in yoshis island

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

The Long Game

Robert “Bob” Floyd x Fem!Aviator!Reader

Slow Burn & Smut

Call Sign: Cipher

I knew the stares were coming before I even stepped off the transport van.

The heat clung to me like a second skin as I walked across the tarmac of North Island, boots striking pavement with a rhythm I hoped sounded like confidence. Not nervousness. Not hesitation. Just movement—forward, always forward.

“Cipher,” a voice called out behind me, sharp and warm.

Natasha Trace—Phoenix—grinned as she jogged up beside me. Her sunglasses pushed up into her hair, uniform half-wrinkled, all confidence. She looked exactly the same. Like home, if I believed in that kind of thing anymore.

“Didn’t think they’d actually send you.”

“They almost didn’t.” My voice stayed flat. “But someone in D.C. wants me out of sight. I guess this is as far as they could push me.”

Phoenix gave me a look I knew too well. Soft sympathy, no pity. She knew better.

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

We walked together toward the hangar. A wall of voices echoed ahead—laughing, teasing, steel-toed swagger and aviators. The squad.

“Anyone I should be nervous about?” I asked, already bracing for it.

Phoenix glanced at me. “They’ve heard of you. But they don’t know you.”

I didn’t ask what they’d heard. I didn’t have to. The Navy rumor mill worked faster than any news outlet. Cheated on. Lied to. Publicly. A man with a shiny rank and dirt under his fingernails made sure I was humiliated before he left the relationship and the country. I never responded. Not once. Let them guess.

“Great,” I muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

The squad was already gathered in the hangar: familiar callsigns, unfamiliar eyes. I clocked them quickly. Rooster, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback—loud, easy energy. And standing off to the side, reading something on a tablet, was one I hadn’t met. Calm posture. Clean lines. Wireframe glasses. The only one not trying to look at me without looking at me.

Bob Floyd.

Nat nudged me. “Play nice.”

I gave her a dry look.

Hangman was the first to approach, of course. “So you’re Cipher.”

“That’s what the patch says.” I didn’t stop walking.

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said, flashing a grin. “We don’t usually get the Navy’s media darlings around here.”

“Must be my lucky day,” I replied.

A low whistle came from Fanboy, and Rooster elbowed him in the ribs, not bothering to hide his laugh. But I didn’t care about their games. They weren’t new to me.

Phoenix introduced me to the group with as little ceremony as possible. “Cipher’s your new wing. She’s flying solo until pairings reshuffle.”

Rooster offered a nod, more curious than guarded. Payback smiled politely. Fanboy seemed unsure if he was allowed to speak to me. Bob—quiet, thoughtful—just looked up from his tablet and met my eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Just offered a small nod.

No judgment. No awkward grin. No I read everything about you online vibe. Just…presence.

I gave him one back. Equally small. Maybe smaller.

That was all.

I didn’t speak in the locker room.

Not because I had nothing to say, but because I didn’t trust what would come out if I started. The squad filled the space like a living thing—teasing each other, trading sarcastic barbs, familiar in a way I hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. It was like watching a party from outside the house, lights warm but unreachable.

I took a bench in the corner. Laid out my gear with muscle memory that felt mechanical. Helmet, gloves, checklist. Precision. Control.

Nat plopped down next to me without asking. “You good?”

“Always.”

She gave me a look. “You know, if you don’t talk to them, they’ll just assume you hate them.”

I shrugged. “They’re not wrong.”

That made her laugh—loud and unguarded. “At least you’re consistent.”

“Pairings?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Mav’s switching it up every run. Random at first. Says it’ll push us to sharpen instincts.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sounds like a headache.”

She grinned. “Sounds like training.”

I didn’t ask who I’d be paired with. I didn’t care, or at least I pretended not to. But when Maverick strode in a few minutes later and started reading off names, I tuned in.

“Phoenix and Fanboy. Hangman and Payback. Cipher… you’re flying with Floyd.”

I barely blinked.

Nat did, though. Her eyes flicked to mine with a quiet curiosity.

Bob Floyd. The guy with the still posture and the eyes that didn’t miss much. I could do worse.

He met me by the Hornet with a nod.

“Cipher.”

“Floyd,” I replied, zipping up my G-suit. “You good back there?”

“I’m always good back there.”

I paused. Looked up at him. No arrogance. No smirk. Just quiet confidence. He meant it.

“Let’s see if that holds,” I said.

He smiled, just barely. “Let’s.”

—

Up in the air, everything felt sharper. Crisper. My hands molded to the stick like they belonged there, instincts kicking in before thought had a chance to catch up. Bob’s voice filtered through my headset, low and steady. Clear. Calm.

“Bandit coming in on your six—three clicks. Banking right.”

“I see him.”

“You’ve got two seconds to counter.”

“I only need one.”

I pulled the maneuver hard and clean, ducked the simulated missile, looped back through the canyon, and caught a second target dead-on with a lock I shouldn’t have had time to make.

Silence.

Then Bob’s voice again, softer now.

“Nice flying.”

“Didn’t do it for praise,” I muttered.

“Didn’t give it for you.”

That caught me off-guard—just enough to make my chest tighten, almost like a laugh. Almost.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t perform. He didn’t pry. He just… showed up. Flew well. Spoke only when needed. And when I pushed, he didn’t push back.

I wasn’t used to that.

—

When we landed, Maverick gave us a glance that meant “interesting.” He didn’t say anything, just made a mark on his clipboard.

Back in the hangar, the others were already pulling off helmets and razzing each other. Rooster gave me a subtle nod across the room—respect. Payback asked Nat how I flew. Hangman was suspiciously quiet.

Bob sat down on the bench beside me without asking.

“You don’t talk much,” he said, not unkindly.

I glanced sideways. “Neither do you.”

“Guess we’ll get along just fine.”

I didn’t respond. But my silence wasn’t rejection—it was something else. Consideration. And maybe he knew that.

Because when he stood up, he didn’t push for more.

“See you on the next run, Cipher.”

He walked away, shoulders relaxed, not waiting for a goodbye.

And for the first time since I’d landed on base, I realized I wasn’t bracing for impact.

I was waiting for something else entirely.

I didn’t plan to go to the Hard Deck.

In fact, I told Nat twice that I wasn’t going. Once while peeling off my flight suit, and again while half-watching her braid her hair back in our shared room. But she looked at me with that stubborn gleam in her eye — the same one she wore before every high-G maneuver — and said, “You’re not getting out of this, Cipher. You need to let them see you.”

“I’m not interested in being seen.”

“Well, they already see you,” she said. “Might as well be in control of what they’re looking at.”

Annoying. Smart. Phoenix.

I wore black. Clean lines. Minimal makeup. Something about dressing simply gave me control, let me decide what I was showing instead of what they’d try to dig up.

The bar was warm and humming with energy when we arrived. Pool balls cracking. Country music on a loop. Pilots gathered in loose groups — some I recognized, others I’d heard stories about. I followed Nat’s lead toward the squad, who’d claimed the high tables near the jukebox.

Hangman spotted me first.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, grin wide and bright like a billboard. “Didn’t think you were the social type, Cipher.”

“I’m not.”

“Then this must be a Phoenix miracle.”

“I’m very persuasive,” Nat said, smirking as she handed me a beer.

Bob was already there, quietly nursing his own bottle. He looked up as I approached but didn’t say anything. Just nodded — a small gesture, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Rooster pulled me into a round of darts with Payback and Fanboy. I went along, mostly to keep Hangman from drawing attention to me. But I kept catching glimpses — eyes that lingered just a second longer, conversations that quieted when I walked by. I’d lived through it before. The whispers. The That’s her… of it all.

Public humiliation has a way of making you infamous.

Especially when your Navy pilot boyfriend cheats on you with a junior officer, denies it, then accuses you of instability when the story breaks. The headlines were a storm I hadn’t asked for — just tried to survive.

I didn’t wear it on my skin, but the wind still howled behind me.

“Cipher!” Fanboy called, grinning. “Come sing!”

“No.”

“Come on! You look like you could use a little Springsteen therapy!”

“I’d rather get shot down in a simulator.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the group. Even Bob chuckled under his breath.

But Nat was already dragging me by the wrist toward the karaoke mic.

“You owe me for dragging you here,” she said, victorious.

I could’ve fought harder. Could’ve pulled back. But something about the way Bob looked at me — calm, not amused but… interested — made me step up. The music started, some vintage rock number I half-knew, and I sang. I didn’t belt it. I didn’t shake the walls. But I sang like I meant it.

People watched.

Bob did, too.

Not like the others — not dissecting me or sizing me up. Just watching, like he wanted to understand something I hadn’t said yet.

And for one second, I felt exposed.

When the song ended, I handed the mic off and stepped outside. I needed air. Space. Quiet.

The night was cooler than I expected, the salt breeze cutting through the heat of the bar. I leaned against the deck railing, trying to remember how to breathe without having to think about it.

Footsteps behind me.

Not Nat’s.

“You didn’t want to come,” Bob said.

I didn’t answer.

“But you did.”

He came to stand beside me, close but not too close. Just enough to make his presence feel intentional.

“I don’t like being on display,” I said quietly.

“I noticed.”

There was no pressure to say more. No prying. Just a pause, open and easy.

“I hate that they know,” I said before I could stop myself.

“About him?”

My jaw tensed.

“People talk,” he said gently. “Doesn’t mean they know anything.”

I glanced at him. “You don’t.”

He met my eyes. “No. But I listen.”

Something in my chest wavered.

He didn’t offer pity. He didn’t promise to fix anything. He just stood there, quiet and steady beside me, like air traffic control during a storm.

“Thank you,” I said before I could swallow it back.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The beach was Nat’s idea.

Of course it was.

—

She told me it was team bonding. “Tradition,” she said, grinning like the devil. “Mandatory,” she added, when I gave her the look.

I tried to make excuses — had reports to finish, laundry to do, a thousand ways to avoid being half-buried in sand with people who still didn’t know if they were supposed to talk about the headlines or pretend they didn’t exist.

But Nat was relentless. And honestly? I was too tired to keep saying no.

So I showed up.

Black tank top, aviators, hair pulled back in a braid. No one asked me to play at first. They weren’t sure how close to stand, how much was too much. It was easier that way. I kept to the shade with a beer, watching as the others launched into a game of dogfight football like their lives depended on it.

Rooster dove into the sand, yelling something about a fumble that didn’t exist. Hangman and Payback were locked in some macho shoving match. Nat zigzagged between them like a bullet. And Bob…

Bob was steady. Patient. He didn’t move like the others — no showboating, no shouting. He ran clean routes, made smart passes. He played like someone who understood rhythm, not noise.

He caught my eye once — not because I was trying to look, but because I already was.

He offered a smile. Brief. Real.

I nodded. Sipped my beer.

Eventually, Nat called for me. “Cipher! You’re in.”

I could’ve said no. Probably should have.

But something pulled at me — not the desire to play, not the camaraderie I still wasn’t sure I wanted. Just the fact that for a minute, I forgot to remember what I’d lost. For a minute, I remembered I used to be someone else.

I stepped in.

Within five minutes, I had a touchdown.

Within ten, I was trash-talking Hangman so fast he missed a block.

By the time Nat shouted, “Last play! Winner takes bragging rights for the month,” I was breathless and wild and didn’t recognize the laugh that came out of me.

The ball snapped. I cut left. Bob tracked me — saw it before I even moved.

We locked eyes across the sand, and I knew.

The ball flew. I jumped.

Caught it mid-air. Fell hard into the sand.

Someone — Payback, I think — dove after me too late and landed in a heap next to me. “Damn, Cipher,” he groaned. “You don’t miss.”

I sat up, brushing sand from my arms.

Bob stood over me, just a little winded. “You okay?”

I nodded. “That a real pass or were you showing off?”

He smiled again — that small, crooked half-smile that didn’t ask for anything. “Wouldn’t dare show off with you on the field.”

Nat whooped. Rooster clapped me on the back. Hangman grumbled about bad calls. Everyone buzzed around us, the way teams do when the game’s done and the adrenaline still lingers.

But I stayed sitting for a second longer.

Watching Bob.

He’d already turned back to the group, offering someone else a water bottle. But he’d looked at me like I was here. Not the Cipher from the headlines. Not the girl who got cheated on and ghosted by command when she tried to report it. Just… me.

And that?

That was dangerous.

Because I knew what happened when you let yourself get seen.

-

The hangar was quiet, save for the soft hum of a floor fan and the occasional creak of cooling metal. Most of the squad had cleared out hours ago, eager for drinks, beach plans, or anything that didn’t involve more forms.

I stayed behind.

Old habit — staying late, cleaning up details no one cared about but me. Maybe I liked the quiet. Or maybe I wasn’t ready to go home to a dark room and my own thoughts.

Bob was still here too.

I hadn’t noticed at first. He moved like silence — neat, efficient, unobtrusive. But when I looked up from my logbook, there he was, at the desk across from mine, flipping through reports with a red pen and a furrowed brow.

“You always stay this late?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He glanced up, a little startled, then offered a small shrug. “Only when the numbers don’t add up.”

I raised a brow. “You’re a perfectionist.”

Bob paused. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Just… rare.”

Silence stretched between us, not awkward, not charged. Just… easy. A kind of stillness I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Then my stomach growled. Loudly.

Bob looked up again, startled — then smiled, just barely. “Guess we forgot to eat.”

I blinked. “You didn’t eat either?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t notice.”

That made two of us.

A beat passed. Then he pulled out his phone. “I can order something. You like Chinese?”

I hesitated.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve made up an excuse, pretended I had something frozen waiting for me back home.

But instead I nodded. “Yeah. Chinese works.”

—

We sat on the hangar floor, takeout containers between us, eating lo mein with plastic forks like two rookies back from their first flight.

“This feels illegal,” I muttered around a bite. “Eating greasy noodles in a government hangar.”

Bob grinned. “Don’t tell Maverick.”

A laugh caught in my throat before I could stop it.

He looked at me like he’d just won something.

After a while, the conversation quieted. Not uncomfortable — just… heavier. The kind of silence where everything starts to feel a little more real. A little closer.

“You don’t talk much,” I said quietly, still not looking at him.

Bob shrugged. “Neither do you.”

Touché.

“But,” he added after a beat, “I notice things.”

I glanced at him. “Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“You read the same three lines of that maintenance log five times,” he said softly. “Your left shoulder tenses when someone brings up press. You pretend you’re not watching people, but you’re tracking exits. And you never look at your phone unless someone else is looking.”

I froze.

His voice didn’t change. “That doesn’t scare me.”

I looked away. “It should.”

And that was when he kissed me.

Soft. Careful. Like a question. Like I could still say no.

I didn’t.

At least not right away.

His hand found the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The warmth of him — the steadiness — made something in me ache.

But just as my fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, just as his breath hitched against mine—

I pulled back.

Fast. Like I’d been burned.

“I—” I stood abruptly, putting space between us. “I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” I said too quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you did. You made me feel safe. You made me forget.

I forced a smile, already backing away. “I should go.”

He nodded, still sitting on the floor, still looking like he wanted to reach for me but knew better.

“Cipher—”

“Don’t,” I said, voice low. “Just… don’t.”

And I left.

Not because I didn’t want it.

Because I did.

But want had never been safe.

And I was done mistaking kindness for promises.

-

It had been months since I transferred in. Months of settling into this team. Months of drills and missions and inside jokes I somehow earned my way into. I had a seat at the table now — someone always saved me a spot. I sparred with Rooster, laughed with Payback, threw bar peanuts at Hangman. Phoenix still had my six.

But only Bob ever saw everything I didn’t say.

We never talked about it. The almosts. The whens and should we’s that hung like smoke between us. A kiss after late paperwork. A hug that lasted too long in the dark outside the Hard Deck. His hand brushing mine during flight checks.

We never let it go further. Not because we didn’t want to.

Because I couldn’t.

And he never asked me to explain why.

That’s how I knew it was real.

Now we were here — stranded in a half-frozen cabin, grounded and waiting out a blizzard that swallowed the world whole. 

“I keep things locked up,” I said again, quieter.

Bob looked at me like he could see the whole storm playing out behind my eyes. He didn’t press. Didn’t pry. Just passed me a thermal mug of weak black coffee and sat closer, the blanket tugged tighter around both of us.

The fire popped. My fingers were numb even with gloves. And his thigh was pressed to mine so solidly it felt like an anchor.

“I’m sorry,” I said, surprising both of us.

“For what?” he asked.

“For letting it go this far and… still keeping you at arm’s length.”

Bob’s expression didn’t change. But something flickered behind his eyes — something soft and steady.

“You don’t owe me anything, Cipher,” he said. “But if you want me to stop, you need to say so.”

I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned in, my heart pounding in my ears. I pressed my mouth to his, the kiss slow and deliberate, like I was finally giving in to something I’d been fighting for far too long. It was nothing like the stolen kisses we’d shared before—no rushed moments in hallways, no hiding in the shadows. This one was deep, intentional, like everything I hadn’t let myself want was finally surfacing.

Bob kissed me back, his hands moving to my jaw, steady and reverent, like he was afraid I’d shatter if he held me too tightly. But I didn’t want gentle. I wanted him, all of him, and I shifted closer, until I was almost in his lap, the blanket forgotten.

His lips moved to my neck, his breath hot against my chilled skin. One hand ghosted beneath the hem of my shirt, his touch light but insistent, like he was mapping the contours of my body for the first time. I shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his touch set my nerves on fire.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against my skin, his words a low rumble that sent a thrill through me. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

I tilted my head back, exposing more of my neck to him, and he took the invitation, his lips trailing kisses along my collarbone. His hand slid higher, his fingers brushing the underside of my breast, and I gasped, my body arching into his touch.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

I closed my eyes, my heart racing. “I want you to take your time,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I want you to make me feel it.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine, like he needed to see the truth in them. “I will,” he promised, his voice thick with desire. “I’ll make you feel everything.”

His hands moved slower then, deliberate, like he was savoring every inch of me. He unbuttoned my shirt, his fingers trembling slightly, and I helped him slide it off my shoulders, leaving me in just my bra. The cabin was cold, but his touch was fire, his palms warm as they glided over my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his gaze lingering on my body, his admiration undeniable. “So fucking perfect.”

I felt a flush creep up my cheeks, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I reached for the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head, revealing the lean, muscular frame beneath. His skin was warm, his chest dusted with fine hair, and I ran my hands over him, tracing the lines of his abs, the ridges of his shoulders.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I teased, my voice shaky.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and pulled me closer, his lips finding mine again. This time, the kiss was hungry, desperate, like we’d both been starving for this moment. His hands moved to my back, unhooking my bra with practiced ease, and I let it fall to the floor, my breath hitching as his gaze raked over me.

“God, you’re stunning,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

I felt a surge of desire at his words, my confidence growing under his gaze. I reached for the waistband of his pants, my fingers trembling as I undid the button and pulled down the zipper. 

He hissed as my hand slid inside, wrapping around his erection, and I smirked, a wicked thrill running through me.

“You like that?” I asked, my voice low and teasing.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his head falling back against the couch. “You have no idea.”

I stroked him slowly, savoring the way his body reacted to my touch, the way his breath quickened, his muscles tensing. “Tell me what you want,” I whispered, echoing his earlier words. “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze locking with mine, his expression raw with need. “I want you to take control,” he said, his voice steady despite the desire burning in his eyes. “I want you to make me yours.”

The words sent a jolt of power through me, and I leaned in, kissing him deeply as I continued to stroke him. His hands moved to my hips, guiding me onto his lap, and I straddled him, our bodies pressing together, his hardness nestled against my core.

“You feel so good,” I murmured, grinding down on him, my breath catching at the friction.

“Not as good as you’re about to feel,” he promised, his hands moving to my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, making me arch into his touch.

I moaned, my head falling back as pleasure washed over me. “Bob, please—”

“Soon,” he said, his voice a low growl. “But first, I want to taste you.”

Before I could respond, he stood, lifting me with him, and carried me to the couch, laying me down gently. He knelt between my legs, his gaze intense as he looked at me, like he was memorizing every detail of my body. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, his voice filled with awe. “Let me show you how much I want you.”

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my pants and pulled them down, along with my underwear, leaving me completely bare. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but his gaze was so full of desire and reverence that I couldn’t look away.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing my inner thigh, sending shivers through me. “So fucking perfect.”

He kissed his way up my legs, his touch feather-light, his breath hot against my skin. When he reached my core, he paused, his gaze meeting mine, like he was asking for permission.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice desperate. “I need you.”

He smiled, a slow, wicked grin, and then his mouth was on me, his tongue tracing patterns that made me gasp and squirm. He was gentle at first, teasing, his tongue flicking against my clit, his fingers parting my folds. But then he grew bolder, his tongue plunging inside me, his fingers joining in, thrusting in and out in a rhythm that had me moaning his name.

“Bob—oh God, Bob—”

“You taste so good,” he murmured against my skin, his voice muffled but filled with delight. “So sweet. So fucking sweet.”

His words sent a rush of pleasure through me, and I arched into his touch, my hands tangling in his hair, holding him close. He sucked my clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling, his fingers pumping faster, and I felt the coil of tension inside me tighten, the pleasure building to an unbearable pitch.

“Bob, I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he urged, his voice a low growl. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words were all it took. My body shook as my orgasm crashed over me, waves of pleasure washing through me, my cries echoing in the small cabin. Bob drank it all in, his mouth never stopping, his fingers relentless, until I was a trembling mess beneath him.

When I finally came down, he kissed his way back up my body, his lips brushing mine, his eyes shining with satisfaction. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice filled with wonder.

I smiled, my heart full, my body still buzzing with pleasure. “Your turn,” I said, reaching for his pants, my fingers trembling with anticipation.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and let me pull them down, his erection springing free. I took him in my hand, stroking him slowly, my thumb brushing the tip, and he groaned, his head falling back.

“Fuck, Cipher,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You’re going to kill me.”

I leaned in, kissing him deeply as I continued to stroke him, my mouth moving in time with my hand. His hands tangled in my hair, holding me close, his hips thrusting slightly into my touch.

“I want to be inside you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I want to feel you around me.”

I smiled against his lips. “Then take me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He reached for the nightstand, pulling out a condom, and rolled it on with shaking hands. Then he positioned himself at my entrance, his gaze meeting mine, like he needed my permission one last time.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice gentle.

I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation. “Now.”

He thrust into me, slow and steady, his eyes closing as he savored the sensation. I gasped at the fullness, at the way he stretched me, filled me completely. He was thick, his length pressing deep, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice a low groan. “So tight. So perfect.”

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the way my body felt around his. I met his rhythm, my hips moving with his, our bodies moving in perfect sync. The fire crackled, the blizzard raged outside, but in that moment, there was only him, only us.

“Bob—” I moaned, my nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure built inside me again.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice commanding. “Look at me when you come.”

I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, and saw the raw desire burning in them. His thrusts grew harder, faster, his control slipping as he chased his own release.

“Cipher—fuck—I’m close—”

“Come with me,” I urged, my voice shaky. “Let go.”

His eyes closed, his face contorting with pleasure as he thrust deep one last time, his body stiffening as he came, his name on my lips. I followed him over the edge, my body shaking as my orgasm crashed into me, my cries mingling with his.

We stayed like that for a moment, our bodies still joined, our breaths ragged, the world outside forgotten. Then Bob pulled out, disposing of the condom, and gathered me into his arms, holding me close as we caught our breath.

“That was—” I started, but he cut me off with a kiss, his lips soft against mine.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction. “It was everything.”

I smiled, my heart full, my body still buzzing with pleasure. The blizzard raged on outside, but inside the cabin, we had found our own warmth, our own sanctuary. And as I snuggled into his embrace

—

The first thing I notice is the warmth.

The second is him.

Bob’s arm is slung over my waist, his chest pressed to my back, breathing slow and steady like he’s actually relaxed for once. I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his hand tightens on my side, pulling me back in like I belong there.

I let myself stay, just for a moment. Eyes closed, heart soft, memorizing the feeling of him—his warmth, the faint scratch of stubble on my neck, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my palm.

Then I feel it—his breath against my ear, the faintest huff of a laugh.

“You’re awake,” I mumble.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep. “Didn’t want to move.”

I turn over to face him, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at. His hair’s sticking up in every direction, glasses askew, and he’s wearing that old, soft Top Gun t-shirt that’s probably seen more sunrises than either of us.

He brushes a hand gently across my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s his job.

“So, uh…” He clears his throat, suddenly bashful. “Are we… uh, are we a thing now?”

I blink at him, caught off guard.

“A thing?” I echo, voice soft.

His cheeks flush pink, but he holds my gaze, eyes wide and hopeful. “I mean… I’ve kinda wanted to be a thing since, I dunno… the first time you called me ‘Glasses’ in front of the whole team.”

A laugh bursts out of me—a real one, bright and unfiltered.

“That was a joke!”

“Was it, though?” he grins, that crooked, Bob grin that makes my heart stumble in my chest.

I look at him—really look at him—and suddenly, I know.

“I think I want to be,” I say quietly, the words feeling heavy and light all at once. “I want this. I want you.”

His eyes go soft, impossibly tender, and he leans in, brushing a kiss to my forehead—gentle, reverent, like I’m something fragile he’s been waiting years to hold.

And I’m pretty sure I stop breathing.

We sit like that for a while, wrapped in the quiet, our fingers tangled together. The storm still rages outside, but in here, it’s warm—safe in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Eventually, Bob untangles himself and shuffles over to the tiny stove, fiddling with the ancient coffee pot like it might bite him.

“God, this stuff is terrible,” he mutters when the coffee finally sputters out, a thin, watery excuse for caffeine.

I take a sip anyway, wincing. “It’s… something.”

He laughs, and it’s the best sound in the world.

Then the radio crackles.

“Rescue team’s ten minutes out. You two decent in there?”

Phoenix’s voice, clear as day.

Bob practically chokes on his coffee, coughing and wide-eyed, while I scramble to grab the radio.

“Yeah, we’re good,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Just cold, tired, and ready to get the hell out of here.”

I glance at Bob, and he gives me a little grin—quiet, shy, like we’re sharing a secret.

Because we are.

When the team finally bursts in, Bob and I act like nothing happened. Just two aviators, weathering a storm.

But as we step outside into the snow, his hand brushes mine—and this time, I let my fingers curl into his. Just for a second.

Long enough for him to know I’m not going anywhere.

And I know—neither is he.

—

Back at base, everything’s supposed to go back to normal. Briefings, drills, checklists, the whole routine like clockwork.

But nothing feels normal. Not when every time I glance up, I catch Bob already looking at me—soft, quiet, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows something no one else does.

Like he knows me.

And maybe the others don’t notice at first. But it starts adding up.

Like how I’ll get up from the ready room table to grab a coffee or “go to the bathroom,” and not five minutes later, Bob magically has to stretch his legs, too.

“Oh, uh, I’ll—uh—head that way too, I guess,” he’ll mumble, cheeks pink.

The first time, no one blinks. The second time, Rooster’s eyebrow quirks up. The third time, Phoenix catches my eye and smirks like she knows.

And the worst part? We’re so bad at playing it cool.

Phoenix crosses her arms, smirking, and leans in toward Rooster, whispering loudly, “I give it a week before they start wearing matching sweaters.”

“Two days,” Fanboy counters.

“Guys,” Bob protests, flustered, but it’s half-hearted at best. His eyes find mine across the room, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

It only gets worse.

Inside jokes start cropping up—mostly between Bob and me. Like the time Mav asks a question during a briefing, and Bob murmurs, “I think we need… cabin coffee for this.”

I choke on my drink, snorting so hard I nearly spill it all over my notes.

Everyone turns to stare.

Bob just sits there, all wide-eyed and innocent, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he just did.

And the way he looks at me after—soft, secret, like he’s holding onto a memory only we share—makes my chest ache in the best way.

the other night at the Hard Deck.

Everyone’s packed in, the bar loud with music and laughter, darts flying, bottles clinking. I’m at the bar, waiting for my drink, when Bob slips in beside me—close, but not too close.

“Hey,” he murmurs, soft enough that no one else hears.

“Hey, Bob,” I say back, fighting a grin.

It’s too easy, the way we fall into our own little world. He nudges my shoulder, and I nudge him back. We share a look when Payback tries to tell some long, winding story about a failed maneuver, and Bob’s eyes sparkle like he’s holding back a laugh just for me.

Then there’s the dart game.

Phoenix lines up her shot, eyebrow cocked. “Loser buys the next round.”

Bob steps up behind me and murmurs, “Aim a little left.”

I smirk. “Since when are you my coach, Floyd?”

He leans in—too close, definitely not regulation—and whispers, “Since the cabin.”

I nearly drop the dart.

Phoenix catches it. “What’s that about a cabin?”

Bob’s ears go bright red, and I’m this close to smacking him with the dartboard.

-

It was supposed to be a quick moment.

Just five minutes, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hangar after everyone had cleared out. Bob had been rambling about flight patterns, his hands waving in the air, glasses slipping down his nose, and I couldn’t help it—I had to kiss him.

And now here we are.

His back’s against the cold metal wall, his hands warm on my hips, his mouth soft and everywhere on mine.

It’s sweet and slow, like we’ve got all the time in the world, like the whole world shrank down to just this: me, Bob, and the sound of our ragged breathing echoing in the quiet.

I break away, forehead pressed to his, catching my breath.

“I like this,” Bob whispers, his voice so soft it feels like a secret.

“Me too,” I murmur, smiling against his lips, and then I’m pulling him in for another kiss—

And that’s when we hear it.

A loud, dramatic throat-clear.

I freeze. Bob’s eyes go wide, lips still parted, breath caught halfway between oh no and please let it be someone else.

Slowly—so slowly—we turn toward the noise.

And there, standing with his arms crossed and a very smug grin, is Hangman.

“Now, what do we have here?” he drawls, drawing out the words like he’s savoring every single syllable.

Bob practically jumps away from me, nearly tripping over his own feet. I swipe at my lips, cheeks burning, and try to come up with literally anyexplanation.

“Uh—” I start.

“Nope!” Hangman cuts in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t even try. I know exactly what I saw.”

Bob’s face is a shade of red I didn’t even know was humanly possible.

“Hangman,” I say, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous. “You can’tsay anything.”

He smirks, like he’s won the lottery. “Oh, I can say something. In fact, I’m dying to.”

Bob looks like he might actually pass out.

“Jake, please,” Bob says, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t.”

“Please, Hangman,” I add, and I’m pretty sure my voice is borderline begging.

He taps a finger against his chin, pretending to think about it. “Hmm… what’s it worth to you?”

I narrow my eyes. “You would pull this.”

“Absolutely,” he grins, teeth blinding. “I mean, this is gold. ‘Glasses’ and ‘Cipher’ sneaking around like a couple of teenagers? The team’s gonna eat this up.”

“Jake.” Bob’s voice is soft, but desperate.

Hangman glances at him, then back at me, and for a second—just a second—he looks like he’s almost feeling generous.

I cross my arms, glaring. “Jake Seresin, if you say one word about this, I will personally make sure your locker mysteriously ‘loses’ all of your flight gear before your next sortie.”

Bob, bless him, tries a different tactic. “Look, we’re not trying to… make a thing out of it. Just… let us figure it out first, okay?”

Hangman’s smirk softens, just a little.

He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now. But don’t think for a second I won’t collect on this later.”

Bob lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.

I give Jake a long, warning stare. “Not a word.”

He holds up his hands, all innocent-like. “Scout’s honor.”

As he walks away, whistling like he’s the hero of the story, Bob groans softly, burying his face in his hands.

“Well,” I mutter, “that was… not ideal.”

Bob peeks at me through his fingers, and somehow, we both start laughing, breathless and a little hysterical.

Because of course it was Hangman. And of course we’re not gonna live this down.

But for now… at least our secret’s safe.

Sort of.

—

The sun’s low in the sky, golden and warm, casting long shadows across the Hard Deck parking lot where someone—probably Fanboy—decided it would be a good idea to haul out a grill and have an impromptu squad barbecue.

There’s laughter, music, the smell of burgers and smoke in the air.

And absolutely zero chance we’re going to make it through this without someone saying something.

Bob and I showed up separately. Obviously.

But it took exactly five minutes for us to somehow end up standing way too close by the drinks cooler, and exactly ten for Hangman to start hovering.

He’s leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, watching us like a hawk—grinning, of course. Just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Bob’s trying to play it cool. He’s got his glasses on, hair a little messy from the wind, and he’s nodding along to whatever Rooster’s saying about football, but his hand is gripping his soda can way too tightly.

And every few seconds, he glances at me like he can’t help it. Like he’s trying to check in, make sure I’m okay, like we’re still tethered even in the middle of a crowd.

I’m just as bad. I keep catching myself smiling for no reason when he looks at me, and the way my stomach flips every time his arm brushes mine is so obvious, it’s a miracle no one’s called us out yet.

But then Hangman clears his throat.

Loudly.

“Man,” he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the music, “this barbecue’s almost as hot as the sparks flying over by the cooler.”

Everyone turns.

Bob practically jumps. I freeze, a solo cup halfway to my lips, and glare daggers at Jake, who’s grinning like he just won the lottery.

Rooster’s eyebrows shoot up. Phoenix glances between us, her eyes narrowing like she’s connecting the dots.

Bob’s cheeks flush a deep, tell-tale red, and I can feel my own face heating up.

“We’re—” Bob starts, voice cracking slightly, “uh, we’re just… standing here.”

“Sure you are, Glasses,” Hangman smirks, stretching out the nickname in that infuriatingly smug drawl.

Bob sputters. I glare.

“Jake,” I warn, stepping in, voice low, “don’t.”

He just grins wider. “Relax, Cipher. I’m not saying anything… just making an observation.”

Phoenix folds her arms, watching us with a smirk, clearly enjoying the absolute trainwreck unfolding in front of her.

Bob’s about to combust. I can see it in the way he’s fidgeting, hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt like it might save him.

So I do the only thing I can do—grab his hand under the table, squeeze gently, and shoot him a look that says we’ll survive this.

Because we will.

Eventually, the team drifts back into their conversations, the moment fading.

But Hangman?

He catches my eye, tips an imaginary hat, and mouths “You owe me”before turning away.

Bob lets out a long breath, eyes wide, and mutters, “We’re so bad at this.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back, smiling despite myself. “But I kinda like it.”

And when his fingers brush mine again, soft and quick, like a promise, I know we’ll figure it out.

Even if the whole squad knows exactly what’s going on.

-

The Hard Deck is loud tonight—music thumping, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the squad scattered across the bar like it’s home base.

I’m standing by the pool table, pretending to watch Rooster line up a shot, but really, I’m hyper-aware of Bob across the room, sitting with Hangman and Fanboy, a beer in one hand and that quiet, thoughtful look in his eyes.

It’s been like this for weeks now—stolen glances, “accidental” run-ins, lingering touches when no one’s looking.

And somehow, we’ve kept it under wraps.

Or… we had.

Because that’s when I hear it.

Bob, in his sweet, earnest voice, casually saying:

“Yeah, I think Cipher and I are just gonna grab dinner after this.”

Time freezes.

My stomach drops.

Hangman—sitting right across from Bob—slowly turns his head, a grin spreading across his face like a slow-motion car crash.

Rooster chokes on his beer, coughing so hard he has to thump his chest. Phoenix spins around from the dartboard, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling.

Bob?

Absolutely oblivious.

He’s still talking, going on about how there’s this new Italian place we’ve been wanting to try, and I can see it happening in real-time—the moment he realizes—

His voice falters.

His cheeks flush bright pink.

His eyes dart around the room like a deer in headlights, finally catching the looks being thrown his way.

“Oh,” he mumbles, blinking rapidly. “Uh. I mean… just, uh, as friends—”

“Bob.” Hangman’s voice is silk and poison, smug dripping from every syllable. “You sure about that, buddy?”

Bob opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He’s completely flustered.

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. It just bubbles up, unstoppable, and when Bob’s eyes snap to mine, mortified, I just shake my head, grinning.

“Smooth, Floyd,” I tease, crossing my arms. “Really subtle.”

Payback lets out a howl of laughter, slapping the table like he’s at a comedy show. “I knew it! Knew it, knew it!”

Bob groans, covering his face with both hands.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters behind his palms.

I reach over, gently tugging his hand down. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He peeks at me, cheeks still bright red, and whispers, “I’m so bad at this.”

“You’re adorable,” I whisper back, grinning so wide it hurts.

Hangman leans in, grinning ear to ear. “So… dinner date, huh?”

Bob looks at me, eyes soft and a little resigned, and then—finally—he shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, but with this quiet certainty that makes my heart flip. “Cipher and I are a thing.”

And just like that, the whole bar erupts.

Cheers, laughter, Phoenix throwing a coaster at us and yelling, “Finally!” Rooster shaking his head with a grin like he’d bet money on it months ago.

Bob looks at me, like he’s a little overwhelmed but also relieved, and I just smile, squeezing his hand under the table.

Because yeah. The secret’s out.

And it feels really, really good.

—

It’s late afternoon when I show up at Bob’s apartment, arms full of snacks, the weight of the week falling off my shoulders as soon as I step through the door.

Bob’s already in his cozy mode—sweatpants, a hoodie, glasses slightly askew as he fiddles with the TV settings, trying to make sure the entireMarvel collection is queued up for the marathon.

“Hey,” he says when he sees me, voice soft, eyes lighting up like I just made his day.

I grin, kicking off my shoes and dropping the snacks on the counter. “Hey yourself, Glasses.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, cheeks already turning pink, and I feel that familiar pull in my stomach—the one that makes it way too easy to get lost in those sweet blue eyes.

“I brought the essentials,” I say, holding up a giant bag of popcorn. “Also, drinks, candy, and…” I dig through the bag, “a whole lot of regret for the sheer amount of time we’re about to waste watching every single Marvel movie.”

Bob laughs again, softer this time, and I catch the way his gaze lingers on me a little too long.

The apartment smells like popcorn already—he’s got a batch going in the kitchen, and the windows are cracked open to let in the cool evening air. It feels comfortable, like we’ve done this a thousand times.

And maybe that’s why it happens.

I’m helping him set up the blankets on the couch—fluffing pillows, arguing over the best blanket placement—when I glance up and find him watching me.

Really watching me.

His mouth is slightly parted, eyes soft behind his glasses, like he’s thinkingsomething he hasn’t dared to say out loud yet.

My breath catches.

“What?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

He swallows, shaking his head like he shouldn’t say it, but then—

“I just…” His voice is quiet, warm, gentle, like a secret he’s been keeping close to his chest. “I really like this.”

“Movie night?” I tease, even though my heart is racing.

He gives me a look—one that says, You know that’s not what I mean—and takes a small step closer, enough that I feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitches just a little when I don’t move away.

I swear the world tilts.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Bob reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and let his fingers linger on my cheek. The air between them crackled with tension, thick and electric.

“Bob,” I breathed, his name feeling like a promise on my tongue.

He leaned in, his eyes fluttering shut, and kissed me. It was soft at first, a brush of lips that made my knees go weak. But then my hands were in his hair, and his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us. The kiss grew hungry, desperate—like we’d been waiting too long and couldn’t wait anymore.

His breath was ragged against my skin as his lips trailed down to my jaw, my neck. I tugged at his hoodie, pulling him even closer, my fingers digging into the fabric as if to anchor him to me. His hands slid down my back, pressing me against him, and I could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“God, Y/N,” he murmured against my skin, his voice rough with need. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

I didn’t respond with words, just tightened my grip on his hair and pulled him back up for another kiss. This time, it was fierce, our lips moving against each other with an urgency that left no doubt about how we felt.

Bob broke away first, his chest heaving as he looked at me with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now.”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my ears as he took my hand and led me down the hallway. The bedroom was dimly lit, the evening light filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Bob didn’t waste any time, pressing me against the door and kissing me again, his hands roaming over my body like he was memorizing every curve.

I moaned into the kiss, my hands sliding under his hoodie to trace the muscles of his back. He was strong, his body lean and athletic, and I reveled in the feel of him against me. His lips moved down my neck, his teeth grazing my skin as he whispered, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

The praise sent a shiver down my spine, but it was the edge in his voice—a hint of something darker, more primal—that made my knees weaken. Bob wasn’t just gentle; he was hungry, and I loved it.

He pushed me back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving mine as he hovered above me. “You’re mine, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Do you understand?”

I smirked, arching my back slightly. “Prove it.”

The challenge in my tone seemed to ignite something in him. His eyes darkened, and he grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other tangled in my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. “Oh, I will,” he growled, before slamming his lips back down on mine.

The kiss was rough now, his tongue demanding entrance as he kissed me like he was claiming me. I moaned, my body arching against his as I surrendered to the intensity of the moment. His free hand slid down my body, pulling up my shirt to expose my bra. He traced the lace with his fingers before hooking his thumbs under the straps and sliding it off, his eyes devouring me.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. “Your tits are perfect.”

I felt a flush of heat at his words, the mix of praise and degradation sending a jolt of pleasure through me. Bob leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, his tongue swirling as his hand squeezed my other breast. I cried out, my head tossing back into the pillow as I tangled my fingers in his hair, urging him closer.

“Bob, please,” I panted, my body thrumming with need.

He smirked against my skin, his breath hot as he moved lower, kissing down my stomach. His hands slid down my jeans, unbuttoning them slowly, deliberately, as he looked up at me with a mix of hunger and reverence. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against me through the fabric of my panties. “You want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I gasped, my hips lifting off the bed as he hooked his fingers into my jeans and panties, sliding them down my legs. “God, yes.”

Bob’s eyes locked on me, his expression intense as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over my core. 

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, my voice steady despite the desperation she felt. “Now.”

He smirked, his fingers tracing the edges of my lips before slipping inside me. I was slick, my body ready for him, and he groaned at the feel of my heat enveloping his hand. 

“So fucking wet,” he repeated, his thumb pressing against my clit as he slid a second finger inside me. “You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”

I moaned, my head falling back into the pillow as I squirmed beneath his touch. “Bob, please. I need you.”

He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to my thigh. 

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

I rolled my eyes, even as my body betrayed me with another desperate moan. “Just get on with it.”

Bob’s smirk widened as he stood, shedding his hoodie and sweatpants to reveal his toned body. His glasses were askew, his hair tousled, and he looked utterly undone—and it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. He reached for his belt, his eyes never leaving mine as he undid his jeans and pushed them down, revealing his erection, thick and hard.

My breath caught at the sight, my body aching for him. He stepped out of his jeans, kicking them aside before reaching for me again, his hands gripping my hips as he positioned himself between my legs.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

I nodded, my heart pounding as he pressed the tip of his cock against my entrance. “Fuck me, Bob.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With one swift thrust, he buried himself inside me, his eyes closing as he let out a ragged groan. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders as I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his hips snapping forward as he began to move. Each thrust was deliberate, powerful, filling me completely as he set a relentless pace.

I met his rhythm, my body moving with his as I lost myself in the sensation. His hands gripped my hips tightly, his fingers leaving bruises as he pounded into my, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he panted, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You like being fucked by me.”

“Yes,” I moaned, my head tossing back as I felt her orgasm building. “God, yes.”

Bob leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel you fall apart.”

His words pushed me over the edge. my body tightened around him as I cried out, my orgasm ripping through me like a wave, my nails digging into his back as I rode it out. Bob groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release, his hips snapping forward one last time before he stilled, his body trembling as he spilled himself inside me.

For a moment, we were both silent, our breaths ragged as we clung to each other. Then, just as Bob pulled out and collapsed beside me, the doorbell rang.

It’s way too quiet when the doorbell rings.

Bob and I freeze, tangled up in each other in the middle of his bed, both of us flushed and breathless, the remains of the movie night snacks scattered across the dresser.

I stare at the ceiling, panting, my shirt somewhere on the floor, and Bob’s hair is sticking up in all directions, his glasses crooked, lips definitely kiss-bruised.

And then—

Ding-dong!

“Shit.”

Bob launches himself off the bed like the doorbell is a grenade.

I can’t stop laughing, the sound bubbling up in my chest as I pull the blankets around me and watch him scramble to find his sweatpants. He’s halfway hopping into them when the team starts knocking like they’re about to bust the door down.

“Bob!” Rooster calls, voice way too loud. “You alive in there, man?”

Bob fumbles with his hoodie, cheeks flushed red, muttering under his breath as he bolts to the front door.

The second it opens—

Hangman leans in, smirking so hard it looks like his face might crack. “Well, well, if it isn’t Bobby I-Just-Got-Lucky Floyd.”

Phoenix chokes on her soda, Rooster wheezes, and Payback is dying in the back, barely holding it together.

Bob’s face goes nuclear.

“I—what? No, I—uh, we were just—” he stammers, his hands flailing.

“Oh, we know,” Hangman says, voice dripping with amusement as he pushes his way inside, holding up the pizza box like a trophy. “Just wasn’t expecting to interrupt.”

Bob looks absolutely mortified, rubbing the back of his neck as the rest of the team files in, smirking and laughing and throwing him looks.

I give it five whole minutes before I walk out of Bob’s room—wearing his hoodie, hair still a mess, cheeks burning.

The second I appear, the team erupts.

“Oh, look who finally decided to join us!” Rooster crows, clapping his hands together.

“Confirmed,” Hangman grins, gesturing between us. “Bobby ‘I-Just-Got-Lucky’ Floyd and his very happy girlfriend.”

Phoenix is leaning back in the armchair, arms crossed, giving me the most knowing smirk like, you’re not even trying to hide it anymore.

Bob groans into his hands, and I can’t help it—I’m grinning.

“Alright, alright,” I say, throwing my hands up as I grab a slice of pizza from the box. “You guys gonna keep teasing us, or are we watching Iron Man?”

Hangman just laughs, leaning back on the couch, but the glint in his eyes says this definitely isn’t the last we’ll hear about it.

Bob catches my gaze across the room, cheeks still pink, but when I smile at him, he smiles back—soft, like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

And honestly?

Neither can I.

—

The apartment is quiet chaos in the morning light.

Half the team is still asleep, sprawled across Bob’s couch and floor in a mess of blankets and empty soda cans. Rooster’s got an arm flung over his eyes, snoring like a freight train. Fanboy is curled up in an armchair, drooling slightly, and Phoenix is half-awake, mumbling to herself as she tries to shove Hangman’s very annoying leg off her lap.

Hangman, of course, is the only one who looks remotely alive—sitting at the counter in a t-shirt and sweatpants, sipping a mug of coffee like he owns the place, smirking at me and Bob every time we brush past each other in the kitchen.

“Morning, lovebirds,” he drawls, lifting his mug in a lazy salute.

Bob flushes a shade of pink I didn’t know existed, fumbling with the carton of eggs, and I can’t help but grin.

“Careful, Bagman,” I say, tilting my head as I flip a pancake, “or you’ll be on dishes duty.”

Hangman’s smirk widens like I’ve just issued a challenge.

“Oh, I know what you two were up to last night,” he says, voice just loud enough to make Bob nearly drop the spatula. “Our boy Bobby I-Just-Got-Lucky Floyd here—looking awfully smug this morning, aren’t you?”

Bob goes red—cherry red—and I nudge him with my hip, biting back a laugh as I plate the pancakes.

“You’re such an ass, Jake,” I mutter, but I’m grinning, because honestly? It feels good—to have this, to be teased like this, to have a place.

Bob glances at me, his eyes soft and warm behind his glasses, and for a second, it’s like the room melts away—just him and me, quiet and ours.

By the time everyone’s finally up, we’re gathered around the table, plates piled high with pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The coffee’s lukewarm and the pancakes are a little burned at the edges, but no one cares.

The team is loud—joking, laughing, stealing food off each other’s plates. Payback’s recounting a mission gone sideways, Rooster’s half-listeningwhile arguing with Fanboy about who would win in a fight: Iron Man or Captain America.

And I’m just… watching.

Watching Bob refill Phoenix’s coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Watching Hangman tease Bob and get a pancake thrown at him for it. Watching Bob’s hand rest on my knee under the table, his thumb brushing back and forth like he can’t not touch me.

It’s messy and loud and perfect.

And it hits me, sudden and deep and a little overwhelming:

I don’t have to carry the weight of my past anymore.

I don’t have to prove anything to anyone—not to my ex, not to the Navy, not even to myself.

This right here—Bob’s soft smile, the way he looks at me like I’m everything, the sound of the team laughing like family around the table—this is what matters.

I’m not the girl who got left behind.

I’m Cipher.

And I’m happy.

I catch Bob’s gaze, and he must see it—something in my face, in the way I’m holding myself, because he smiles at me like I just lit up his whole world.

And maybe I did.

[leejenowrld]

nomin threesome

genre — smut fluff

word count — 2.5k

pairings — jeno, jaemin x reader

synopsis — you’re in the middle of riding your boyfriend, jeno, on the sofa. you’re completely lost in the heat of the moment when jaemin walks in. instead of stopping, you lock eyes with him and without hesitation, you boldly invite him to join in.

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You settled onto Jeno’s lap, your body instantly reacting to his touch as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer. His lips crashed against yours, the kiss deep and urgent, a release for the weeks of missed moments. The heat between you was immediate, the desire almost unbearable as you ground down against him, feeling his cock hard beneath you, pressing exactly where you needed it. His groan vibrated against your mouth, a sound that only fueled your growing hunger.

“Fuck,” you breathed against his lips, pulling away only enough to meet his gaze for a split second before you dove back in, sucking on his bottom lip and moaning into his mouth. The way his hands gripped your hips, urging you to grind harder against him, made you dizzy with need.

Neither of you had the patience for slow foreplay. You wanted him. You needed him. And from the way Jeno was growling softly in your ear, his lips moving against your neck, biting at your skin, you knew he felt the same.

Clothes were shed in seconds, ripped away and tossed carelessly to the floor. You smiled wickedly as you positioned yourself over him, your core already aching for his cock. His eyes were dark, his hands gripping your ass as you slowly sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch. The stretch was incredible, and you gasped at how full you felt, feeling every inch of him as he filled you completely. The wetness between your legs made it easy to slide down his length. “Fuck,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his chest as you set a pace that drove you both mad.

“Fuck, baby,” Jeno groaned, his head falling back against the couch, eyes rolling shut as he felt your walls clench around him. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, urging you to go faster. “God, you feel so tight,” he groaned, thrusting up to meet your movements, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly with each roll of your hips. His eyes stayed on you, dark with desire, as he watched you ride him. The sight of you taking him, using him, made him even harder inside you.

You smiled at the sight of him, loving the way he looked when he was completely at your mercy. His lips were parted, eyes dark with lust as you leaned forward to press your mouth against his, your breath hot against his skin. You began to move, savoring the feel of his cock stretching you as you lifted yourself off him, only to slam back down. The wet, slick sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room, each bounce of your ass against his thighs driving him deeper inside you. Your moans mixed with his, the sheer intensity of the connection making every thrust feel more primal, more desperate.

“God, you feel so good,” you gasped, nails dragging down his chest, leaving faint red lines in their wake as you rode him harder, your hips grinding against him with each movement. You grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling it roughly as you leaned in closer, your breath hot against his ear. “You love it, don’t you? You love how fucking wet I am for you,” you growled. Jeno’s response was immediate, a guttural groan vibrating through his chest as his grip on your hips tightened, thrusting up into you in perfect rhythm, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. “Fuck, yes,” he groaned through gritted teeth. “Keep going, baby. Just like that.”

Your pace quickened, the heat between you both becoming almost unbearable. The room was filled with the sound of your moans, growing louder and more desperate as you rode him harder. Jeno’s hands roamed your body with rough urgency, one sliding up to cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple. Without warning, he leaned forward, capturing your nipple between his lips, sucking hard. The sensation sent a shock of pleasure straight through your body, making you gasp as your movements became erratic, bouncing faster on his cock. His tongue flicked over your sensitive skin, sucking and teasing until you were moaning uncontrollably, your body trembling with pleasure. The way he stretched you, filled you completely, and the relentless pressure of his mouth on your breast—it was intoxicating, overwhelming, and you could feel yourself unraveling.

You didn’t notice when the door opened, when Jaemin stepped inside, his eyes wide with shock as he palms his cock, watching as it grows harder and harder. You were too lost in the way Jeno’s cock filled you, stretching you in all the right ways, his hands gripping your hips so hard it was sure to leave marks.

A faint noise echoed in the room, but you didn’t care. “What was that?” you asked, breathless as you continued to move on top of him, your nails digging into his skin.

Jeno didn’t even glance at the door. His smirk widened as he shook his head, his voice low and rough. “Nothing. Just focus on me. Look at me.”

He pulled you down into a heated kiss, his lips demanding as he guided your hips faster, harder. His cock hit deeper with each thrust, making your thighs tremble. The sound of your ass meeting his thighs filled the room, mixed with the lewd, wet noises of him fucking into you. “You love it, don’t you?” you whispered, your voice shaking as you bounced on him. “You love watching me fuck your cock.”

Jeno growled, his hands sliding up to grab your breasts again, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, the heat of his fingers sent a jolt of pleasure through you, making you moan even louder as your walls clenched around him. “Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groaned between kisses to your skin, his mouth moving lower, sucking and biting at your breasts. “Look at you, using me to get off like the dirty little whore you are.”

His words made you even wetter, spurring you to ride him harder, faster. “I love you,” you gasped out, your pace becoming more frantic. “I love using you like this.” The friction between your bodies was intense, your nails dragging down his chest, leaving red marks in their wake. Every movement was raw, primal, and you couldn’t get enough of how good he felt inside you, how his cock stretched you just right with every thrust.

Jeno’s hands found your ass, squeezing roughly as he helped lift you up and slam you back down on his cock, the force of it making you cry out in pleasure. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “I’m close. Keep going. Just like that.”

The pleasure built between you both, a knot tightening deep in your core as you rode him harder, chasing your release. “I’m gonna come,” you gasped, barely able to get the words out as your pace became more erratic, your walls clenching tightly around him. You could feel him throbbing inside you, so close to the edge.

“Come for me,” Jeno whispered, his lips brushing your ear before biting down lightly on your neck. His words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you in waves as your body shook, your nails digging into his skin for support. The sound of your moans filled the room as your body trembled in his lap, the pleasure overwhelming.

Jeno followed soon after, his hips jerking up as he groaned your name, spilling into you as his grip on your hips tightened, holding you still as he pulsed inside you. The sensation of him filling you only heightened your own pleasure, and you collapsed against his chest, both of you gasping for breath.

For a moment, everything was perfect, your body still trembling in the aftermath of your orgasm as you rested your head on Jeno’s chest. But then you heard a soft giggle. Your head snapped up, and that’s when you saw him.

Jaemin stood in the doorway, barely able to contain his laughter, but there was a darkness and pleasure on his face that was unmistakable. “Oh my god!” you screamed, scrambling to cover yourself with a blanket as you smacked Jeno’s chest. “You said we were home alone!”

Jeno chuckled, completely unbothered, still breathing heavily from the intensity of what you’d just done. “Yeah, we were.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest, not daring to look at your friends after what they’d just witnessed. “I hate you,” you mumbled against his skin, still mortified. But despite the shock of the intrusion, there was something about it—the fact that he was watching, that you’d been caught—that made the heat between you flare up again. And Jeno felt it too.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer as he whispered in your ear, “Don’t stop now, baby.”

You shuddered, your core throbbing with renewed need as you slowly lifted your hips and sank back down onto his cock again. You guys could go for rounds. You could feel Jaemin still standing there, but you didn’t care. Not anymore. The twisted side of you liked that they were watching. And from the way Jeno’s grip tightened on your hips, you knew he liked it too.

You began to move again, faster this time, riding him with a new kind of urgency, your moans filling the room. “Fuck, Jeno,” you gasped, your nails digging into his skin as you bounced on his cock, your ass slapping against his thighs with every movement.

You leaned forward, pressing your mouth against his in a fierce, messy kiss, your bodies moving together in a frantic rhythm. The room was filled with the sound of your moans, the wet slapping of your bodies, and Jeno’s groans of pleasure as you rode him harder.

Amid the haze of overwhelming sensation, you bit down on your lip hard, glancing sideways toward the doorway where Jaemin stood, a noticeable bulge in his pants, his eyes fixed on the two of you. A wicked thrill shot through you, “Jaemin” you moaned, loud enough for both men to hear, a deliberate provocation.

You quickly glanced down at Jeno, expecting a flash of jealousy or anger—reactions you’d seen before under less provocative circumstances. But instead, he smirked, a dark, approving look in his eyes. He too glanced at Jaemin, then back at you, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he thrust up into you with renewed vigor.

“Nana, can you please come over?” you breathed out, the words a husky whisper that made both men’s eyes darken further.

Jaemin didn’t need to be asked twice. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, his hands already working to rid himself of his clothes as he approached. Jeno’s hands slid from your hips to your back, pulling you up slightly to give Jaemin space. As Jaemin knelt on the couch beside Jeno, his cock already hard and ready, you reached out, stroking him slowly, savoring the hiss that escaped his lips.

You shifted slightly, moaning as you moved from Jeno’s cock to reposition yourself between them, a hand on each of their thighs. Jeno’s lips found your neck, sucking and biting at your skin as Jaemin leaned forward to capture your lips in a rough, demanding kiss. You moaned into his mouth, your hand gripping him tighter.

Jeno’s hands explored your body, one hand returning to your breast, teasing your nipple as he had before, while the other slid down to your pussy, his fingers rubbing at your clit in tight circles. The dual assault of their touches drove you crazy, your body caught between the two, moving rhythmically to meet both their desires.

As the intensity built, Jaemin withdrew, his breath ragged. “I need more,” he murmured, a note of urgency in his voice. You felt Jeno’s grip tighten, a silent signal of his intent. In a fluid motion, Jaemin positioned himself behind you while Jeno lay back, pulling you down onto him so you were straddling him.

Jaemin’s hands caressed your back before aligning himself with you, his touch gentle yet insistent. The sensation of being filled by both men was nothing short of electric, a surge of pleasure so intense it threatened to overwhelm your senses. Jeno met your lips with his, kissing you deeply, passionately, as Jaemin started moving, his pace a perfect counterpoint to Jeno’s slower, deeper thrusts.

The room was filled with the sounds of your combined moans, the slap of skin on skin, and the low, continuous groan of shared pleasure. You moved between them, a conduit of energy, driving them as much as they drove you, the room spiraling into a crescendo of sensation.

Driven by their words and touches, you felt the climax building, unstoppable. “I’m going to—” you started, but the wave of pleasure cut your words short, crashing over you, intense and all-consuming. You shuddered, convulsing between them, your cries muffled by Jaemin’s mouth sealed over yours.

As you trembled, Jeno and Jaemin continued, their movements calculated, driving both themselves and you through the aftershocks of your orgasm into another rising wave of pleasure. Jeno’s hands were on your hips, guiding you relentlessly, while Jaemin’s hands roamed over your body, each touch sparking tiny fires on your skin.

Your climax shattered through you in waves, a release so profound it left you shaking, crying out in a voice raw with pleasure. Jaemin followed suit, the sensation of his release sending another wave through you. Moments later, Jeno joined, his own climax mirroring yours, marked by a deep groan that vibrated through his chest.

As you all caught your breath, the room quieted, the only sounds the soft panting and the beat of your heart echoing loudly in your ears. Collapsed between them, wrapped in the warmth of their bodies and the afterglow of shared satisfaction, the connection felt not just physical but profoundly intimate.

“You okay?” Jeno asked, a slight smile playing on his lips, his hand caressing your back soothingly.

“Perfect,” you managed to say, your voice soft, content, as you nestled closer to him, Jaemin’s arm wrapping around you both as he kisses your forehead.

As the three of you caught your breath, tangled together on the couch, the room quieted, filled only with the sound of heavy breathing and the occasional soft kiss. You lay there, nestled between them, a satisfied smile playing on your lips, feeling the warmth of their bodies against yours. You smile and take turns kissing the two of them, getting lost in their lips and their love.

[makeyoumine69]

Patrick Bateman being a perfect switch | NSFW HEADCANON

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x gn!Reader; 

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: SMUT🪓

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST];

𝐀/𝐍: I know that sub!Patrick headcanon won in the poll I made, but since it was a pretty close one, I decided to write this! Probably I'll write sub!Patrick headcanon too, same goes for dom!Patrick, hehe. Have fun and I hope you like it!

Even though this man always wore an emotionless mask, there were many different faces underneath—you just had to know how to unravel them. And once you discovered the other side of his personality, the one that longed not to be in control but to be controlled, nothing would ever be the same. 

One day you would let him dominate you, but another day you would shamelessly ride his face, making sure he felt the weight of your body, every snap of your hips as you literally abused his mouth; his chin glistening with your cum mingling with his saliva as Patrick feasted on you like a man starved for ages.

When you accidentally brushed your finger along his puckered hole while giving him head and he literally melted from the unexpected but exciting touch, moaning something incoherent, but as soon as you stopped moving, the man literally gasped in despair, pressing his hips against your hand. "You seem to like this too much...am I right, my sweet boy?" You would ask, your eyes locked on his foggy ones, while your other hand was still pumping him in a steady rhythm, driving him crazy. "Yes...fuck..." Patrick's low whisper would be the only thing that mattered at that moment, along with the red tint that covered his cheeks. Jesus Christ, he looked so fucking hot.

This man didn't even have to do anything extraordinary, just exploring his real desires was enough to make everything hotter, steamier, more intimate. At one point you thought you shared a brain cell because Patrick could understand you without words. If you wanted to be dominated, ruined, reduced to fucking atoms—he would just give it to you. No matter where you were at that moment, Bateman would make sure your mind was free of all thoughts except the ones of his dick sliding in and out of you as he fucked you from behind, folding your arms behind your back and using them as leverage.

There was nothing wrong with giving each other what you both craved.

That single phrase that caused the fall, the words that brought you both to the point of no return, and when Bateman finally unraveled completely and allowed you to peg him, you hugged him from behind, spooning almost gently as you pressed your hips against him, brushing against his ear and whispering to him, almost like a mantra, to remember that moment—the moment when he finally trusted someone as much as he trusted himself. At first Patrick tried to be quiet, unsure if he could really be vocal, considering it wasn't exactly masculine, but as you began to stroke his throbbing cock, still moving inside his tensed body, he finally let go; his raspy, almost pleading moans echoing off the walls of his bedroom, and you thought it was the most beautiful sound you'd ever heard.

And you would never betray his trust because you cherished it like a treasure. 

Every time Bateman let you cross that line, you would make sure he got what he wanted, making him cum hard on his expensive sheets, milking his dick with your hand and stimulating his prostate at the same time. And then the two of you would share a lusty, hard kiss that would leave you both breathless, but still wanting more. Cleaning your fingers, you would let him taste himself before you changed positions.

Now you were on your back, spread out on the pillows, watching him trace his large palms over your torso, then go lower until you whimpered in need, arching your back as a huge implication for him to continue. And when his lips touched your most sensitive spot, you wanted nothing more than to fucking claw at his scalp and rub against his perfect face.

"Mmhm...you're so fucking perfect," you blurted out with your eyes closed, tingling your fingers with his messy, slightly wet hair. "I want you to...fuck me..."

Without words, Patrick would turn you over and make you get on your knees while he sat on his heels, giving himself a few lazy strokes even though he was already so hard again. Sucking on your neck, he would slowly bury himself inside you, his hands like tight ropes trapping your body attached to his, you would squirm like a caged bird if he didn't hold you like this, but this man knew you too perfectly.

"Tell me…tell me you love my dick," Bateman's request sounded so desperate, almost pathetic. But you didn't answer right away, just giggled in response, encouraging him to fuck you even harder. "Tell me, you slut..."

"And if I don't," you retorted cheekily, looking at him with your half-open eyes. "Would you kill me?"

Although you knew it would definitely get under his skin, his pretense of indifference to your jabs turned you on even more. The slap of his hand on your ass, the tugging on your hair—everything he did to make you surrender and submit was too much, too cute. Eventually you would play along and whimper, moan for him, praise his huge cock and tell him that no one ever fucked you better than him. 

But you would never admit that he fucked better than you, not when you had him writhing and begging for you. Hell, no. The power dynamic in your relationship was always shifting, the rain of power belonged to no one, because somehow the two of you found the perfect balance.

And you wouldn't give it up for anything else. Never.

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! I don’t have a taglist. You can follow my writing community to know when I update!💞

[xsaltburnx]

Jealousy

a/n: let's make our precious Farleigh a little bit jealous

warning: 18+, smut, swearing

word count: 1,975

Ever since you and Farleigh first hooked up, he became a little bit possessive. Always aware of who gets close to you. Whenever there was a chance, he had you however he wanted. Outside in a dark alleyway, in his dorm pressed against the window, on his desk, his messy bed or in the middle of that goddamn maze in Saltburn, you gave in because it was something you always craved ever since you met him. There was no one else for you except for Farleigh. If only he felt exactly the same.

Yes you didn't agree to be together officially and let's face it, nobody even knew about you two and if you asked Farleigh, you and him were just fuck buddies, here to help get each other off whenever you wanted but little did Farleigh know that you felt something more than just that. Maybe some would say that you were being selfish but you didn't care. You wanted Farleigh all to yourself.

And that's what you were planning on doing and telling him until you saw him stand in the corner of one of the rooms in Saltburn, some girl giggling at something he said. His arm was resting on the wall right next to her head as he was leaning in, his head bent down.

One of the Henrys was butchering a song, thinking he's smashing it. Watching Farleigh flirt with someone and on top of that you had to listen to that god awful sound, you felt like you were going to explode, like your blood was boiling inside your veins.

You were sitting on the couch next to Venetia with a drink in your hand, your eyes steadily fixated on Farleigh across the room. You watched her touch his chest, her hand gliding down to his stomach and he didn't even move an inch.

"Fucking hell." You whispered and drank the rest of your cocktail as you scanned the room, looking for Felix. If Farleigh wants to play that game, so be it.

You got off the couch and walked over to Felix, stumbling over your own two feet, almost falling down but his strong arms wrapped around your body, catching you just in time.

"Hey, are you alright?" He asked softly, his eyes scanning your face, looking for some kind of signs of wrong.

"Yeah, I just can't listen to this one anymore." You pointed towards Henry who just got interrupted by Farleigh by snatching the microphone and listing through the karaoke songs. He did find one and brought Oliver into the spotlight this time, his singing not any better than Henry's, but hey atleast it was a vibe. You started moving your body to the rhythm of the song, your hips swaying from side to side as you felt Felix's hands on each side of your body. You swallowed hard because you knew exactly what this would do to Farleigh.

"Whoohoo, you tell 'em!" Farleigh shouted, a cigarette in his hand as always.

"Farleigh." Felix said in a quiet voice, sounding more like a warning.

"This is your song as well Farleigh, come finish it." Oliver turned to Farleigh, holding out his microphone as you saw Farleigh moving gracefully towards him, grabbing the microphone. His voice was something else, melodic, actually a joy to listen to. Suddenly you felt Felix move closer to you, your body now completely glued to his as you felt his crotch pressed up against you. He leaned down and kissed your neck gently, your head falling a little bit to the side, giving him access. Your eyes were still glued on Farleigh and then there it was. He saw you and the way Felix's hands were roaming over your body and that was the last straw. He stopped singing and just dropped the microphone to the floor. He stepped over it and left the room without saying anything, everybody in the room confused as they looked at one another, trying to understand what exactly happened.

You swallowed hard at the mere thought of Farleigh not wanting to speak to you ever again or not wanting to touch you like he always did.

He didn't return for the rest of the night, probably locked in his room. Even the thought of him taking that girl to his room and fucking her brains out crossed your mind and made your stomach turn.

You waited until everybody was asleep and the halls were empty to go to Farleigh's room. You didn't even need the light because it was as if he was calling out to you, drawing you in like a magnet. You reached his room and gently opened the door, careful not to wake him up in case he was sleeping. You closed his room and leaned against the door, not sure what to do exactly.

There he was, laying on his back, upper half of his body exposed to the chilly air circling around his room. He looked so peaceful and suddenly you felt extremely bad about how you let Felix touch you in front of him. A few minutes later he started squirming, his eyes glued to you still standing by the door.

"What are you doing here?" You flinched a little bit as his low and sleepy voice echoed throughout the room.

"I wanted to see you." You trailed off quietly.

"Why? You finally had Felix all to yourself, why don't you go and bother him." He pulled his covers a bit more down, exposing the rim of his boxers.

You chuckled at his words and finally realized why he was acting like this. He was obviously jealous, the thought of Felix touching you driving him crazy. You walked over to his bed as you climbed on top, straddling him.

"I don't want Felix." You whispered and leaned forward, your nightgown falling open a little bit, your chest exposed to him. "I want you." You moved back slightly, your ass now sitting on his legs. You trailed your fingers around his belly button and right above where his boxers started. He swallowed hard when you pulled his boxers down, freeing his cock and seeing that he was already hard as a silent moan fell from his lips. You spit on your palm and wrapped your hand around him, moving it around his tip, caressing it slowly. The pace you set was absolute torture for him because even though he was enjoying this, he still wanted to be mad at you.

His body jerked at feeling of your small hand squeezing him a little bit harder, now embracing his entire length. You leaned down a bit more so your face was right above his, his lips parted in pleasure.

"Is my Farleigh a little bit jealous, huh?" You said teasingly, your hand keeping a steady pace. "You don't like the tought of Felix's hands on me?" You sped up a little bit, his moans getting louder.

"No." You chuckled at his short answer, but that was all he could muster at that very moment. You were driving him crazy in every possible way. Yes, he was jealous and yes he hated the thought of Felix having his way with you like he does, but that doesn't change the fact that he wanted to fuck your brains out.

"Is my Farleigh going to behave from now on?" You whispered in his ear as your hand stopped moving, another whimper falling from his full lips.

"You want me to behave?" He asked and not even a second later he got up, throwing your body on the bed. He wrapped his big hand around both of your wrists and pinned them down while his other one was around your neck. "You liked being a little slut today? Right in front of my eyes?" He moved the hand that was around your neck down to your nightgown and pulled down so hard that it ripped right down the middle, exposing your chest to him. His hand travelled down to your stomach and then to your clit, his finger brushing it for a split second before he pushed two of his long fingers inside of you, stretching you out.

"Farleigh.." you whimpered, the feeling of his fingers moving fast inside of you in a scissoring motion being almost too much for you.

"You're mine." He pulled his fingers out and flipped you over. Your nightgown now pooling around your waist, exposing your bottom half to him. In one quick motion he pushed his entire cock inside of you, a whimper falling off your lips. He was so big that it was almost impossible to handle. He reached forward and pulled on your hair, wrapping it around his hand while the other slapped your ass so hard that the sound echoed throughout the room.

"You're taking me so well, baby." His thrusts were merciless, the tip of his cock hitting that spot inside of you every single time. You tried to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake every single guest in Saltburn but with Farleigh's brutal pace, it was almost impossible to stay quiet. You felt that mindblowing, euphoric feeling begin to build up in the pit of your stomach, your moans turning into cries as a single tear fell from your eyes.

"Farleigh, I can't" you cried out and felt him pull out, your body suddenly feeling so empty. He flipped you over again and climbed on top of you, his cock sliding inside you once again with such ease, moving at the same fast and hard pace as before.

"Yes you can baby, c'mon, cum for me." He whispered in your ear, his lips resting right next to your ear, grazing your earlobe before he put his head in the crook of your neck, his lips sucking on that sweet spot.

"Fuck me." He placed his hands on each side of your body, your legd wrapped around his waist so tightly, you were scared to let go. He threw his head back in pleasure, the feeling of being inside of you, you wrapped around him so beautifuly felt like heaven and if he could, he would stay burried inside of you forever. "I'm so close."

He licked his fingers, gathering a little bit of saliva as he reached down between your bodies, his fingers skillfully cirlcing your clit getting you closer to your release, but it didn't take long. You arched your back as much as you could as you felt your orgasm taking over your body. Your vision suddenly blurry and you felt like you could pass out any minute now.

You noticed how close Farleigh was because of how sloppy his thrusts became, so desperate for his release. He looked down at you, his eyes literally staring into your soul when finally he let himself go, filling you up with everything he had. A deep groan fell from his lips, his hips thrusting inside of you a couple of more times before he stilled his movements and collapsed on top of you, his head once again burried in the crook of your neck.

You laid like that in silence, listening to each other's heartbeats and your fast and shallow breathing.

"I'm sorry." You said quietly, your voice cracking.

"I'm sorry too." He trailed off and his words caught you by surprise. "I wasn't thinking tonight. I should've been there by your side."

"I'm sorry for trying to make you jealous."

"Oh so that's what that was?" He chuckled and moved a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand carressing your flushed cheek.

"You know you're the only one I want." He touched your nose with his and placed a gentle kiss on your lips before pulling you in closer for a proper one, his hand cupping your face.

"I know."

[aheathen-conceivably]

The early morning sunlight was streaming into their bedroom, the same way it had nearly every day since their arrival over four years before. The air was clear, whatever gauzy dream that had reigned over it in the moonlight now replaced by the warm light of day. Zelda rolled over onto her side, seeing the man beside her clearly. When she spoke it was almost hushed in awe. “You really are home.”

He laughed lightly, as though expecting her to say exactly that. He barely opened his eyes as he answered. “I told you I was. You just didn’t believe me.”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

Finally his eyes opened fully, although he made no attempt to rise from the bed. “I should be so honored if that is what you dream about when I’m gone.”

His body beside her was the realest thing she had felt in weeks, warming the whole room as the sunlight drove the nightly chill from the air. She leaned onto him, the simple word “dream” bringing back a torrent of vivid visions alongside words she had kept silent for too long. “I was dreaming. It was about a house. It - it was in England, I think. I’m not sure why. It was strange…” she trailed off into silence; only even without her voice, the room wasn’t quiet. It was filled with the sound of their breathing, keeping in rhythm with one another. “It was a library. Or at least it should have been. If that makes sense?”

“A library?”

She thought about the card that had been in her hand when she had fallen asleep. Where was it? Should she have tucked it under the bed? Could she still hide it there before he saw it? No. Goodness. What was wrong with her? That was foolish. Why would she hide it? Why would she even think it was something it wasn’t? Some sort of opportunity. Some sort of hope - 

“Zelda?”

She snapped back up to look at him. So warm and real and here, so much so that it seemed impossible he would ever be anywhere else ever again. “Yes, a - a library. I think it's because a couple of weeks ago there was this truck. A book truck, Lottie called it. It drives from place to place to loan out books. More books than even I have ever seen. It - it was driven by a librarian. A man named Barnes. He explained that he works out of the courthouse. He - he gave me his card. To talk. About the truck. If I was interested in knowing more about how it works. It must have been on my mind when I fell asleep. That’s all.”

“Have you gone?”

“What? No - I - I didn’t see much point. I’m sure he just thinks I’m a restless housewife. Besides, what good would it do? To get the information and little else. And Gio needs me here - to help with the crops, I mean.”

“But you said yourself the field wasn’t doing as well as last season, and the work barely necessitated both of you any longer…”

A torrent of nervous butterflies invaded her stomach, the same ones that she had been fighting every night he was away. “But the house. And the loan. The chores would pile up. And who would pick up Lottie from school? Who would keep the laundry clean and the chickens fed? Who would - “

“Zelda,” he stopped her, taking her chin in his hand to prohibit the torrent of speech that he knew would descend into an effort to talk herself out of what she really wanted. “You’re finding reasons not to go. What about why you should go? Like the fact that you’re so excited that you weren’t even fully awake before you told me all about it. Or that you’d make the best librarian this town has ever seen.”

“He never said there was a job or a library or anything really -“

“But he never said there wasn’t?”

“Well, no. But I didn’t ask.”

“And what if there is? Wouldn’t you like to know? Instead of pondering away like this, making yourself crazy over the thought?”

She bought her head close to his chest, trying to lose the last tendrils of the world as she attempted to get closer to him than was physically possible. “I missed you, you know that, don’t you?”

He pulled away to look into her eyes, and she could feel his hand brushing back her hair, already making her feel tired despite the fact that she had just woken. “So you’ll go?”

Only when she nodded in affirmation did he wrap his arms back around her, closing them so tightly that she couldn’t open her eyes again even if she wanted to. “I missed you too, my love. More than you know.”

Previous / Next

[starsinthesky5]

Okay okay since joe and birdy are away a lot do they ever have 📞 sex?

a/n: ohhhh we wanna go there?

warnings: nsfw, mdni

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

phone sex isn’t routine for joe and songbird, not something they do for the thrill of it or to scratch an itch. it’s something they slip into when the ache of distance turns sharp. when voice notes and blurry facetime calls stop being enough. when the need to feel each other, even if only through a phone line, becomes unbearable. it’s not just about getting off. it’s about getting close. about breathing life back into something tender that’s been stretched too thin by time zones, late nights, and empty sheets.

for them, it’s never about putting on a show. there’s no fantasy to hide in. it’s raw, familiar. carved from memory. he knows exactly how she sounds when her skin starts to warm beneath her fingertips. she knows the exact breath he lets out when his hand wraps around himself, thinking only of her. it’s not about playing pretend, it’s about calling the other home in the only way they can.

it usually starts quiet. a late-night call when she’s curled up in bed, face buried in his shirt, the one that still smells like him. her voice is soft, almost sleepy, but it’s laced with something needier. a rasp that curls around the edges of her words and betrays how badly she wants to be touched. by him. only him. and he hears it instantly. it sinks into his chest and coils low in his stomach, that same throb of longing that’s been building for days.

it always builds naturally, soft teasing layered with gentle check-ins. a murmur of what she’s wearing, where her hands are. not to provoke, but to let him in. to paint the picture only he’s allowed to see. and he gives her the same in return. tells her how he’s lying in bed, hard from just hearing her voice, aching to be inside her. it’s not vulgar. it’s reverent. worshipful. every word between them is soaked in want, but grounded in something deeper...something only they know.

she touches herself like she’s remembering him. like her fingers are echoes of his, the way he moves, the pace he sets, how he reads her body without needing to see it. and he listens like he’s memorizing it all over again. the way her breath catches, the hitch in her throat when she gets close, the soft whimper she tries to muffle but can never quite hide. it drives him wild. not because it’s dirty, but because it’s hers. because it’s real.

he’s slow with himself, steady. not chasing release, but the connection. he strokes himself to the rhythm of her voice, like it’s the only thing that matters. and it is. she guides him just as much as he guides her, soft commands and quiet encouragements passed back and forth until the distance between them disappears entirely. the rhythm between them isn’t urgent, no, it’s intimate. like they’re making love across a fragile thread of sound.

when they let go, it’s never just physical. it’s emotional. full-bodied. a surrender. they unravel together, panting into their phones, whispering each other’s names like they’re sacred. and even then, even after, they don’t hang up. they stay wrapped in the moment, breath still heavy, hearts still racing, listening to each other settle. sometimes she giggles softly, sleepy and sated. sometimes he murmurs something low and raspy that makes her thighs press together again. sometimes they fall asleep like that, still connected by the phone, by the breath between words, by everything they can’t say but feel anyway.

they don’t need it all the time. but when they do, it’s not just sex. it’s a homecoming. a tether. proof that no matter the miles, they’re still skin-close. still each other’s. still hungry for something only the other can give.

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

TOLERANCE;; Homelander is crude, he says obscene things that would turn anyone away, but you tolerate it.

06.03.25 Masterlist

The tower is unusually quiet tonight. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkles like stars, they’re beautiful and untouchable. The lights flicker across your skin. You sit on the edge of the sleek leather couch, legs tucked beneath you, nursing a cup of tea. The steam coils upward, highlighted by the city lights. The only sound, at first, is the hum of the heater and the low buzz of the lights above.

And then, you hear it.

The soft clack of boots against the polished marble. The pacing. The kind that’s more about energy than movement. Caged animal rhythm. Homelander.

“God, you should’ve seen his face,” he sneers, stopping just short of the balcony. “Acting like he’s some holy fucking priest, meanwhile he’s out there jerking off into the same dirty pool as the rest of us.”

He scoffs, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to shake the thought off him.

“Standing there, chin up, that shitty little smirk, like he hasn’t snorted cocaine off a hooker’s tits behind closed doors. Please. I’ve seen cleaner mouths on alley rats.”

He spins on his heel, pacing again, the cape flaring with each sharp turn.

“And the audacity—telling me to ‘watch my behavior’? I should’ve shoved his face through the fucking wall. Teach him what behavior really looks like.”

His voice drops an octave, dangerous now. Less a rant, more a growl. He smiles, but it’s teeth and venom.

“Maybe next time I’ll do it. Just grab him by that smug little throat, squeeze 'til he pops like a grape. I’d love to see how virtuous he is when he’s pissing himself in front of his precious PR team.”

He stops. Looks at you. Watching. Measuring your reaction.

You don’t look up. Just sip your tea and listen. The city reflects in your eyes. He notices that, though he pretends not to.

“I told him—verbatim—‘You keep stroking that superiority complex, it’s not gonna make your dick grow back.’” He continues with a snort. He was loud, self-satisfied.

You don’t laugh or comment on it. You never do at things like that. But you don’t flinch either.

You took another small sip of tea, enjoying the taste on your tongue.

That stillness, your stillness, gets to him more than screaming ever could. It’s not disapproval. Not quite. But it’s definitely not praise.

He strides over to you, cape whispering across the floor like a living thing. He stops in front of you, blocking part of the skyline with his presence alone. There’s that grin again, knife-sharp and a little too wide.

“Nothing? Not even a smirk?” he asks, mock insulted. “Jesus, you’re a hard crowd.”

“Do you want a cup?” you ask, calm as ever, holding up the kettle.

He blinks. For a second, the façade drops. That flicker in his eyes—annoyance? No. Curiosity. Like he’s trying to figure you out, and it’s frustrating him that he can’t.

“You always let me talk like this,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Less bark, more bait.

“I don’t let you,” you say, pouring a second cup without looking at him. “You just do.”

He tilts his head, as if dissecting your words under a microscope. His posture stiffens, not defensive, exactly, but alert. People challenge him, flatter him, fear him. But you? You tolerate him. Like weather. Like gravity. Constant, inevitable.

“So… you’re saying you don’t like it.” His voice is flat, almost testing you.

“I don’t need to like everything about you.”

You hold out the second cup.

He doesn’t take it right away. Just stares at it, like it might bite. Then, slowly, he reaches forward, fingers brushing yours.

That electric hum is always there beneath his skin. Always just below the surface. You feel it, but you don’t pull away.

“No one talks to me like you do,” he mutters, half to himself, sipping the tea. His nose wrinkles slightly. “This tastes like plants.”

“It is plants,” you say.

He huffs, amused in that sharp, brief way he does when he doesn’t want to admit something’s grown on him.

You settle back into the cushions. He hovers a moment longer, then, to your surprise, sinks down beside you. Not sprawled, not draped like he’s above everything—but seated. Quiet. Still.

It doesn’t last long.

“You know, I could fly us to Paris right now. Just zip us up into the sky, no lines, no jet lag. Eiffel Tower. Boom.” He snaps his fingers. “We could eat croissants, then crash a UN meeting.”

“You could,” you say, not even glancing at him.

“But you won’t ask me to,” he finishes, watching you. There’s something bordering on frustration in his voice now. “You never ask me to.”

You nod. “Because you’d do it for the wrong reasons.”

A pause. You can feel him staring again, eyes sharp as razors and just as cold—except not quite. There's heat there too. A flicker of something… old. Human.

“You think I don’t do anything for the right reasons?”

“I think you don’t always know what they are.”

He goes still. Real still. Like a coin caught mid-air, waiting to land.

Then he laughs. Not a cruel laugh, not one of his loud, mocking ones—but a quiet, startled thing. He runs a hand through his perfect hair, leans back into the couch, lets his boot knock against yours like a soft tap.

“I don’t know why the hell I keep coming back to you,” he says, tone lighter than before but with an edge of genuine wonder.

“Because I’m the only one who doesn’t flinch.”

You swirl the cup in your hand. 

And this time, when he looks at you, it’s not like a storm sizing up a tree. It’s something else. A strange, uncomfortable calm. Like even he doesn’t quite understand it.

The silence returns. Thick. Familiar. But not cold.

He doesn’t speak again for a while.

He doesn’t need to.

A/N ;; this was a bit short, but I thought I shouldddd post something for him after so long

[rhynestonez]

Unbroken

Post civil war! Bucky X Reader

Here’s a small snippet of this one shot I’m working on. Hopefully it’ll be done soon.

Steve emerged through the fog—cut-up and dirt-covered, but steady, determined. His shield was strapped across his back, his eyes scanning the space before settling on you.

He exhaled—just a breath, but it sounded like relief.

“You always show up late?” he asked, stepping closer.

You raised a brow. “You’re welcome.”

Sam chuckled low from where he leaned against the jet ramp. “She took out Spider-Boy, cut us free, and walked off without saying more than three words.”

Steve gave you a look. “That sounds about right.”

You gave a half-shrug and turned your gaze toward the far end of the hangar—where Bucky stood alone, watching from the shadows, silent and still.

Steve followed your line of sight.

“He can’t stay here.” he said quietly. “The longer he’s exposed, the harder it’ll be to keep him safe.”

Sam shifted. “You got any ideas? Because I’m fresh out.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

Then, you said “Wakanda.”

Sam blinked. “Wakanda?”

Steve furrowed his brow. “That’s… not exactly a neutral option.”

You didn’t look at either of them. “I’ve been living there.”

That caught Steve off guard. “Since when?”

“Since Sokovia.” A pause. “Off the grid. Off radar. T’Challa and I have… history.”

“Good history?” Sam asked, skeptical.

You finally turned toward them, cool and unbothered. “He owes me a favor.”

Steve hesitated. “You’d really ask him to take Bucky in?”

You met Steve’s eyes, something colder and heavier settling in your tone. “For you? Yes. For him?” Your glance flicked—just briefly—to where Bucky stood. “Not a chance.”

Steve’s expression softened slightly, the corners of his mouth almost tilting upward.

“You’re serious?” he asked.

You nodded once. “You’ll have to come, too. He won’t hand anything over unless he sees your face.”

Bucky still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But you felt his eyes on you like a weight—silent, watching, careful.

You didn’t return the look.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

You turned toward the Quinjet ramp. “We need to leave before someone realizes who walked out of that mess alive.”

Steve placed a hand briefly on your shoulder. “Thank you.”

You didn’t respond.

Sam made his way up the ramp after you. Steve followed.

Bucky lingered.

Only when you were nearly inside the Quinjet did you finally glance back over your shoulder—just for a second.

Eyes met. Yours and his.

Brief. Quiet. Sharp as a knife.

Then you turned away again, disappearing into the ship.

The Quinjet was quiet.

Mostly.

Steve and Sam sat across from each other near the cockpit, deep in low conversation—something about tracking the rest of the team, staying ahead of the next UN alert. Their voices filled the space in a gentle rhythm, the kind of calm that only came after surviving something very stupid.

You were across the cabin, strapped into a seat, arms crossed, one leg casually propped up— foot tapping faintly against the edge of the hull.

Bucky sat across from you.

Same silence. Same locked position.

And he was staring.

Not aggressively. Not even suspiciously. Just—watching. Almost like he was trying to solve a puzzle with no edges.

You met his gaze without flinching. Your expression flat. Uninterested. A blink. That’s all he got.

But he didn’t stop.

Neither did you.

Seconds stretched.

He shifted slightly, clearly trying to make it look casual. It wasn’t.

You quirked a brow. Barely. But enough to say What?

Still, not a word passed between you.

And somehow, that only made it worse.

Sam kept talking. “I’m just saying, if you have to fight a kid with bug powers, maybe we draw straws next time. ‘Cause I’m not getting webbed to a damn wall again.”

Steve chuckled. “You weren’t even stuck that long.”

“Oh I’m sorry, Cap, is that your minimum standard now? ‘Not stuck that long’?”

No one noticed the stare-off in the back of the ship.

You blinked slowly, tilting your head the slightest bit—like you were done with this game.

Bucky didn’t blink at all.

Childish. Tense. Ridiculous.

You finally rolled your eyes and looked away, muttering under your breath “Weirdo.”

But just loud enough that he’d hear.

His lip twitched.

Barely.

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 21: The Metallic Taste of Blood

Don't mind this 7k word chapter I wrote instead of studying for finals...I'm on that grind, it's fine.

Major warning for violence and minor character death!!!

Masterlist

The sounds of clattering dishes and sizzling oil blend with the rhythmic hum of tinkering metal as Jericho and your mother work in sync behind the counter of the restaurant. The air is filled with the scents of fried fish and garlic, the chaos of the kitchen, yet your focus is solely on the disassembled Glock in front of you.

As she finished handing out the last of the change to a customer, your mother–never one to let a moment of stillness slip by–pulls a cigarette from behind her ear. She watches you for a moment, and then, with a casual flick of her wrist, lights it using the flip-top from her apron. The soft hiss of the flame catches your attention, but your hands never stop their movements as the pieces in front of you move and twist, seemingly on their own accord. Wordlessly, she offers another cigarette from the same pocket, which you take with a quiet nod.

Once she’s got hers lit, you float the lighter toward you with a flick of your fingers, lighting your own without taking your eyes off the intricate mechanics of the gun.

“Now, Poppet,” she begins, the cigarette dangling from her lips as she exhales, “tell me again what exactly it is y’doin’ to that wee bit o’ gun there?”

You shift the barrel components in your hands, splitting them apart to inspect each piece in turn. “Just some upgrades, ma’am,” you say, your voice steady, almost distracted. “Makin’ sure they work right. Improving accuracy, lowering the kickback... pretty routine stuff.”

She shrugs her shoulders dismissively, the gesture familiar, as if she’s seen it all before. “Y’ kids an’ yer toys,” she mutters, taking another drag from the cigarette. She turns back to the bundle of fish waiting to be prepped, the sharp, rhythmic sound of her knife meeting the cutting board filling the air.

As she works, Jericho steps around her, his movements smooth and deliberate, and sets your order in front of you. His face is stern, but there’s a small, approving nod in his eyes as you acknowledge the meal with a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Jericho,” you say, your voice tinged with the slightest hint of warmth. He responds in his native language, a quick string of sounds that you don’t fully understand but appreciate nonetheless. He gestures to your mother briefly, speaking quickly, his words laced with a touch of urgency.

She nods without looking up, distracted by her task, but the acknowledgment is there. Jericho turns and disappears into the back, his boots tapping softly against the floor, leaving you alone with your meal, your mother, and the disassembled Glock.

The quiet settles in, broken only by the rhythmic sounds of your mother’s chopping and the occasional sizzle from the stove. You continue working on the gun, a steady hum of concentration filling your mind, when your mother’s voice cuts through the silence once again.

“Jericho’s been good to us, these past years,” she hums, the sound casual, almost thoughtful. Your eyebrow lifts in curiosity as you glance over at her. “Y’know, hirin’ me off the boat. Helpin’ me feed all y’youngins, givin’ me a half-decent pay, all things considered.”

You nod, giving a slight smile. “He’s good people.” Summoning a bolt from one of your belt pouches, you carefully replace a particularly rusted one. “But he’d be a right nunce not to hire you. Nobody seasons fish innards like you do, ma’am.”

“Yer too sweet, m’love.” You can hear the smile in her voice, and you return it, your lips curving into a grin. The steady sound of the knife against the cutting board continues, the comforting rhythm of home. But then, her tone shifts slightly, and she hums thoughtfully. “But I’m bein’ serious, y’know. This city, for all its faults… it’s been treatin’ us good, hasn’t it?”

The air around you seems to freeze for a moment. Your hands pause mid-air, and the weight of her words lingers, settling into your stomach like a heavy stone. The feeling is subtle, but it’s enough to make you raise an eyebrow and focus intently on her, suspicion creeping into your thoughts.

“I’d say so. I mean, Zaun’s our home. Our family, ain’t it?” you reply slowly, voice steady but with an undercurrent of something you can’t quite place.

Your mother makes a humming noise in response, her eyes never leaving the fish she’s working on. But something about the way she holds herself—slightly stiffer, her posture just a touch too controlled—sets your nerves on edge. You feel an offness in the pit of your stomach, an unfamiliar sense that she’s not entirely present, not entirely herself.

“Ma, what’re you going on about?” you ask, your voice sharp with the need to understand.

She pauses mid-chop, lifting her knife with a deliberate slowness. For a moment, she stares down at the fish, as if contemplating the weight of the question. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she waves the knife dismissively, the fish innards splattering against the counter in a small spray.

“Oh, nothing…” she trails off, her voice light, too light. “Don’t mind me, Minerva.”

You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, but the unease in your chest only grows. “Ma,” you press again, your tone firm but gentle.

She doesn’t look up this time. Her shoulders are stiff, her focus narrowing as she returns to her work. “It’s nothing, love. Don’t you be mindin’ me.”

But the tension between you lingers, heavy in the air, like the scent of fried fish that fills the room. You can feel the weight of her words, even though she tries to brush them off, and it gnaws at you. What exactly is she going on about? And why does it feel like she’s trying to hide something?

With calculated motions, you carefully set down the pieces you’ve been working on and cross your arms over your chest stubbornly, gaze locked firmly on your mother. For a moment, she seems to purposely ignore you, her focus fixed on the fish before her. But you don’t break your stare, waiting her out. When she finally looks up, her eyes avoid yours for just a moment, and then, with a heavy sigh, she places her knife down on the counter.

“I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, y’know, about our future ‘ere.” Her voice is softer now, quieter, as if the words are hard to speak. She wipes her hands on her apron, her gaze shifting to the side. “Mikael’s doin’ better with the treatment, thank the Lady, but, well,” she pauses, seeming to choose her words very carefully, “it won’ be solvin’ the problem entirely, aye? Even with Yan’s assistance, which I’m more’n grateful for! He’s only got a little while left in ‘im.”

The weight of her words hits you like a punch to the gut. You knew it—knew it, even if none of you had been able to say it aloud. Mikael’s condition had been hanging over your family like a dark cloud for so long now, but the idea of his passing, the inevitability of it, had been something you all tried not to think about. It felt easier that way—safer. But now, the truth is finally out there, hanging in the air.

You don’t respond immediately, but you can feel the heaviness of it all pressing down on you. “I only mean…” She stops, her voice trailing off as she picks her words with the care of someone who’s trying not to say too much. “when he does pass, which I hope by the Lady isn’ anytime soon! …I don’ rightly know what’ll be left for me here.”

You blink, staring at her, completely confused by what she’s saying. “What?” You can’t keep the disbelief from creeping into your voice. “Ma, I’m here! The boys! We’re your kids. What do you mean you don’t know what’s left for you here?”

“Yer adults now.” She says stubbornly, her tone firm but tired. She avoids meeting your gaze again, focusing on the fish in front of her. “Look, y’know I love all of you. But…Zaun was never my home like it became yers, let’s be real now.

“Of course it’s your home!” You protest vehemently. You’re half-aware that you’re being too loud, but you don’t find it in you to care. 

She sighs, the exasperation in her tone more evident now. “No,” she repeats, her words patient, but there's an underlying sharpness. “The sea is m’ home, Minerva. Y’know this! And it’s been…so long since I’ been there. I wasn’ built for all this…” She gestures around her, at the restaurant, at the walls of the kitchen, the strange city life that surrounds you both, “city life.”

“That life nearly got you killed!” You snap, your fist pounding down onto the counter. The force of the impact causes your half-eaten bowl of fish to rattle, the motion vibrating through the wooden table. “You’ve got a fucking bounty on your head, Ma! You know, that thing you’ve talked about nearly every day since we got here? There’s a reason we left Bilgewater in the first place!”

Her face tightens, her features softening with a mixture of fatigue and frustration. She rubs her temples as though the conversation alone is enough to wear her out. In the dim light of the kitchen, the lines around her eyes seem deeper, more pronounced. The years are catching up to her, but there’s no denying the stubborn fire in her eyes.

“It’s been a long time since then, Minerva. I doubt those ol’ geezers’d even recognize me at this point.”

You stare at her for a long moment, utterly stunned. Then, running a hand through your hair, you let out a frustrated groan. “Are you being serious right now? So, what? Dad dies and you’re just gonna… what, leave all this? Leave the house, your job, the boys, me? For what? To run away and be a pirate again? You haven’t even been on a boat in almost two decades!”

“That’s what I’m trying to say!” She extends her hands toward you, reaching for the fist you’ve left clenched on the counter. “We should go, Poppet! Y’n’ me, against the world! I’ve…I feel guilty that I’ve never shown y’ the skills o’ the trade, the family life! Y’ve done well for yerself ‘ere, it’s true! But…” She pauses, squeezing your hand gently, her voice softening as if trying to coax you into understanding. “Wouldn’ it be better to be livin’ a life o’ fresh, ocean air? With the waves, the smell o’ the docks, the joy o’ an ‘onest days’ work where y’ don’t gotta be dealin’ with all this…police brutality n’ revolution nonsense?”

You blink at her, stunned and momentarily speechless. “’Nonsense’?” The word feels like a slap to your face. “Ma, this is my life! Our life! We can’t just… turn away from all this!” You pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself, before wrenching your hand away from hers. The movement is sharp, almost angry. “At least I can’t.”

She watches you, her face unreadable for a long moment, but you can see the glassiness of early tears in her eyes. The silence between you is heavy, thick with everything unspoken, everything you’re both too afraid to say out loud. You can feel your pulse hammering in your ears, the tension so thick that it’s hard to breathe. 

Just as you think your mother is about to deliver another retort to you, the two of you are abruptly interrupted by a booming voice and a thick arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“There’s my two favourite ladies! How’re you doing, Ma?” Vander exclaimed, giving you a tight sqeeze. You’re still so boiled in the bubbling anger in your chest that you just allow yourself to be pulled into the embrace, but don’t return it.

You’re still seething, your chest tight with the boiling anger, but you let yourself be pulled into the embrace. You don’t return it, though—your arms stay stiff at your sides, and your teeth clench behind your lips. The warmth of his hug does little to ease the fire crackling in your veins.

Your mother, however, quickly wipes at her eyes, and in an instant, her face shifts—like flipping a switch. A smile stretches across her face, fake and practiced, her gaze diverted from yours to Vander. She does it so easily that it stings. The ease with which she hides the truth from you, the ease with which she’s been hiding her true feelings from you all these years, twists something deep inside. It makes your anger flare up again.

“Vander, my boy! There r’are! What brings y’round this level?” She puts on the warmth, her voice smooth as silk, as if the conversation you just had didn’t exist.

Vander chuckles and gives your shoulders another squeeze, leaning down to press his head atop yours. His warmth is comforting in the early-spring chill of the market. But you’re too far gone in your own thoughts to appreciate it. Your eyes remain fixed on your mother, a silent accusation burning through you.

“Just picking up our girl here! We’ve got a rally tonight before the fights.” His voice is light, easy, but he seems to sense the undercurrent of tension in the air, the thickening silence between you and your mother. His brows furrow slightly. “Am I…interrupting something?”

Your mother waves him off with practiced nonchalance, picking up her knife and going back to the fish without so much as a flinch. “Not at all! Are y’ hungry, I can whip somethin’ up for y’, real nice n’ warm.” 

Her words don’t land. Not on you. As if on cue, your hands start to move, each motion sharp and precise as you gather the disassembled parts of the Glock, your fingers almost trembling with frustration. The pieces snap together with a hurried clink, far from the careful assembly you know it needs. The gun is a mess, but at this moment, you don’t care. It’ll hold, for now. But everything inside you wants to lash out, to scream, to make her understand.

“We’re fine, ma’am.” The bite in your tone surprises even you, and your words hang in the air between you and Vander, charged with a new weight. “We’re running late as-is.”

Your mother’s eyes flash briefly, but she hides it quickly behind a forced smile. “It’ll only take a minute!” She motions toward the kitchen, her voice sweet, insistent. “I can—” 

“I said we’re fine!” You don’t give her a chance to finish. Your words are sharp, harsh, cutting through the air between you. Vander stiffens against you at the outburst, but you don’t care. You slam the work-in-progress into your satchel and toss it over your shoulder, the leather strap digging into your skin as you turn on your heel and storm off.

You don’t wait for Vander to follow you. The crowd of the upper-level market parts around you like water, but all you can focus on is the churning anger in your chest. You feel the burn of your magic, restless, coiling beneath your skin like an electric charge. Everything around you—every scrap of metal, every bolt and piece of machinery—vibrates, responding to the pulse in your veins. You want to tear it all down, to unleash the fury that’s bubbling just under the surface. But you know better.

Vander catches up to you quickly, his steps sure and calm beside your hurried pace. He doesn’t ask anything at first. But you can feel his eyes on you, steady and patient, as always. You don’t look at him, too lost in your own storm of thoughts, but his presence is grounding.

“…You want to catch me up on what that was about?” His voice is quiet, gentle, almost coaxing.

You shake your head, the frustration too raw. The words are there, ready to spill out, but you know they’d come out all wrong. Anything you say right now would be said in anger, and Vander doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve to be caught in the storm your mother has created inside you.

So you keep walking, your feet moving quickly, the streets of the market blurring around you as you navigate the crowd. He just walks with you, his presence a steady anchor to the chaos in your mind. You can feel his gaze on you—patient, understanding. 

"Saw Violet and Baby Powder today." Vander’s voice cuts through the anger, drawing your attention. He starts digging into his pockets, and the motion is enough to pull your focus. Yet, your jaw remains clenched, a raw tension gnawing at the edges of your control. He pulls out a small slip of paper and hands it to you. Your fingers brush against his, but it's the photo that catches you.

Violet stands proudly, grinning wide, showing off the gap where she’d just lost her first tooth. She cradles her baby sister, the fragile, blue-haired little one, in her arms. Powder looks so small, so vulnerable, but the image tells a story of love, of a bond that has already begun to form, even in the hardest of circumstances. Your heart stirs, the anger that once blazed hot within you softening in the face of this pure, unguarded moment. It’s still there—raging, simmering—but now it’s tempered with something else. Something warmer, like the way the sun feels on your skin after a long storm.

You swallow hard and look up at Vander. "How’s she doing out of the incubator?" The little blue-haired baby had been kept incubated for a few weeks now, Yan clearly explained that she was much too fragile to rely fully on her own means of survival. Vander gently took the photo back, smiling proudly back down at you.

“Doc says she’s going to be just fine.” He nods, pocketing the image. “A strong little girl, that one. A fighter, for sure.”

You let out a quiet breath. “She comes by it naturally.” You close your eyes, taking a moment to calm yourself. The anger doesn’t vanish, but in its place, there’s something steadier, something that reminds you of why you’re still here. The thought of leaving this place, leaving these people behind, knowing that you might not see the kids like Violet and Powder grow up—it’s a heavy weight. But it's a weight you bear for their future, for something better.

You open your eyes and meet Vander’s gaze. “Thank you.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in that teasing way. “For what?”

You reach for his hand, your fingers curling around his. “For always knowing what I need to hear.”

His smile softens, and without a word, he brings his other hand up to cup your face, pulling you closer. You close your eyes as his lips brush against yours, gentle, almost reverent. It’s a fleeting touch, like a whisper of a promise. His thumb caresses the side of your cheek, and in that quiet space, you intertwine your fingers, drawing him in just a little bit more. As he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, the warmth between you both as if time has stopped. You stand there for a long moment, locked in this simple intimacy, the world outside fading away.

"We should do it," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, his nose nudging yours in that familiar, affectionate gesture. "Someday, y’know, have a couple little ones running around."

Your heart stutters for a moment, and your eyebrows shoot up, barely able to contain your laughter. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head, that mischievous glint never leaving his eyes. “I see you with the youngin’s all the time, you’d make an excellent mother.”

The image of Violet’s bright grin and Powder’s tiny hands fills your mind, and you feel a pang in your chest—something you can’t ignore, even if you try to. But you force a sigh, covering the soft flutter of yearning that bubbles beneath your ribs. You pull away, crossing your arms, trying to act unaffected. “I don’t think this world could handle another you, Van. Our tempers combined?” You shake your head with a half-smile. “We’d doom all of Runeterra.”

Vander follows you, keeping that damnable grin plastered across his face. "C'mon, Minnie, a little ankle-biter with your looks and my strength? It’d be a gift to Zaun."

You roll your eyes, but there's a soft teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Just my looks, hm? Kind of sexist.”

Vander laughs and shakes his head, but doesn't back down. “Fine then, my looks and your brains. Now that would be a kid that’d rule over all of Runeterra.”

You chuckle, a full laugh escaping you this time, as you continue walking, his hand slipping into yours once again. You both share that easy warmth between you, a quiet understanding, despite the world that continues to rage around you.

***

The heavy creak of the bar's door echoed in the otherwise murmuring room, drawing the attention of a few scattered faces. The dim lights flickered slightly, casting long shadows over the worn wooden tables and mismatched chairs. The bar smelled of stale beer and sweat, the kind of place where the walls had witnessed more than their fair share of secrets. But tonight, it felt alive with something else—something charged.

At the back, a makeshift stage stood, with a lone microphone perched in the center. A small crowd had gathered around it, forming a circle of rapt attention, hanging on every word from the man who stood at the center of it all. His voice was a commanding presence, rich and smooth, each sentence punctuated with a charisma that had them nodding along like they were part of something bigger than themselves.

"Children of the nation of Zaun!" Silco’s voice rang out, filling the room effortlessly. He stood tall, wearing a tailored suit that had seen better days but still held the weight of authority. His eyes gleamed with conviction as he gestured toward the crowd, making his words feel like a promise. “You’ve heard us speak to you about strength, endurance, the Undercity’s ability to survive, no matter what Piltover throws at us. But as of late, I’ve begun to think of history–”

You and Vander moved over to the bar nearby, you flagging down the bartender for a couple of pints. Silco had spotted you the moment you’d come in, and welcomed you with a glint of his eye. Benzo, you recognized was chatting up Luoi in a corner. 

“You think he’s actually gonna let you speak tonight?” you whisper into Vander’s ear.

"Depends on how much whiskey he’s had," he replies with a smirk, his voice low. "But he’s got to run out of fancy words eventually.”

"…As we know from our history, from the tales passed down to us by those who raised us, this city was once a holy land," Silco continued, his voice growing deeper as he paced slowly across the stage, letting each sentence sink into the crowd. "A place of grandeur, a place decorated to the Wind Goddess…"

A sharp, jubilant ‘whoop’ rose from the crowd, a moment of genuine enthusiasm, and Silco’s lips twisted into a smile that could’ve been mistaken for warmth, if not for the coldness that lingered in his eyes. He drank it in, relishing the energy of the crowd, before pressing on. "Our ancestors stood tall in the face of turmoil because of the protection of gods…but now, as war brews over us once again, we, the people of Zaun, have become our own gods!"

“Someone's gone and given our boy a god complex,” you muttered under your breath as the bartender slid two frosty glasses of beer toward you and Vander.

Vander lifted his pint, the amber liquid swishing in the glass, and met your gaze with a sly, knowing grin. “Please, that’s been there the whole time.”

“We know that the Enforcers have gotten more bold as of late.” Silco continues, taking the microphone off its stand as he begins to slowly and confidently pace the length of the stage. “And rest assured, we’re just as mad as you are. They come into our homes, our businesses, walk along our streets like they own them. But do they?”

A resounding "No!" erupted from the crowd, raw and full of collective fury.

"Right!" Silco’s voice surged again, sharper now. He strode to the edge of the stage, his arms wide, as if pulling the crowd to him with invisible strings. "These are OUR streets, our homes! And it’s about time they’re reminded of that! For too long, we have been told that this system is just—that those rich bastards Top-side deserve their wealth because they work harder, think smarter, or simply because they were born into it. But I ask you—where is the justice in a world where a few can sit on their golden council thrones, while the rest of us are forced to fight for crumbs?”

A roar of approval followed, the room vibrating with the collective energy. It was as if the tension had snapped, and for the first time, they felt like they might actually have the power to do something about it. It was intoxicating.

“When?” A familiar voice, Sevika, growled out. “You’ve been giving these speeches for years, Silco. When, exactly, are we going to ‘remind them’?”

A murmur of agreement sounded throughout the crowd, and you weren’t surprised when Vander jumped into action, leaping onto the stage with outstretched hands. HE didn’t need a mic, his voice booming with his own power. 

“The man who needs no introduction,” Silco motioned to his brother, looking somewhat annoyed to share his limelight, but ultimately not fighting back.

“You’re right for wanting action.” Vander exclaimed. “As we speak, rest assured we’re making plans on an effective plan. Trading in weapons for every able body that’s willing to fight, strategy, rations. When we cross that bridge, and it will be soon, it’ll be a right and proper storm.” His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as the weight of his words sank in. “We’re not some forgotten backwater that they can kick around. We are not just a city. We are an army. An unstoppable force.”

Vander turned his gaze to Silco, his voice low but fierce. “And we don’t depend on some god or divine miracle to protect us. We protect ourselves. When we strike back, it won’t be a scattered, half-hearted effort. It’ll be decisive, and it will be relentless. We do it smart, we do it right, and we do it together.”

Silco’s eyes glinted with the fire of a shared purpose as he nodded, his voice rising with a raw, unstoppable conviction. “Together,” he echoed, the word carrying the weight of a promise. “Zaun’s future will not be built on the backs of the rich or the powerful. It will be built on the blood and sweat of its people—the ones who have always worked, bled, and struggled. We will not let the elites decide what we’re capable of. We will rise up, we will tear down their towers of tyranny, and we will burn their control to ash. This city belongs to us, and we will make sure the world knows it!”

His words were like a rallying cry, echoing through the room, each syllable a strike against the forces that had held them down for too long. The air seemed to crackle with energy as the two men stood together, bound by the same unyielding vision: a future built by the people, for the people. A future where their voices would no longer be silenced. In all the chaos, a certain vibration itches at the back of your skull.

The moment is cut short, however, as the door slams open, crashing against the wall behind it. Inside the doorway, Niya stands, panting and disheveled.

“They’re coming!” she yells, her voice sharp and ragged, cutting through the low hum of conversation in the bar like a knife. Heads snap toward her, a mixture of alarm and confusion painted on every face. Her wide eyes lock as she stumbles forward, desperation etched into every frantic step. “The Enforcers, Grayson, they’re—”

Her words are stolen by a deafening crack. The sound ricochets through the room like a physical blow. Her body stiffens unnaturally, arms jerking at her sides as if yanked by invisible strings. Time fractures, each second stretching into eternity as she crumples forward, the light in her eyes extinguished before she even hits the ground.

A dark, gaping hole mars the base of her skull, blood pooling around her like a grotesque halo. The crimson stain seeps into the weathered floorboards of the bar, the vivid red an accusation, a warning. 

“Niya!” Benzo’s cry tears through the paralysis gripping the room. He surges forward, but a sharp clang—the unmistakable sound of armored boots—stops him in his tracks.

The front doors burst open with a violent crash, splinters flying as black-clad Enforcers flood in, their heavy boots pounding like a drumbeat of doom. Their visors glint under the flickering light, hiding cold, merciless eyes. They fan out with mechanical precision, weapons raised, sweeping the room as if daring anyone to resist. At the front of the attack, Grayson’s clear, steely grey eyes under her helmet, partially shaded from the gas mask enveloping her face.

“For what it’s worth,” she starts, reloading her pistol. The bullet casing falls to the floor, rolling to stop when it comes into contact with the sticky liquid of Niya’s blood. “I warned her not to run.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, a thick, suffocating stillness as if the entire world is holding its breath. Then, someone—maybe Benzo, maybe you—makes the first move. A glass shatters against an Enforcer’s helmet, and all hell breaks loose.

The bar erupts into chaos. Tables flip, chairs are hurled like missiles, and shouts mingle with the sharp, percussive bursts of gunfire. Glass shatters, scattering like jagged stars across the floor as a few desperate souls scramble for the back exit or dive headlong through shattered windows. Most, however, are too stunned—or too furious—not to fight. Hardened survivors, people who’ve clawed their way through hell a dozen times before, seize whatever they can—broken bottles, splintered chair legs, even their bare fists—and throw themselves into the fray.

A bullet zips past your ear, close enough to sting, but your instincts take over. With a flick of your wrist, the bullet reverses course, whizzing back with deadly precision. It buries itself in the knee of an advancing Enforcer, who collapses with a howl of pain. Another grabs you from behind, his armored arms locking around your torso, but you’re already moving. Your knife, sleek and sharp, leaps into your hand.

With brutal efficiency, you plunge the blade into the Enforcer’s neck, feeling the sickening give of flesh and cartilage. A wet, gurgling grunt escapes him, but you don’t falter. Your vision blurs with crimson fury as you twist the knife, savoring the grotesque squelch that confirms his demise. When you wrench the blade free, his lifeless body crumples to the floor. You glance down briefly at the spreading pool of blood, and not a single drop of sympathy stirs in your chest.

The room is a cacophony of violence, but your focus narrows to a single point. Niya.

Ducking and weaving through the chaos, you dodge swinging fists and stray gunfire, your movements instinctive and precise. You reach her body, sprawled on the floor amidst the pandemonium, and seize her in your arms. Her weight is heavier than it should be, an unbearable confirmation of what you’re already dreading.

Leaping over the bar counter with her limp form clutched to your chest, you drop to your knees, cradling her like a precious, broken thing. Her once-vivid eyes are dull, the spark gone.

“Niya, no,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the tears begin to fall. Hot, desperate, they streak down your cheeks and land on her lifeless face. “No, no, no…Niya, please!” Your hands shake as you give her a gentle shake, your body wracked with silent, choking sobs.

But there’s no response. Her skin is already cooling beneath your touch, her blood staining your hands and clothes. She’s gone.

Benzo’s voice rises above the din, a primal howl of rage and grief. He’s in the thick of it, swinging a jagged barstool leg like a berserker, his every movement raw and unrestrained. He slams it into an Enforcer’s shield, sparks flying with the impact, but the Enforcer is relentless, shoving back with force.

Your head snaps up as you spot another Enforcer leveling his firearm at Benzo, aiming to end his rampage. Panic spikes in your chest, and you start to lift your hand, ready to send the weapon flying, but someone beats you to it.

Vander.

He crashes into the Enforcer like a living battering ram, his massive fist colliding with the smaller figure’s chest. The impact is thunderous, sending the armored Enforcer hurtling into the wall with a sickening crunch. Vander roars, a sound that shakes the very walls of the bar, and turns his furious gaze to the next target.

The fight grows even more brutal. The air is thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood, the clamor of battle nearly deafening. Chairs and bottles fly, fists meet flesh, and the floor becomes a slick battlefield of spilled drinks and lifeblood.

Above it all, Grayson’s voice rings out like a whip crack. “Subdue them!” she commands, her tone cold and sharp. But the Enforcers’ rigid discipline is beginning to fracture under the relentless, desperate fury of the patrons.

But this isn’t a fight. It’s an ambush.

Within moments, the chaos shifts. What was once a raw and desperate brawl begins to tilt inexorably in the Enforcers’ favor. Their numbers and training overwhelm the uncoordinated fury of the Zaunites. One by one, people are forced against the walls or slammed to the floor, their arms wrenched behind their backs as pairs of handcuffs snap shut with a metallic finality. The patrons who moments ago had been fighting tooth and nail are now subdued, their struggles met with the cold efficiency of the Enforcers' unyielding force.

Shutting Niya’s unseeing eyes, you whisper a silent apology and place her gently off to the side, as if shielding her from the violence she can no longer witness. The rage that courses through you burns hotter than the pain in your chest. With one last glance at her still form, you unholster your knife and steel yourself for what comes next.

You’re halfway over the bar counter, ready to leap back into the fray, when your eyes lock on Silco. Two Enforcers wrestle him toward the counter’s edge, his defiance barely masking the strain in his movements. One of them slams him against the counter, forcing his arms behind his back.

Without a second thought, you launch yourself into action, your body moving faster than your mind. With every ounce of strength you have, you tackle the nearest officer, sending the two of you sprawling to the floor. The Enforcer lets out a grunt of surprise as you both crash to the ground.

Your knife flashes in your hand, aimed for his neck, but the officer is quicker than you expect. He blocks your strike with a sharp upward motion of his armored forearm, the clash of steel against steel ringing in your ears. Before you can recover, he shifts his weight forward, slamming his helmeted head into your cheekbone.

Pain explodes through your skull, white-hot and dizzying. You reel back, clutching your face as the taste of blood floods your mouth. But you’re too far gone to stop, too consumed by anger and desperation. With a growl that tears from the depths of your chest, you lunge at him again, your knife slashing through the air.

He’s faster this time. Anticipating your move, the Enforcer sidesteps with practiced precision. In one fluid motion, he draws the pistol holstered at his hip and levels it at you.

The shot rings out, loud and final.

Pain tears through your shoulder like a hot blade, and your cry of agony is swallowed by the chaos around you. The force of the bullet spins you, and you crash to the floor, clutching the wound. Warm blood spills over your fingers, soaking into your jacket as your vision wavers. But the pain doesn’t stop the fire in your chest. Even as your shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, you snarl through clenched teeth and shift to push yourself back up. The Enforcer towers over you, his pistol trained on you once more, the cold barrel glinting in the dim light.

Your eyes dart back to Silco. He’s managed to wrestle an Enforcer to the ground, pinning the armored figure beneath him with a furious snarl. For a brief moment, it seems he’s gained the upper hand—until another Enforcer storms in, grabbing Silco by the collar of his finely tailored suit and yanking him off his opponent.

Silco twists and swings his dagger, the blade gleaming as it arcs through the air. But his attacker is ready, slapping the weapon from his hand with a brutal efficiency. The dagger clatters to the floor, spinning away into the chaos, leaving him defenseless.

You grit your teeth, the pounding pain in your shoulder barely registering as adrenaline courses through you. You’re already preparing to lunge toward him when another crack echoes through the room.

Pain sears through your side as a bullet grazes your thigh, tearing through the fabric of your pants and leaving a burning sting in its wake. You stagger but refuse to fall, your rage igniting into a roaring inferno.

“Bastard!” you scream, your voice raw with fury. Your hand snaps out instinctively, fingers clenching into a fist. The Enforcer who fired at you barely has time to react as his pistol crumples in his grip like a wad of paper, the metal screeching under the pressure of your will.

The distraction buys you a precious moment. You pivot toward Silco, each step a battle against the throbbing in your shoulder and side. But the same Enforcer persists, his movements fast and relentless.

“Enough,” you growl, your voice low and venomous.

Whipping around, you grab him by the helmet, forcing his head to one side and exposing the vulnerable flesh of his neck beneath the armored collar. In one fluid motion, you plunge your blade into the exposed skin, feeling it sink deep. He lets out a wet, gurgling sound as blood bubbles from his mouth, his body stumbling before crumpling to the floor.

You don’t look back.

Silco is struggling against another Enforcer now, his arms forced behind him. The metallic click of handcuffs locking into place is like another gunshot in your ears.

Pushing your battered body forward, each step feels heavier than the last, but you refuse to stop. The pain is a distant thrum beneath the fury coursing through your veins. Silco struggles against the Enforcer pinning him to the counter, his defiance radiating even as his arms are forced behind his back. The sight sends a fresh surge of adrenaline through you, drowning out the ache in your shoulder and the burn in your side.

Your eyes lock onto a dislodged metal chair leg lying amidst the chaos. Extending your hand, you summon the scrap to you, the metal twisting and contorting as it obeys your will, coiling around your knuckles like a makeshift gauntlet.

With a growl, you drive your fist into the Enforcer’s side, targeting the vulnerable spot just above his kidneys. The force sends a sharp clang reverberating through his armor, and even through the plating, the impact is enough to make him stagger back, releasing Silco.

Not letting up, you whip your dagger through the air, the blade slicing cleanly into the Enforcer’s ankle. He lets out a strangled cry, collapsing onto one knee as the pain cements him in place. But you don’t care.

With his helmet half-loosened in the scuffle, you take the opportunity to unlatch the clasp fully, yanking it off and exposing his face. Your metal-clad fist follows, slamming into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays, and the Enforcer drops like a stone, unconscious—or worse.

You wrench your dagger free, standing over his limp form, your chest heaving. You can’t bring yourself to care whether he’s alive or dead. There’s no time.

Turning back, your stomach sinks. A good half of your group is already subdued, their hands bound in cuffs as Enforcers drag them toward the exits. Panic flickers through your rage. Your eyes sweep the floor, scanning the chaos.

Where is he?

Then your eyes lock onto Vander’s fallen figure. It takes two officers to keep him pinned, and even then, they’re struggling, their boots scraping against the blood-slicked floor as he thrashes. A third Enforcer approaches, cuffs in hand, intent on locking him down.

“No!” Your cry rips from your throat as you push yourself forward, adrenaline the only thing keeping you upright.

You make it halfway there before another gunshot cracks through the air.

This one finds its mark.

White-hot agony explodes through your side as the bullet buries itself just above your hip. The force sends you sprawling, your body crumpling against your will. A strangled shriek escapes your lips as the pain sears through you, and you clutch at the wound, warm blood spilling over your hands.

Through the haze of agony, you hear the measured thud of boots approaching. You try to lift your head, but the effort is too much. A shadow looms over you, and Grayson kneels down, her expression unreadable but her voice icy calm.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” She speaks with maddening composure, her tone cutting through the chaos like a blade. “There are rules for a reason, and it’s about time you all learned how to obey them.”

She tosses something onto the ground beside you. Your blood-soaked bandana. The sight of it twists something deep in your chest, but before you can respond, the edges of your vision begin to blur, dark tendrils creeping inward.

“F…uck you,” you growl through gritted teeth, your voice shaky but defiant. “Let us go! You think we can’t—Gods, fuck—break all these people out of your little HQ?”

Grayson stands, her boots clicking against the floor as she straightens. “Oh, these people won’t be going to HQ,” she says, her voice sharper now, carrying over the din so everyone left conscious can hear. “No, you’ll find they’ll be moved to Stillwater by midnight. No more warning shots.”

She pauses, her gaze sweeping over the wreckage of the bar and the battered survivors still standing. “You want war?” Her voice hardens, her authority resonating in every word. “Very well. Consider this war.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, a chilling promise that makes even the most reckless of fighters hesitate. As your vision dims and the strength drains from your body, her voice is the last thing you hear.

[inthedarkigrew]

In the Night

tldr:: Hyunjae and y/n have a super intense and passionate hookup.

content:: Lots of explicit sex, deep penetration, fingering, grinding, messy sweat, heavy breathing, biting, and a whole lot of desperate, heated intimacy. Basically porn without plot.

The room is filled with it.

The sound of him—the low, guttural grunts vibrating in his throat. The sound of her—whiny, breathless moans spilling past parted lips. The sound of skin against skin, rhythmic, relentless, an echo bouncing off the high walls of the dimly lit room.

Hyunjae has her on her back, stretched out beneath him, her body pliant, open, taking everything he gives her. One hand grips her left thigh, fingers pressing into the soft skin, keeping it hooked high above his hip as he rocks into her with slow, deliberate thrusts. The heat between them is unbearable, thick with sweat and something heavier—something neither of them have quite put words to yet.

He exhales sharply, forehead pressing against hers, breath mixing, warmth upon warmth. Between thrusts, he steals kisses—soft, fleeting pecks, barely there but devastating all the same. His lips brush the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her cheek, like he can’t stop, like he needs to feel every inch of her, even in the smallest ways.

A bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the curve of her cheek, mixing with the warmth already pooling at her skin. Y/N barely registers it, too lost in the way his body moves over hers, the way he breathes her in like he’s starving, the way he holds her like he might never get enough.

She knows he’s close.

It’s in the way his pace stutters, the way his hips lose their steady rhythm, every thrust now driven by pure need rather than control. He’s not being careful anymore—not about the way their foreheads knock together with every desperate snap of his hips, not about the way his grip on her thigh tightens like he’s holding on for dear life.

Y/N feels it unraveling inside him, the same way it always does when he’s right there—when the need outweighs everything else, when he stops thinking entirely.

So she whispers his name.

It’s barely a sound, breathy and wrecked, but he hears it. Of course he does. They’ve done this enough times for him to know exactly what she needs, exactly what she’s asking for without saying it outright.

His free hand slips between them, his fingers finding her clit with practiced ease, rubbing slow, teasing circles at first before pressing harder, faster, working in tandem with his thrusts. The sensation sends a sharp jolt through her, her nails digging into his back as she arches into him, into his touch, into him.

Hyunjae groans—low, deep, ruined. The sound vibrates against her lips, and before she can even catch her breath, his mouth is on hers, desperate, consuming. He takes her lips like he owns them, biting down on her lower lip just as he pulls away, savoring the way she gasps at the sting, at the way he leaves her wanting even as he gives her everything.

Hyunjae always lets her come first.

It’s not even something they discuss—it just is. A silent rule written in the way he moves, in the way he learns her body better with each time, in the way he never lets himself go before she does.

And right now, she’s close. So close.

His fingers don’t falter, circling her clit with perfect pressure, perfect pace—matched only by the way his hips roll into her, deep and relentless. It’s overwhelming, the way he pushes her right to the edge, how he makes it impossible to do anything but feel him, take him.

“Jae—”

It’s a broken gasp, a plea, and it shatters what little composure he has left. His grip on her thigh tightens almost painfully, his jaw clenching, sweat dripping from his temple onto her collarbone. He watches her unravel beneath him, watches the way her body seizes, the way her walls clamp down around him as the orgasm takes her completely.

And fuck, she’s beautiful like this.

The way her lips part, the way her body shudders, the way his name falls from her lips like it’s the only word she knows—it’s enough to ruin him.

He keeps moving, fucking her through it, dragging out every last aftershock, letting her ride the high until she’s trembling beneath him.

And then—he lets go.

His thrusts turn erratic, rough, his breathing breaking into ragged, uneven gasps. His body tenses, muscles straining as the pleasure overtakes him, as he finally, finally lets himself reach his own peak.

With a sharp groan, he buries himself to the hilt, spilling into the condom, his fingers still gripping at her skin like he needs to ground himself, like he needs her even now.

And when it’s over, when the waves of pleasure finally begin to subside, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let go.

Just stays there—forehead pressed against hers, breaths mingling, hands still wrapped around her like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.

[kingstarkingslay]

“Let’s play hide and seek,” Sirius suggested, his voice filled with a mischievous energy as he bounced on his heels, hands in his pockets.

Remus stopped mid-step, glancing at him with an amused expression. “Really? Hide and seek?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “We’re in our seventh year, Padfoot.”

Sirius grinned, the same grin that had convinced Remus to get into trouble hundreds of times before. “Exactly. It’ll be fun! I’ll bet you I can hide better than you.”

Remus snorted. “I’ve known you for six years now. You’re terrible at hiding.”

Sirius shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, maybe I’ve just been letting you win all this time.”

Remus looked skeptical. “Uh-huh. Sure, Padfoot. If you say so.”

“Alright, I’m counting first. You hide,” Sirius declared, already stepping away from Remus. “I’m a master at this, you’ll see.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure I will.” Remus smirked, but before he could make any further comment, Sirius closed his eyes dramatically and started counting.

“One… two… three…”

Remus grinned to himself, taking a step back as he scanned their surroundings. The corridor was dimly lit, but there were plenty of places to hide—behind tapestries, in alcoves, or even under the grand staircase. But there was no need for him to be overly clever about it. He already knew where to go.

As Sirius reached ten, Remus quickly ducked behind a large suit of armor that stood at the end of the hall, hoping to hide in the shadows. He leaned against the cold stone wall, trying to still his breath as he heard Sirius continue his countdown.

“Fifteen… sixteen…”

The sound of Sirius’s footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing fainter as the counting continued. Remus let out a breath, confident that he had at least five minutes before he had to worry about being found.

Sirius’s voice broke through the silence. “I’m coming for you, Moony! Better run!”

Remus rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless. Of course, Sirius would take a game of hide and seek as an invitation to shout through the halls. He didn’t even try to be stealthy.

“Twenty-three… twenty-four… twenty-five…”

Remus leaned his head back against the suit of armor, the heavy weight of the metal creating a soothing rhythm to his breathing. He could hear Sirius’s voice getting closer now, and he could almost imagine his grin. Sirius was probably looking for him in all the wrong places, as always.

But then, just as he was about to relax, he heard something that made him freeze.

A soft, familiar sound. A quiet thud followed by a soft cursing under his breath.

Remus stifled a laugh. He didn’t need to see Sirius to know exactly what had happened. The boy had walked straight into one of the many stone pillars that lined the hall.

“Damn it,” Sirius muttered from somewhere behind him, his voice loud and completely unstealthy. “This was supposed to be easy, Moony. Why do you always make this so hard?”

Remus closed his eyes and bit his lip, trying to hold back his laughter. He’d barely been hidden for five minutes, and Sirius had already tripped over a stone pillar. It was honestly impressive how bad Sirius was at hiding.

Then, just when Remus thought he could escape without even being found, the sound of footsteps grew closer, much faster than he had expected.

Oh no.

He peeked out from behind the suit of armor just as Sirius rounded the corner. For a moment, their eyes locked. Remus froze, but it was already too late.

Sirius was grinning, a look of absolute victory on his face. “Gotcha!” he declared dramatically.

Remus blinked, standing there awkwardly as Sirius approached. “I—what?” he stammered, clearly confused.

Sirius didn’t even give him a chance to think. He just walked right up to him, all too smug for his own good. “You were so obvious, Moony. How could you hide behind a suit of armor when there’s a giant you behind it?”

Remus stared at him for a second, feeling his heart rate spike slightly at the proximity. Sirius was so close now, just a few inches away. His grin softened into something much more playful, a glint of mischief still twinkling in his eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t hiding that badly,” Remus said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I thought I could blend in.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little closer. “Oh, you were blending in, alright. But you didn’t take into account that I’m amazing at this game.”

Remus narrowed his eyes, realizing where this was going. “You? Amazing?”

Sirius leaned forward, the tips of their noses brushing lightly. “Oh, absolutely. I never lose.”

Remus tried not to let the warmth spreading through his chest show. “You’ve lost almost every game of hide and seek we’ve played,” he pointed out, but it came out much quieter than he had intended.

Sirius’s gaze softened, the teasing glint in his eyes turning into something much more sincere. “Maybe that’s because I’ve been too busy finding you.

Remus’s breath hitched. He tried to steady himself, but Sirius was close, too close now, his grin gone and replaced with something warmer, something that made Remus’s stomach flutter.

“And what if I didn’t want to be found?” Remus asked quietly, his voice low and playful.

Sirius didn’t miss a beat. “Then I guess I’d just have to keep looking,” he said, his voice turning soft, almost teasing, but there was something else there. Something deeper.

Before Remus could respond, Sirius’s lips were on his, quick and soft. Remus froze, the world spinning just for a moment. He could feel the warmth of Sirius’s hands on his arms, pulling him a little closer.

It was gentle, tender, and when Sirius pulled back, there was a moment of stillness. Remus blinked, surprised, his heart racing.

Sirius just smiled, that familiar, crooked grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “I told you,” he whispered. “I’m amazing.”

Remus couldn’t help but laugh, a little breathless, his hands resting on Sirius’s shoulders. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” Sirius corrected, voice low, his lips brushing Remus’s once more.

[noctivagant-ghost]

The job was simple: Monitor the woman in Room 6. She’s been asleep for 42 days.

(an r/nosleep style story)

I took the job because I needed quiet.

I had just moved back into the city after a really bad year - breakup, job loss, a fire that took half of what I owned. I was couch surfing when I saw the listing. Overnight shift. Private sleep study. No experience necessary, just basic data entry and the ability to stay awake. I figured I’d get some peace, maybe save up enough to afford rent somewhere that didn’t smell like damp carpet and stale weed.

The company was called SomnoTech. I Googled them. Not much came up. One old article in a university medical journal talking about “experimental treatments in chronic sleep disorder recovery,” and a barebones website with a contact form. The building I was sent to looked more like an office for defunct insurance than a lab. Beige, windowless, buzzed me in through two locked doors. Everything inside was silent and clean. No logos. Just halls that didn’t echo.

They gave me a laminated badge and walked me to Observation Room 6. It had one long window, a chair, three monitors, and a clipboard. That was it. Beyond the glass: a white-walled room, padded corners, one hospital-style bed with a woman laying perfectly still on it. Wires across her scalp. Pulse oximeter. Blood pressure cuff. Breathing tubes. The usual. The kind of image you’d see in a medical drama.

Her name was Marla. That’s all they told me.

“She’s not in a coma,” the lead technician - Dr. Ellis - said. “She’s asleep.”

I asked how long.

He said, “Forty-two days.”

That was when I almost walked out. But the pay was too good, and I told myself it was harmless. Just keep a log. Note her REM cycles. Don’t go in the room.

They emphasized that. Over and over.

Never enter the room.

I asked what would happen if she woke up.

Dr. Ellis paused for too long before he answered,

“That’s… not expected.”

That first night, nothing happened.

She lay still, vitals normal. Every couple hours her eyes flickered beneath the lids. Standard REM activity. Once, around 2:30 a.m., her hand twitched. I logged everything. I didn’t sleep, didn’t even look away much. Just sat and stared, drank vending machine coffee, and listened to the soft beep of monitors that never changed.

It wasn’t until the third shift that she moved.

Not much. Just shifted in bed. Rolled slightly. Her breathing deepened. That’s when I noticed something strange - the audio feed picked up sound from her room, but it was... too clean. No background noise. No rustle of sheets. Just her breathing.

Then she said something. A whisper.

I hit replay.

She’d said a name.

My name.

My full name.

No one else at SomnoTech knew it. I’d used an alias on the application, something I did out of habit after a few years of gig jobs. But what she said - what she mouthed - was my real name.

The one I haven’t used since I left home.

I showed the recording to Dr. Ellis.

He watched it, twice, without expression.

“It’s likely a coincidence,” he said. “The dreaming brain replays fragments of memory. She may have seen you on the way in.”

“She’s been asleep for six weeks.”

“She’s responding. That’s good. Keep documenting.”

He walked out before I could ask anything else.

The next few nights, I tried to convince myself it was nothing. I told myself it was a coincidence. That it didn’t mean anything. But she kept saying it.

Night after night. Just my name. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. No sound - just the shape of it, over and over. Her mouth moving in that same rhythm. I stopped drinking the coffee. Started staying stone-cold sober for every shift.

On the 23rd day, everything changed.

At exactly 3:07 a.m., Marla sat up in bed. Her eyes were still closed. She turned her head, slowly, toward the camera in the top corner of the ceiling. And then, without hesitation, she pointed at it. At me.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared as she pointed, waited five long seconds, then laid back down. 

I radioed it in.

“She’s dreaming about you,” the tech on call said. “That means it’s working.”

“What’s working?”

No response.

When I arrived the next night, I was given a new form to sign. It was labeled ‘Phase Two Observation Protocol.’

Most of it was boilerplate NDA language, but two lines stuck out:

Observer must not leave the premises until Phase Two is complete.

Observer must report all subjective experiences, including dreams, during or between shifts.

They were asking me to log my own sleep. When I pointed out that I wasn’t supposed to be sleeping on shift, the night tech said,

“You’ll understand soon.”

Marla began crying on Day 31. At first, it was soft. Then sobs - raw, broken, painful. Her vitals didn’t spike. Brain activity remained stable. But the sound of her grief came through the speaker like it was close. Not recorded. Not filtered. Like she was in the room with me.

I started sleeping in two-hour blocks. I couldn’t stay awake anymore. My body was shutting down. 

And then the dreams came.

First night: I’m standing in the hallway of the lab. Only it’s longer. The walls are too narrow, the ceiling too low. At the end of the hallway, there’s a door. Behind it, whispering.

Second night: Marla is sitting in the chair I use. Writing something. Every time I try to speak, she looks up and smiles. Her eyes are still closed.

Third night: I’m in the observation room, but the monitors show me, sleeping. Marla’s bed is empty.

I started documenting the dreams. Every detail. I showed them to Dr. Ellis. He didn’t even blink.

“You’re syncing,” he said.

“Syncing with what?”

He just said, “The bridge needs a guide.”

I stopped asking questions. I stopped pushing. I didn’t have much choice.

I started working double shifts. Eighteen hours on, six off. I slept at the facility. They put me in a bunkroom in a hallway I’d never seen. I thought it was just exhaustion, but when I tried to leave the building after that shift, my badge was deactivated. The front doors stayed locked. I went back to the observation room.

Marla was sitting up in bed, hands on her face, still crying. She’d been crying for nine days straight.

I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I started taking the pills they left by the coffee machine. They didn’t help. My vision blurred. My hands shook. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw bags under my eyes, my face pale and gaunt.

I wasn’t there anymore. I was just in the room. Staring. Always staring.

And then Marla opened her eyes. Just for a moment, just a fraction of an inch, but they were open. Not white, not rolled back. She was looking at me. Her pupils were there. Focused. She held my gaze for a breath, then closed them.

I tried to call Dr. Ellis. My radio didn’t work anymore. The lights went out. The only thing left was the audio feed. Her soft crying. And then, she said my name again.

That’s when I noticed.

My clipboard was empty. Every log, every note, every dream I’d written down - gone. I grabbed for the stack of old forms from the drawer under the monitor. They weren’t there. Not even the signature pages. Just hundreds of blank sheets.

I looked up at the monitors. The leftmost screen was blank. I hadn’t noticed it. Was it always like that? It was dark. No vitals. No video. Just a black screen with a single white label - my name.

Marla pointed at it. The crying stopped.

She stood up and walked to the window. I felt cold. My blood slowed. My heart pounded in my ears. Then she reached out and touched the glass. And for the first time, the audio picked up more than her breath. It picked up mine.

I backed away. But there was nowhere to go. The door was locked. Marla stared at me through the window, and her expression changed. Her brow furrowed. Her mouth opened. I watched the shape of a question form on her lips.

Suddenly, I was in the room. Not the observation room. Her room.

My hand touched the bed. Cold sheets. The air smelled sterile. There was one window. No monitors. I was on the other side of the glass. I was in the bed.

I looked over the edge of the mattress and saw myself. I was sitting in the observation chair. Writing on a clipboard. My eyes were open but blank. The rightmost monitor showed vitals, but they weren’t Marla’s. They were mine. My breathing, my heart rate.

And on the leftmost monitor, just darkness.

Marla stood in front of the window in the observation room and pointed at me. She mouthed something over and over again. Not my name. Not this time. I couldn’t understand it. I tried to get up. To reach for her. But I couldn’t move.

She took one step back and turned toward the door. I heard it open. Someone walked in, someone I couldn’t see. Marla said something else and then walked out. The audio feed stayed active. I heard footsteps. A new set of footsteps, heavier, slower, dragging. And then a new voice. It wasn’t Marla’s. It was mine.

I tried to scream. The audio feed went dead.

The next time I woke up, the observation room was dark. The silence was too deep. It felt like the building had been abandoned for years.

I pulled the blanket off me. My legs were weak. My mouth tasted of copper. I stood up, slowly. The air was freezing. My breath came out in clouds. The window was dark. All the lights were off.

But when I looked at the ground, I saw I wasn’t standing on the floor. I was standing on glass. 

And on the other side - a new girl in the chair. 

Only, she wasn’t looking up at me.

She was looking at me - straight on - as if her world tilted at a different angle. As if she were seated upright in a room that existed sideways beneath mine. Her gaze didn’t drift. Her neck didn’t crane. She met my eyes like we were sitting across from each other, not separated by gravity and glass. 

I dropped to my knees, pressing my hands to the pane. 

She watched me. Pale, shaking, eyes wide with fear. She looked like she’d been crying. Like she’d seen something she didn’t understand.

I recognized myself in her face, but it wasn’t me. It couldn’t be.

Because behind her, on the far side of the darkened room, there was a figure standing in the corner.

It was me. The other me. The one that sat in the chair. Its eyes were open, and it was smiling. And on its lap: an empty clipboard, waiting to be filled.

********************************************************************************

It’s been four months since I arrived at SomnoTech. I haven’t slept in three. I’ve written all of this down. I’m not sure how many times. I don’t know how much is real.

The girl in the chair doesn’t look at me anymore. She stopped crying. She stopped moving. She’s becoming like the other one. The smiling one. The one in the dark. The one who’s waiting for its turn.

I don’t want to know what comes next. I don’t think anyone does. But it doesn’t matter what we want. All that matters is what it wants. And it’s getting closer. I can hear it in the walls. I can feel it in my skin. I can see it in the reflection.

And once that happens, there’s only one thing left. One final step. One last phase.

This isn’t a dream. It’s not even a nightmare.

It’s the thing waiting after.

And we’re already in it.

We’re all already asleep.

And we don’t even know it yet.

[jimsbeetroot]

Hi, I really like your stories! Could you do one about Paul x Reader? I don't have an idea in mind... just something that shows Paul's insecurity and his cuteness, nothing obscene, thanks!

quieter than the rest ♱ paul gray

cute!!

Title: “quieter than the rest” Pairing: Paul Gray! x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff! Length: ~1,200 words

-

You found him exactly where you expected to: tucked away in the farthest corner of the venue’s green room, hunched slightly over his bass, gently plucking the strings with no real intent to play. Just enough to keep his hands moving.

Paul wasn’t loud like the others. Not showy. Not the type to throw bottles or make a scene. He didn’t thrive on chaos—he survived it. It was like he lived in the spaces between all the noise. And sometimes, that made him feel invisible.

“Hey,” you said softly, easing down beside him on the lumpy old couch that smelled faintly of beer and sweat. “You disappeared after soundcheck.”

He smiled at the floor. “Yeah. Just needed a second.”

You nodded, not pushing. Paul always appreciated that—your quiet patience, your way of giving him room to breathe without making him feel like he was drifting away.

The dim room buzzed faintly from a fluorescent light overhead, flickering every so often like it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to stay alive. Paul’s fingers stilled on the strings, resting lightly against the body of his bass.

“I’m not really…” he started, then stopped.

You tilted your head. “Not really what?”

He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeves, pulling them over his hands. His dark curls framed his face, a little frizzy from the Iowa humidity clinging to him even inside. When he looked at you, his eyes didn’t hold the same confidence you saw when he was on stage. They held something smaller. Quieter. Fragile.

“I’m not really the kind people write about,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—Corey, Jim, Joey… they’ve got this... presence. This shine. Even Shawn, with all his weird-ass clown stuff. They take up space. They’re the loud ones. The unforgettable ones.”

He gave a weak laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“And me? I’m the quiet guy with the bass. I’m not front and center. I just—fill in the gaps. I hold the rhythm down and stay out of the way.”

You frowned. “Paul…”

“I know it sounds dumb,” he added quickly. “It’s not jealousy. It’s just… some days, I wonder if anyone would even notice if I wasn’t there. Like, really notice.”

He looked away, and your heart ached for him.

You’d seen the way he poured himself into the music. The way he became a tether for the whole band. He didn’t need to be loud—he chose to be solid instead. Steady. The kind of person people leaned on without even realizing it, until the day came when he wasn’t there and everything tilted off balance.

You reached for his hand, gentle, fingers weaving through his.

“I notice.”

His eyes flicked up to you, hesitant.

“I notice when you leave the room because it gets too loud. I notice when you tune your bass twice even though it was fine the first time, just because you want it perfect. I notice how your leg bounces when you’re nervous, like you are now.” You gave him a small smile. “I notice you.”

Paul blinked, and for a moment, all the words seemed caught in his throat.

“You’re not background, Paul. You’re the glue. You’re the one who listens when the others are too busy yelling. You’re the heartbeat under all the noise.”

He swallowed hard, and his grip on your hand tightened just a little.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m hard to love,” he said quietly. “Like… I’m too in my head. Too quiet. Too—me.”

You shifted closer until your knee brushed his.

“You’re not hard to love,” you said, voice unwavering. “You just don’t realize how easy you make it.”

His brow furrowed, and he let out a shaky breath. You could see it on his face—he wanted to believe you. He almost did.

So you leaned forward and touched your forehead to his, brushing your nose against his in a way that made him breathe out a tiny laugh, a blush rising just beneath the stubble on his cheeks.

“I love your quiet. I love your stillness. I love that you don’t feel like you have to perform offstage.”

He closed his eyes for a second, as if letting the words sink in where he needed them most.

“I just…” he whispered. “I don’t want to fade into the background of my own life.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not while I’m around.”

There was a pause, and then Paul leaned in, resting his head on your shoulder like a weight he’d been carrying finally let go. He let out a sigh, long and low, and you wrapped your arm around his back, drawing lazy circles on the fabric of his hoodie.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “I think the quiet ones are the most unforgettable. People just don’t realize it until they miss the silence.”

He chuckled softly. “That was kind of poetic.”

You smiled. “Well, you bring it out of me.”

Paul sat with you like that for a long while—no words, no performance. Just stillness and the safe comfort of being held. And when the door eventually cracked open and one of the guys called out for him, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush to leave or hide his face.

He stood, but he didn’t let go of your hand.

Instead, he looked down at you and smiled. Shy. Real. Beautiful.

“I don’t say it enough,” he murmured. “But thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” you replied. “Just let me keep showing you.”

Paul nodded and tugged gently on your hand as he led you toward the hallway, toward the noise, toward the chaos. But this time, his step felt lighter.

Because he wasn’t disappearing into the background.

He was walking forward with someone who saw him—truly saw him—and loved every quiet, uncertain, wonderful part.

[yoomiwrites]

Aromatic Rush

Summary: Reader has an easy life in the navy. Until Aokiji comes to them with a mission that calls more into question than they thought.

Note: We reached the goal so the next Rush is coming! This time, it is NOT with all admirals but focused on Kuzan only. I'm pretty sure Akainu doesn't have as much fans as Kuzan, so I might post his story as well. We'll see! For now, enjoy the first chapter! (I might do a sequel for this story, depends on you after the whole thing is posted)

The alarm buzzed faintly in the dim light of dawn, but I was already awake, staring at the ceiling as I had been for the last few minutes. The sound wasn't annoying—just part of the routine. The ticking of the clock, the soft rhythm of my breath—everything followed a quiet, familiar pattern. Nothing dramatic ever happened, and I liked it that way.

Sighing, I slid out of bed and headed to the kitchen. Breakfast was always the same: toast, a soft-boiled egg, and a cup of green tea. Simple. It wasn’t exciting, but it was enough to start the day without complicating things. The steam from the tea curled lazily into the air, just like every other morning.

As I ate, my mind wandered, not to big dreams or wild fantasies, but to the day ahead. Work. I had a job to do, a quiet one, but it was important. I looked after the seagulls and den den mushi snails that the Marines used for communication. I wasn’t a fighter or someone on the front lines, but my work kept things running, kept messages moving. That was enough.

Once breakfast was done, I washed my dishes, tidied the small apartment, and checked the clock. Right on schedule. Everything in its place, exactly as it should be. No surprises. No interruptions. I found comfort in that.

When I arrived at Marine HQ, the same white walls and orderly corridors greeted me like they always did. I’d been here for years now, long enough to blend into the background. I rarely interacted with anyone outside my little compartment. The admirals, the vice-admirals—they lived in a world far above mine. I barely saw them, and even when I did, I kept my head down. I preferred it that way.

My world was smaller, quieter. The compartment where I worked wasn’t impressive, but it was peaceful. The snails blinked slowly in their cases, and the gulls rustled their wings in calm, lazy movements. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of caring for them. I checked the snails, made sure they were healthy, fed the seagulls, and kept everything running smoothly. My fingers brushed the snails’ cold, smooth shells, a small reminder of the routine I loved. The gulls’ soft coos filled the air, a familiar background noise that I relied on.

There was something beautiful in the simplicity of it all. I knew that to some, my life might seem boring, repetitive even. But in a world as chaotic as this one, I valued the quiet. The control.

It was enough.

As the day wound down, I finished up my tasks, checking on the snails one last time before closing up. The gulls were settled, feathers tucked, ready to sleep. Everything was in order, as always. I packed up my things, ready to head home, when something made me pause.

The air felt… different. A shift, a presence I hadn’t noticed before. Slowly, I turned, and my heart nearly stopped.

Standing at the entrance to my small compartment was someone I’d only ever seen from a distance. Tall, with disheveled black hair and eyes half-lidded with lazy disinterest, he seemed almost too big for this tiny space. His long Marine coat draped over his shoulders, loose and casual, as if he couldn’t be bothered to wear it properly.

Admiral Aokiji—Kuzan.

I froze, unsure of what to do or say. Admirals didn’t come down here. They didn’t even know this place existed, let alone step into it. His presence filled the room in a way that felt unnatural, like the balance of my world had just shifted without warning.

For a moment, he said nothing, just stood there with that unreadable, lazy expression. His hands were in his pockets, and he seemed almost as if he might turn and leave at any second, as if he’d wandered in by mistake.

But then, he spoke. "Yo," he said, voice as lazy as his posture. "You got a minute?"

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXVII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3 ONE MORE THING this is a little bit spicy ;)

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Elain traced the fine calligraphy of the letter in her hands. Her name was written across the sealed envelope in a pretty, looping scrawl. She would have recognised Nesta’s lovely script anywhere. 

The familiar wax seal had been pressed with a symbol she knew well. The peak of the mountain was one she had seen painting the horizon of her home for the last few years, the three little stars drawing her attention. 

Cora had given her the envelope just as she had been getting ready for bed. The knock had her freezing at first, anticipating the worst. Lucien never made his presence known, choosing to simply use his magic to enter their rooms, same as Eris. At the late hour she could hardly imagine anyone coming for a social visit. 

The sound of her friend’s voice, had Elain tugging a nightgown over her head in a clumsy rush, running barefoot over the carpeted floors to open the oak door of her and Lucien’s shared chambers. 

Cora had looked serious, passing her the piece of parchment with her full lips tugged into a slight frown. “From your sister,” she had whispered, so low Elain almost had not heard. She had pressed it into her palm, pressing down slightly to indicate its importance.

Elain had known her brows were furrowed, the confusion she had felt etching onto her expression. She had opened her mouth, but had not been given the chance to respond, or even ask for clarification.  

“Sleep well,” Cora had offered quickly, shifting in a flurry of dark skirts. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The day of her wedding. 

As the thought whirled in Elain’s mind for a moment, Cora stepped past the stone archway and winnowed down the hall effortlessly. Her steps were silent, her long hair swinging in its simple braid. 

“Goodnight,” Elain mumbled, more to herself as the Night Court female turned down the corner, hardly casting her a second glance.   

Lucien had gone to find his mother, and Elain was left to rip the letter open in privacy. She closed the door behind Cora, leaning her back against its rough surface. The bark was uneven through the fabric of her clothes, grounding her as she read over the words on the paper. Only one statement stood out to Elain, making her bite the inside of her cheek until she tasted the copper bitterness of her own blood. 

The last few weeks of searching for a loophole have led us to dead end after dead end, and Rhysand wants to avoid a conflict at all costs. 

While the writing was clearly Nesta’s, the words were obviously Feyre’s. Elain stopped reading to take a deep breath, her heartbeat thunderous, blood rushing to her ears. She wanted the same thing, especially after the war with Hybern. Seeing the death and destruction in the aftermath of such a war had been awful, had haunted her nightmares for months.  

You have to decide whether you want to cancel this wedding, Elain, and whatever choice you make, me and Nesta will be there to support you. 

The letter ended, leaving Elain to her own thoughts. She could not stop the small smile from gracing her features, glad that her sisters trusted her enough to make this decision without their influence. She read the letter one more time, committing the words to memory. 

There was a loud crack coming from the logs in the fireplace, and Elain found herself taking small steps toward it. She understood completely that if she wanted to end her rushed engagement to Lucien, she was well within her power to do so. 

My mate. 

Elain knew all she had to do was tell Cora, and the two of them would face the High Lord of Autumn. Perhaps he would dismiss her, tell her it was wedding day nerves, but ultimately she figured he would let them leave. Eris might even help them, she was certain he did not want to see either of them dead at his father’s hands. 

Lucien. 

Elain whispered his name softly to herself, his name bringing her nothing but a sense of comfort and calm, so different from the emotions that had tormented her before she arrived at his cruel home. Elain traced her finger along the crisp edge of the letter, tossing it into the raging fire without a second thought, having made her decision days ago. 

Elain was going to marry Lucien. She had convinced herself it had very little to do with their mating bond anyway. It all seemed so simple in her head. When they returned to Velaris together, she would get to know him further. At some point, Elain had begun to consider him a true friend, a partner as they navigated the obstacles in the Autumn Court. She could see him in her future as clear as if she were looking at it through glass. 

Without warning, Lucien winnowed into the large space, causing Elain to jump with an embarrassing yelp. She watched as the last of the letter shrivelled and burned, turning to ash, just as she whirled around to face him. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the cotton of her nightgown beneath her fingers. 

“You scared me,” Elain mumbled, pouting as she walked towards him, hoping he had not seen the last of the envelope’s remains in the fireplace. She hoped to avoid having such a conversation with him, especially as there were other more pressing matters on her mind. 

Lucien laughed, leaning towards her as she approached, comfortable. “My apologies, lady,” he replied, bowing at the waist gracefully. 

Elain rolled her eyes, not willing to admit she found him charming. She cupped his face between her hands, kissing him on the cheek softly. “How’s your mother?” 

“Excited,” Lucien said, dimples flashing as Elain smiled up at him. “She’s been desperate to marry one of us off for centuries.” 

There was a bit of guilt eating at Elain, and it had been for some time. Knowing that there were lies between herself and Callista did not seem like a good way to start their relationship, but she had decided that if the Lady of Autumn ever learned the truth, she would simply find it amusing.

“You never even got me an engagement ring,” Elain accused playfully, watching with hungry eyes as Lucien took off his emerald jacket. The muscles on his arms tensed, a brown flash of skin at his throat making her blush. 

He seemed to notice, tossing the clothing carelessly onto an armchair. He rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt in practised gestures, revealing his forearms. “We don’t exchange rings in Autumn.” 

Elain cleared her throat, feeling heat travel to the tips of her pointed ears. She turned away from him, inching towards the wooden dresser near their bed. The comb Eris had gifted her when she had first arrived to the Forest House glimmered in the light of the candless, a glare shining on the sharpened point of each tooth. 

“Did you want me to get you one?” Lucien asked genuinely. She felt him searching the bond for any hint of whether she was upset, wanting to understand. 

Elain smiled to herself, thinking about the last ring she had been given. Being on the other side of the wall seemed like a lifetime ago. “No, I don’t think I want another.” 

She heard Lucien pause, waiting before he asked. “Do you still have that one?” 

There was kindness in his tone, no anger or possession over the idea of whether she had kept it or not. Elain shrugged, remembering how she had taken Graysen’s ring off one day when she had been gardening years before. She had crushed the cheap iron between two rocks and dusted the remains of the pretty pearl into the dirt next to the roses. 

Elain snorted, the sound unladylike but she found that she no longer cared about such things in Lucien’s presence. “I got rid of it a while ago.” 

He nodded, and she saw him through the mirror, considering. “We exchange necklaces,” he offered. “Everyone can see the rings you wear, but a necklace stays hidden beneath the collars of our clothes, just for us. Usually there are promises engraved onto the metal.” 

Elain hummed, tilting her head. “I like that.” She faced him, not realising how much closer he had gotten. She placed her hands onto the surface of the dresser behind her, feeling the edge digging into her hips. “They’d be made from gold?” 

“Always,” he said softly, his eyes flicking to her lips for the briefest of moments. “Gold is the colour of love here.” 

“I’m nervous,” Elain blurted suddenly, surprising herself with the admission. She gazed up at him, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lucien only smiled, the slightest tilt of his lips. “It’s not too late to call it off,” he replied with a shrug. 

“I don’t want to do that,” she shook her head, loose curls bouncing. She liked how insignificant he made it seem, as if he would simply do whatever she wished. “It’s just…what does a wedding even look like here?” 

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “You’re more worried about the ceremony than the fact that we’re actually going through with this?” 

“Being married to you doesn’t seem entirely awful,” she said sweetly, patting his arm. 

“How flattering,” he mumbled. She felt the way their bond practically sang at the contact. 

Elain giggled, searching his gaze. “So Eris walks me down the aisle, you’re standing at the altar with a priestess, and the reception begins. Then what?” 

“Then there’s a whole lot of praying to the mother,” Lucien said with a shrug. She motioned for him to go on, wanting him to continue. “The priestess is going to tie our wrists together, she’s going to pray a little more, and then we’ll officially be husband and wife.” 

Elain frowned, trailing her finger up his arm, toying with the fabric of his collar. “That doesn’t sound romantic at all.” 

Elain was certain she saw Lucien blush the slightest bit. “The romance starts when the couple is alone. Our court prefers small gestures, honest ones made in secrecy.” 

She decided that sounded very much like the Autumn Court she had briefly come to know. She pressed her hand flat against the nape of his neck, forcing him to come closer. Her voice became strained as an awareness took over her body. “So we go to the ceremony, we celebrate with the guests, and once we’re alone?” 

Lucien looked her up and down, and Elain tried to ensure scarlet did not stain her cheeks at the attention. His voice was low as he answered, “I suppose that’s up to you.” 

Elain swallowed, humming softly, threading her fingers through his silken hair. It fell in loose waves down his broad back.

“Usually that’s when we would exchange the necklaces, and take our vows,” Lucien said.

“When would we kiss?” Elain asked, desire making her forward. She knew he felt the same. 

“Up to you,” Lucien repeated softly, his breath fanned the curls framing her face. 

Elain got on the tips of her toes, arms curling around Lucien’s neck so she could press her lips to his. What started as a gentle kiss quickly shifted into something more desperate, especially as she moved her one hand so that it could trail along the bare skin just beneath his collar. 

Lucien held onto her waist tightly, keeping her pressed against the dresser. She arched into him, pressing herself more fully against him until there was no space left between them. 

Elain felt his sharp canines drag against her lower lip, gasping as he moved to place a rough kiss on her jaw. She threaded her fingers in his hair, keeping him near in case he thought she wanted him to pull back.

The bond thrummed softly, familiar, as Lucien turned his attention to the laces at her throat. He undid them swiftly, pulling at the strings carelessly, so he could trace his nose along her collar bones. When he bit the exposed skin of her breasts, Elain began to pull at his shirt, attempting to remove the fabric. 

“Lucien,” she breathed, his name a whisper as it fell from her mouth. He paused, shifting to look up at her. “I want you to…” the words caught in her throat, the growing ache between her legs fogging the rest of her senses and making her thoughts a mess. She rolled her hips in a gesture she hoped was enough to make him understand. At the feeling of his own arousal pressed against her core, he shifted forward to lean a hand onto the dresser. He pressed his forehead to her own, his eyes fluttering shut. He held himself like a coiled spring, every muscle tense. 

“Whatever you want,” he murmured. He smelled of crisp apples and summer mornings, the scent of his desire lingering in the air around them. “Whatever you want, Elain, I’ll give it to you.” 

“I want you,” she finished, kissing his cheek, her lips catching on the most brutal of his scars. The skin dipped and raised, but she did not feel it, merely noticing the way he seemed to relax at the action. 

With no warning he lifted Elain into the air, gripping her with steady arms as he winnowed them to the bed. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she dragged him on top of her as she fell.  

Lucien leaned on his elbow, hovering above her, his legs between hers. He bunched the fabric of her nightgown in his one fist, kissing her deeply as he waited for her consent. Elain pulled the shirt from where it had been tucked into his pants, letting her fingers trail along the exposed skin of his sides. He groaned at the contact, slowly moving the skirt of her dress so it rested in a wrinkled heap above her knees. 

Elain lifted her hips in a silent invitation, needing him to be inside her, aching at the thought of it. Lucien had other plans, though, kissing and nipping at her through the fabric of her nightgown, inching lower as she whimpered. He was on his knees, and she pulled the cotton further, understanding dawning on her as she held his flame-filled gaze. 

Lucien’s auburn hair reflected the sparks of the fireplace, his golden eye whirring softly in the silence while his russet one drank in the sight of her. His mouth brushed the place where all her pleasure centred, and Elain held her breath as she waited for him to make his next move. His broad hands spread her thighs slightly, keeping her in place, making her shiver. 

When Lucien pressed the flat of his tongue against her, Elain moaned, the sound ripped from her. He lapped at her hungrily, encouraged by the whimpers she made. He pulled her close, and Elain hooked a leg over his shoulder, searching for the strands of his hair as she reached for him. 

My mate. 

The skillful way he slipped his tongue between her folds had her feeling feral, she moved her hips, already knowing she was close to falling over the edge. When Lucien pressed a finger against her entrance, Elain brought her hand to her mouth, biting at her thumb until she was sure there were marks. 

He moved inside her slowly, drawing out her pleasure as he continued to lick and kiss at her. Elain thrust up into his hand when he added a second finger, shattering completely when he groaned, the vibrations making her see stars. 

Elain was still dizzy when he gingerly unhooked the leg she had wrapped around him, easing back up into her arms. She tugged at his shirt. “Take these off,” she ordered weakly, reeling, needing more of him immediately. 

Lucien huffed a laugh as he kissed her, and she could taste herself on his tongue. She made a soft sound, cupping his face with her hand, tracing the shape of cheekbone. 

She felt the outline of his length pressed against her core, his pants separating them. “Lucien,” she whined, his name muffled as she tucked herself into the crook of his neck. 

There was a flash of golden light as he gave in to her demand, ridding them of their clothes effortlessly with his magic. Next time, Elain promised to herself, she would painstakingly undo the buttons of his jacket and the laces of his shirt, but she was glad there was nothing between them anymore. 

Elain was burning with desire, pulling him closer for another kiss. He kept his legs between her thighs, his body on top of hers overwhelming in the best way. She let her foot idly caress his calf, encouraging. 

Lucien dragged the tip of his length between her folds, angling himself at her entrance. He shifted slowly, carefully, as though he was worried about hurting her. It was so unbelievably kind, emotion crashing over her as she realised just how much the bond must be affecting him. He seemed entirely unbothered, a sharp contrast to the creature Elain had become seeing him so vulnerable. 

Lucien’s thrusts were slow, as he brought himself to the tip before pressing his hips fully against Elain each time. He kissed her between breathless gasps, soft sounds of pleasure falling from his lips as well. When he placed a hand between them, rubbing where she needed him most in rhythmic circles, she clenched her eyes shut. 

When Lucien’s movements became more erratic, she watched, wanting to see him fall apart because of her. He threw his head back on a groan, his thrusts not stopping until she felt as her walls clenched around him. Elain bit his shoulder, stifling a cry, noticing they were both slick with sweat. 

Lucien shifted, easing her onto his chest as they both caught their breath. Elain kissed his lips in small pecks, laughing softly as he wrapped his arms around her. He held her close, seemingly not wanting to let her go, and Elain decided she could have stayed with him forever. 

My mate.

They fell asleep, limbs tangled, breath mingling. Elain felt safe tucked against him.

At some point in the night, she reached for Lucien once more, finding herself back under him. The candles had gone out and there was nothing but embers in the fireplace, but Elain was consumed in flames, the bond between their souls alight as she and Lucien came together once more.