#i keep pausing to just keep looking at him

[sceletaflores]

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

[p1girlfriend]

your kid treats them like their dad – f1 grid reactions ── .✦

lando norris ── .✦

he was nervous at first — “what if your kid hates me?” kind of nervous but they warm up to him fast, especially after he teaches them how to use a camera the first time they call him “dad” by accident he FREEZES mid-sentence you’re like 😳 but he just kneels down and goes

“hey, is that okay with you? ‘cause that’s really okay with me.” tears up in the car later. won't admit it.

oscar piastri ── .✦

treats your kid with so much quiet respect not overbearing, never forces anything just shows up. every time. one day, the kid runs up to him at the park like

“dad, look!” he stares, stunned, softest smile ever “…that’s me?” he doesn’t say a word after — just holds their hand tighter walking back to the car

charles leclerc ── .✦

he’s such a natural with them it almost hurts does little voices. fake races in the hallway. bedtime stories in French your kid makes a Father’s Day card and gives it to him — no hesitation he sees “to Charles (my second favorite Ferrari)” on it laughs. then absolutely sobs later that night

“i didn’t think i’d be someone’s papa so soon… but i love this.”

lewis hamilton ── .✦

he’s so soft and gentle with your child it makes everyone cry always down on their level when he talks to them makes them playlists and lets them sit in the front seat during errands the first time they fall asleep on his chest, he’s just… quiet

“they trust me. that means everything.” frames a photo of the three of you for the living room without saying a word

carlos sainz ── .✦

acts super casual but is secretly OBSESSED with being called dad your kid asks him to come to a school event and he says yes instantly draws a picture of “me and daddy carlos” and gives it to him he keeps it in his wallet teaches them Spanish and pretends to be strict but lets them braid his hair and call him “papi” like it’s nothing

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

IMMEDIATELY turns into fun stepdad of the year makes weird songs for brushing teeth teaches them dumb Aussie slang like “budgie smuggler” they call him “dad” during a game of Uno and he pauses

“you mean… ME?” acts like it’s casual but buys matching shirts the next day tells people “these are my people” with the proudest grin ever

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

treats your kid like royalty reads every bedtime story with voices the first time the kid draws a crayon family of three, he almost loses it

“sou eu? tipo... de verdade?” (that's me? like... really?) takes them out for Saturday bakery runs and calls it “our little tradition” you find him asleep on the couch with the kid on his chest every other Sunday

franco colapinto ── .✦

awkward at first but tries so hard the first time they hold his hand on their own, he nearly cries starts drawing cartoons for them, custom little stories they shout “papa look!” during a video call he literally MUTES HIMSELF and has a breakdown of joy

“they called me papa. i didn’t even ask for that. that’s insane.”

max verstappen ── .✦

very lowkey, very protective acts like it’s no big deal until your kid gets hurt at the park and yells

“I want Max!!” max RUNS. drops everything. from then on, it’s over — he’s fully in calls them “kiddo,” teaches them to play video games lets them nap on him during F1 races and whispers “you’re safe. always.”

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[bitters-n-sweets]

the night after — jack abbot x fem!reader After celebrating someone’s birthday and getting absolutely wasted, you wake up naked next to your attending, Jack Abbot

warnings: Grey’s Anatomy Mer-der’s first meeting but in reverse—kind of—i guess not really, suggestive, mdni, 18+ only, sexual tension wc: 1.7k+ masterlist

You wake up with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your head is foggy, and something doesn’t feel right. Your bed’s on the other side of the room, the AC is blasting colder than it normally does, and—fuck. You realize you’re not in your room. And there’s an arm draped over your waist.

Slowly, carefully, you turn your head. The sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, catching on the salt-and-pepper stubble of the man beside you. His mouth is slightly open, and his dark lashes flutter as he shifts in his sleep.

Your eyes widen and you put a hand over your mouth to stop the gasp from escaping.

Jack. Fucking. Abbot.

And you’re naked. Very naked. And so is he.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your memory to rewind, praying this is just a dream. But the ache between your legs, the faint bruises on your hips, the marks on your shoulders, and the condom wrapper on the nightstand all point to the same conclusion.

You slept with Jack Abbot. Your attending.

The man who’s called you ‘kid’ and made your heart flutter over a hundred times since you started working with him.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely breathing.

Jack groans beside you and stretches a little, his voice still sleep-rough. “Morning.”

You go rigid.

He peeks one eye open, confused at first, then amused as the recognition hits him. “Well,” he says, voice annoyingly calm. “This is unexpected.”

You grab the sheet and pull it up to your chest like it’s armor, even though he’s seen everything last night. “We didn’t—did we…?”

He raises a brow, glancing down at your very much shared nudity. “I’d say the evidence is compelling.”

“Oh God.”

“Yeah, that’s what you kept screaming last night.” Jack props himself up on an elbow, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Along with my name.”

You gasp and hit him with a pillow.

He laughs, but his smile falters a little. “…Do you regret it?”

You stare at him.

You don’t know. Your brain is still catching up, replaying hazy flashes of last night, someone singing off-key, tequila shots, his hand on your lower back, the way he laughed when you leaned too far into him, his lips on your neck…

You start getting dressed, refusing to meet his eyes. “Our shift starts in 3 hours.”

Jack watches you, a quiet sigh escapes him. “Guess I’ll see you at work, then.”

You pause at the door. “Don’t tell anyone.”

He nods. “You got it.”

But the look he gives you—half smug, half something else you can’t place—follows you all the way home.

It follows you all the way to work, actually.

You’re doing hand-offs with Langdon but you keep feeling a pair of eyes on you. Every time you glance Jack’s way, he’s unapologetically staring—and every damn time, you’re the one who looks away first. Because damn him and his godly hazel eyes.

You sigh quietly and follow Langdon, but he catches it. “Something wrong?”

You raise your brow, “No, nothing. Just tired.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I heard it was quite the party last night.”

Your eyes widen, and your head snaps toward him—but he doesn’t look suspicious. Just amused. You hadn’t considered the possibility of people seeing you and Jack leave together. Did anyone see? Did you two make out in front of everyone? Oh God.

“What—what did you hear exactly?”

He shrugs. “Oh you know, Whitaker dancing on the table, Javadi puking on the side…” And then he lowers to whisper in your ear, “You going back with someone…”

You gasp and take a step back, your face instantly going red. Langdon bursts into laughter, clapping you on the shoulder like he just scored a touchdown. As he walks away, you bury your face in your hands.

When you look up, Jack’s already watching you again. Brows furrowed because why does it look like you’re blushing from something Langdon said?

He starts heading your way.

And you panic.

If he talks to you right now, you might combust. So you pivot sharply and walk quickly toward triage, pretending you suddenly care a lot about minor injuries.

You manage to avoid him most of the time. It helps that the ER’s chaos has no mercy and no time for personal crises—though every time your fingers brush the back of your neck or shift your weight just so, flashes of the night before hit you like a freight train.

The press of his mouth against your collarbone.

His hands caressing, gripping your thighs as you convulse.

His voice, low and hoarse: “You feel so fucking good…”

You snap out of it. You have a job to do.

But Jack is everywhere. You see him checking vitals in Trauma 2, walking past with a chart, barking out orders near the nurse’s station—and every damn time, your traitorous brain replays some sinful image of last night’s events.

And he’s not doing much better.

He freezes in the middle of writing something when you laugh at a joke someone tells. He knocks over a coffee cup when you pass behind him in a tight hallway. And he has to physically turn away when you bend over to pick up a dropped chart, running a hand through his hair and muttering “fuck” under his breath.

The tension between you could power the entire hospital.

Later, you spot him teaching a group of interns about… something you couldn’t care less about. But you linger, half-listening to his explanation, until your eyes drift downward.

His fingers.

You should look away. You know you should. But your gaze lingers—strong, steady hands guiding with careful precision, calloused from years in trauma, confident in ways that make your stomach twist.

Your breath catches.

You remember those same fingers grabbing a fistful of your hair, then circling around your neck and putting just enough pressure to make you see stars. And how you licked his fingers clean after he made you come with them, the way you came apart under his hands, his voice in your ear, rough and reverent—“Such a good girl for me…”

You feel heat crawl up your neck and jump slightly when Jack calls your name, grabbing your attention.

Jack is looking straight at you, brow raised. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah!” You smile too quickly. “Just, uh, dehydrated. Gonna grab some water.”

He narrows his eyes slightly. He knows you’re lying. And as you walk past, you swear his lips twitch upward like he knows exactly what you were thinking.

Your shift has finally come to an end. Thankfully there were no serious cases—because you’ve been completely distracted all night. You’re at your locker, jacket in hand, moving quickly, until you spot a familiar pair of shoes and pants standing just beyond the locker door.

You debate whether to close it or keep it open forever.

“You know we’re gonna have to talk about it sooner or later, right?” He asks, leaning against the lockers.

You bite your lip before slowly closing the door, revealing Jack, arms crossed, bag slung over one shoulder, looking irritatingly good for someone who’s probably just as wrecked as you are.

“Outside?” You offer and he nods, suggesting you lead the way.

As you pass through the automatic doors, you spot Langdon just beginning his shift. He smirks, nodding like he knowssomething, and you try your best to ignore it. Flipping him off for good measure.

You’re now face to face with Jack outside of the ER under the dim lights, tapping your shoes against the pavement, looking everywhere but at him.

Jack rubs the back of his neck. “So… are you avoiding me because it was bad, or because it was really good?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “We were drunk, Jack.”

“Yes, we were.” He agrees, way too easily. “Not what I asked.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “We made a mistake—”

“Did it feel like a mistake?” Jack tilts his head, watching you closely.

You hesitate.

Because you know what a mistake feels like. A mistake feels like guilt sinking sharp in your stomach, like regret pounding in your head. But waking up tangled in Jack’s sheets, his fingers still resting on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go? It didn’t feel like a mistake. It was like relief, joy, release. Like something you’ve secretly been waiting for.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” He takes a step closer to you, “Even drunk out of my mind, I didn’t regret it. And I’d do it again.”

Your eyes widen and you stop breathing for a second. He’d do it again?

“As long as it’s with you.” He adds, clearing his throat and looking away.

For once, he doesn’t look like the Jack everyone else knows. He’s not all confidence or sharp comebacks. He’s vulnerable, a little nervous, maybe even a little scared. And somehow, that makes your heart beat even faster.

“…I didn’t regret it either.” You finally say, and his eyes dart back to look at you, hopeful.

“To be honest,” You continue, huffing because you’re about to admit your deepest secret. “I’ve had… feelings for you for as long as I can remember.”

Jack’s brows raise, an amused smile forming on his lips.

“I mean, you’re—you’re annoyingly handsome, and confident, and…” You swallow. “And I like how you always look out for me. Not just me—everyone, really.”

A small laugh escapes his lips. “Just you, sweetheart. I couldn’t care less about everyone else.”

You blush. “Flattering. But well…yeah. I was just really surprised we… we did it—”

“Sex?” Jack teases. “You can say it.”

You groan, clearly he’s having fun teasing you because you’re beet red now. “Jack—”

“Sorry, sorry,” He smiles, “You’re just so damn cute like this.”

You think there must be steam coming out of your ears now from how hot you feel.

You glance away, hoping to regain composure. “So… what now?”

Jack daringly takes another step towards you, trapping you between him and the wall. “Well,” He says, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Actually…” You bite your lip. “I think I was so drunk that I… can’t really remember… many details of last night.”

He puts a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Ouch. That bad?”

“No! I’m sure it was great—I just—”

He cuts you off gently. “It’s fine, really.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” He then whispers near your ear, “It means I get to show you again. Fully sober this time.”

You gasp, tilting your head to face him and seeing that smirk on his face.

“So,” he adds, eyes sparkling, “your place or mine?”

----

i loved writing this one ngl

[em1i2a3]

Makes Me Want You

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

Summary: After the incident with Walker, Sentry becomes your unofficial sparring partner during your training sessions. (Sequel to ‘Good Grief’)

Warnings 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Depictions of fighting, Sentry is being a little too overprotective, and Sentry volunteers to be your training dummy (cause he’s got a little crush), Sentry and the reader evidently have a bond, it’s evident (Bob doesn’t make an appearance, this is full Sentry)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Body Worship, Overstimulation, Hair Pulling, Sentry is literally a god who kneels 🤷🏻‍♀️what can I say? Need I say more?, Shower Sex, Fingering, Biting (with intentions to mark and claim), Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I had two different requests for Sentry smut and they were both fairly similar and they were both anon's...And on top of that they fit really well with this story! Fantastic for me, I just combined them! Thank you for reading and I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count:10,002

Sentry stood in the middle of the training room, unmoving, watching as you wrapped your hands with slow, distracted care. Not a word passed between the two of you, just silent glances from you to him. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as adjust the angle of his stance. He just stood there, solid and patient, like a monument forged from fire and waiting for someone who was brave enough to strike it.

His presence was gravity incarnate.

You could feel it coiling tight in the air, bending the atmosphere toward him like everything in the room was caught in a sort of orbit. He wasn’t glowing the way he sometimes did when adrenaline flared or when his power leaked through the cracks of Bob. There was no blinding light, or burning heat. But he radiated something much quieter. Heavier. It was the kind of silent energy that didn’t demand attention–it commanded it…Just like any God commanded their followers to go to war for them.

The fluorescents above him buzzed faintly, and then one flickered–twice–before dimming into a low, stuttering pulse. The light didn’t break entirely. It just hesitated, like even the electricity was aware of who stood beneath it. As if the current in the walls had paused to watch him too.

The air was warm–too warm for a room this size with the ventilation system running. There was a faint smell of ozone lingering beneath the cleaner’s citrus scent. Not sharp, not overwhelming, but present. You tasted it when you inhaled. It sat on the back of your tongue like a storm about to break.

He wore the simplest thing possible–grey sweatpants hanging low and loose on his hips, the drawstring frayed and untied, cuffs brushing the tops of his bare feet. His black t-shirt looked worn, lived-in, the hem slightly uneven and the sleeves clinging too well to the thick lines of his arms. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t tactical. It looked like something pulled from the top of his drawer that morning–and yet on him, it looked almost ceremonial.

Casual clothing on an apocalyptic being. The softness of the fabric clinging to muscle so dense it might as well have been marble. And still, he stood there like a temple waiting to be tested. Not arrogant. Not restless.

Just ready.

The mat beneath him didn’t creak. It didn’t shift. But you could feel the weight of him in your spine–like if he took a step, the sound would echo down into the foundation of the building.

You tightened the last loop of tape around your knuckles, pulse beginning to rise–not from effort, but from proximity. From the way his gaze held you. Not predatory. Not curious. Just fixed–like your movements were the only things keeping the world spinning, and if you stopped wrapping your hands, something ancient and dangerous might uncoil.

You exhaled slowly and finally looked up, catching his golden kissed eyes.

They didn’t waver.

“Is this seriously necessary?” You asked, voice rough with disbelief. “I didn’t get hurt, Sentry. I literally got the wind knocked out of me for a few minutes. You can’t just ban me from training with other people.”

Still, he didn’t move. His weight remained balanced, his stance loose, but every inch of him alert.

“I’m not banning you,” He said evenly. “I’m replacing them.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath and rose to your feet, stepping fully onto the mat. “Oh, that’s not the same thing at all,” You muttered sarcastically. “You’re not banning me, you’re just volunteering to be my sole sparring partner for the foreseeable future like that’s not completely–”

“I’m the safest option,” He interrupted, voice soft but unshakable. “You know that.” You scoffed under your breath, stepping farther onto the mat until your toes brushed the edge of the taped centerline.

“I’m sure you’re the safest option,” You said, stretching your shoulder in a lazy roll, “but I don’t normally spar with people in general. The whole Walker and Bucky thing was literally one time. A fluke…You know what that is right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sentry blinked once. Then–deadpan, voice laced with something dangerously close to sass–he replied, “Yes. I know what a fluke is.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Before you could speak again, he added, “But have you ever thought maybe…I want to see what you can do?”

That made you pause.

You took a slow step forward, then another–only closing half the distance between you, but it was enough to feel the tension in the air tighten, the warmth of him like a soft current against your skin.

“You already see what I can do,” You countered, gaze steady on his. “You watch me all the time. With Bob.”

He tilted his head slightly. The movement was subtle. Smooth.

“See, that’s not what I want though…” He murmured. “Maybe I want to feel it.”

You stopped walking.

One foot planted, one slightly lifted mid-step–like something in you had gone still in response. Your brow rose, arms slowly crossing over your chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of your tank top.

“Okay,” You said carefully. “I think you’re overestimating my strength. Because I’m pretty sure you won’t feel a single thing if I punch you.” You gestured broadly toward his chest, to the absurdly built wall of him standing there like a modern-day colossus in soft cotton. “If I threw an anvil at you, I don’t think you’d even blink. It’d be like… a gust of wind blew too hard in your direction. A mild inconvenience.”

That made him smirk. Not teasing. Not ego-driven. Just…Amused. Like you’d said something that charmed him in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Well,” He said, that golden glow flickering over his irises–pulsing like a heartbeat almost, “You haven’t tried doing anything to me, have you?”A slow breath. A beat of quiet. “So you wouldn’t know how I’d react.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you exhaled and crossed your arms tighter. “Okay. Fine…Are you going to fight back at least?”

“No,” He replied quickly, “Of course not.”

“You’re not even going to put up a challenge?” His silence was answer enough, but you pushed anyway, gesturing toward the training dummies lined up along the far wall.

“Now that’s not realistic at all, Sentry. I would actually prefer to punch the dummy. At least it wobbles.”

He shook his head–just once–but the motion was full-bodied, slow and deliberate, like a parent too tired to keep arguing with a child who refused to listen.

“I’d end up accidentally putting you through a wall if I fought back,” he said, the words a little too dry to be dramatic and far too sincere to be a joke. “And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” His golden eyes flicked over your face, unreadable but steady. “Can’t you just go with it? For the love of God?”

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back for a beat, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as if the cracked tiles might have an opinion.

Then you stepped forward again.

And again.

Until you were within reach–close enough that the heat coming off him felt almost physical. Like a pulse. Like the sun was leaking out of him in slow, restrained breaths.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet.

But your chest was rising a little faster now. Your heart thudding louder than it had any business doing. Because up close, the scale of him was…Impossible. Even dressed down in soft cotton and loose sweatpants, he was still carved from something the universe had only built once.

“Fine,” You muttered, the word slipping out like a reluctant surrender. Your fists dropped loosely to your sides. “But if I break my hand on your chest, I’m making you carry me to medbay.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

He just stood there.

Still as stone.

Waiting.

You flexed your fingers once.

Then raised your fists.

You circled him–half a step, then another. Your bare feet were silent against the mat, but every motion sent a ripple through the silence like a blade carving through water. His head turned ever so slightly to follow your movement, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

He was perfectly relaxed.

You studied him.

His posture. His balance. The faint flicker of gold behind his eyes.

And then–without warning–you struck.

A clean, tight right hook. Not full-force, not your strongest. But fast. Sharp. Enough to feel.

Your fist slammed into his side–just below the ribs, right at the spot where a normal opponent might recoil.

And he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It was like hitting the surface of something just this side of indestructible.

The impact reverberated through your knuckles and into your forearm, a shock of resistance that felt almost mechanical. The kind of hit that should’ve yielded some reaction–but instead, it just…Landed.

And stayed there.

Like you’d punched the hull of a goddamn battleship.

You hissed through your teeth, shaking out your fingers slightly as your feet adjusted on the mat.

“Okay,” You muttered under your breath, eyeing him, “That was not a dummy.”

“Do it again,” Sentry said quietly, his voice low and steady like thunder just barely rumbling in the distance.

You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, then exhaled and rolled your shoulders back with a sigh. “You sure? I’m not exactly delivering haymakers here.”

“I’m sure.”

Another step forward. Your muscles adjusted on instinct, your stance falling into its natural rhythm. And then you swung again. And again.

Punch after punch landed against him with the same result: nothing. No shift. No stumble. Not even a ripple of tension in his frame. Just the steady, unflinching wall of him absorbing the strikes like they were wind brushing against a mountain.

But you kept going.

Because something about the way he stood there made you want to see if you could draw any sort of reaction. A grunt. A blink. A goddamn eyebrow raise. Anything.

The rhythm grew sharper. Your jaw set tighter. Sweat began to bead along your spine, down your temple. The sound of your fists hitting his chest echoed sharply across the training room–thud, thud, thud–like muffled war drums. Every strike reverberated back into your arm with bruising density, but you didn’t stop.

You were breathing harder now.

And Sentry was still just… watching you.

Not bored. Not blank. He was studying you–like a scholar with a sacred text. Like every move you made was worthy of reverence. There was a faint gleam of something pleased in his expression, golden irises flicking between the set of your shoulders and the tension in your clenched jaw, like he was cataloging every shift in your form with quiet admiration.

It wasn’t desire. Not lust. Just awe.

And then, finally, you stepped back. Your arms hung loose at your sides, wrists sore and shoulders flushed with exertion. You shook out your hands with a grunt, sucking in a slow breath.

“I have a question for you,” you said, voice uneven from the effort.

Sentry straightened a fraction. Cleared his throat softly, like he hadn’t spoken in a century.

“Go ahead.”

You stepped closer–again. The heat between your bodies was tangible now. You stopped just short of brushing his chest with yours, close enough that you could feel the hum of him buzzing beneath the thin layer of his cotton shirt.

“You and Bob…” you began slowly. “You share thoughts, right? Like… You can talk to him inside his head?”

Sentry nodded once. Calm. “Yes. Of course.”

He didn’t ask where the question was going–but there was a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. A glint of wariness.

You tilted your head slightly.

“So that means… You know what he thinks of me?”

That made something in his face change.

Not visibly–but internally. Like a shift in gravity.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but not with anger. Just with the weight of knowing exactly what you meant.

“Yes,” He said finally. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but it didn’t quite work. A smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth anyway.

“Just wanted confirmation.”

He squinted at you suspiciously, head tilting. “I feel like you’re trying to set me up to say something that should be coming from Bob.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, voice light. “I swear I’m not. I’m just…Curious. That’s all.”

You held his gaze for a beat, then let it slip for just a second–just long enough to flick down to his neck. He didn’t miss it.

And when your eyes darted back up to his, there was something different there. A spark. A glint of mischief. A subtle shift in the air that sent a new ripple of heat down your spine.

“Do you guys share similar…” You began slowly, teasingly, “Weaknesses?”

Sentry blinked. Cautious. Confused.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “That is where we differ. I’m practically indestru–”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in one smooth movement, your fingers darted out and skated lightly up the side of his neck–just under his jaw, where the skin was most sensitive to both Bob…And him.

And the sound he made–

Was not godly.

It was sharp. Undignified. Somewhere between a yelp and a startled grunt, the kind of noise someone made when they’d been caught off guard in the worst way. His whole body jerked back half a step, and his knees bent as if something in his godlike frame just short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” Sentry hissed, glaring at you like you’d committed some sort of war crime.

You burst out laughing. Bent at the waist, arms braced on your thighs as the sound poured from you uncontrollably.

You couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk.

Between wheezes, you managed, “I didn’t expect you to react like that–but holy shit–it’s good to know that gods get ticklish sometimes too.”

He straightened slowly.

“Guess it’s one of the disadvantages,” He muttered, “Of being attached to Bob.”

You wiped your eyes, still grinning, as you leaned your weight back onto one foot.

“Damn,” You said breathlessly, “If the team ever finds out about this…”

“They won’t.”

You just smiled wider.

“Sure, Sentry. Whatever you say.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened fully, his arms slowly dropping from where they’d hovered in a mid-defensive reflex. His jaw clenched once, golden gaze burning hot beneath furrowed brows. There was no real danger in his posture–no spark of fury or divine wrath–but something shifted in his voice, something dry and faintly amused.

“It really seems like you’re trying to push me into fighting you.”

You raised your eyebrows, already taking a half-step backward with that same glint in your eye.

“What? Because I’m probably going to go tell the entire team that Sentry’s ticklish like Bob?” You teased, voice light and sing-songy as you began to edge toward the door. “Because I might casually bring it up at dinner next time Walker starts bragging about his bench press? ‘Oh yeah? Well, Sentry can bench the moon, but he also squeals like a kid if you touch his neck.’”

Sentry stared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to smile–or maybe grit his teeth.

You pointed a lazy finger at him as you backed up farther, heel tapping the edge of the mat.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll tell Yelena. I’ll tell Alexei. And he’ll never let you live it down.”

His hands fell loosely to his sides, the veins in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the black sleeves as he took one slow step forward. The overhead lights buzzed again–just once–and then went completely still.

“Alright,” He said calmly, “You asked for it.” You barely had time to register the words before he moved. You blinked.

And then ran.

A breathless laugh tore from your throat as you pivoted hard and booked it toward the exit, bare feet silent across the mat. You knew he’d follow—but you weren’t expecting how fast. You barely made it five steps before the air shifted behind you.

He was there.

You didn’t even hear him move.

Strong arms slipped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like it was nothing. You shrieked—half indignation, half delighted surprise—and squirmed hard against him.

“Put me down!”

“Nope,” Sentry grunted, voice steady with amusement. “You opened this door.”

You twisted hard, elbow aiming for his ribs—not to hurt, just to annoy. He caught it easily, body flexing behind you as he adjusted his grip, lowering you just enough that your heels skimmed the mat. His chest was warm against your back, too warm, and you could feel the restrained strength in every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was holding you like something sacred—delicately, even when your body writhed with every ounce of mischief you had left.

“I will scream,” You warned.

“I’m counting on it.”

You gasped-half laugh, half breathless–and hooked your ankle around his shin to try and trip him. He didn’t budge. Instead, his arm shifted, sliding up to wrap around your chest and pull you flush against him. You could feel the thunder of his pulse now–buried deep behind the quiet of him. That cosmic stillness. It made your own heart race faster, like it was trying to match something much older, much heavier.

“God, you’re obnoxious,” You huffed, yanking at his arm.

“You’re the one who threatened to tell Alexei I’m ticklish,” He countered.

“And I will!”

“Then I guess I’m justified.”

You twisted in his hold, managing to face him fully–and he let you. Didn’t resist when you grabbed his shirt in both fists and tugged like it would help.

You were panting now, flushed and laughing, but there was a fire behind it–something not quite amusement. Not anymore.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing softly, shimmering with the classic Sentry gold.

You were so close your noses nearly brushed. Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow pulls, brushing against his. One of his hands was still resting low on your side, fingers spread wide–grounding you, maybe, or steadying himself.

You swallowed.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“…You don’t have to hold back this much.”

Sentry’s expression shifted. Not smug. Not surprised. Just sharp–with awareness.

“I do,” He said simply. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what you’re like… when you’re under pressure.”

You tilted your chin up, breath catching. “Why?”

A pause.

And then:

“Because I like how you burn when you’re pushed.” The air between you pulsed like something alive. Charged and hot and thrumming with everything neither of you had said. You didn’t know if it was Bob in that second, or Sentry, or both–but you burned too.

You stared at his mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw all of it.

Something clicked behind his gaze–snapped, maybe–and suddenly his hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and sure and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

It hit like a gravitational collapse–like the breathless moment between lightning and thunder, the second before a star goes supernova. His mouth claimed yours like he had waited centuries for this moment and wasn’t going to waste a second of it. There was no soft warm-up, no gentle build. Just the press of lips that had held back too long and a low, almost feral sound from his chest as you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands curled in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. His body pressed into yours like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you–like restraint was no longer an option.

Your back hit the nearest wall–not hard, just enough for him to anchor you there with the weight of him, arm braced beside your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to gasp against your mouth, voice shredded and low.

“You have no idea what you do to us.” You barely had time to breathe before he continued, his voice rasped and reverent, breaking on the edges like it hurt to hold the words in.

“When you ask questions that you know the answers to.” The heat in his eyes didn’t flicker. It burned steady. Fixed. Like he was looking at the only thing in existence that had ever managed to make him feel truly alive.

His hand was still cradling the back of your neck–thumb brushing slow arcs along your skin, grounding him as much as it grounded you. His other hand had settled at your waist again, fingers flexing, as though he didn’t trust himself to hold you tighter.

And still he spoke, each word barely more than a breath, like a confession pulled from the center of a god.

“When you look at me like you see me. Not what I am. Not what I can do. Just…Me.”

You swallowed, chest rising fast against his.

He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over your mouth again.

“When you touch us like we are yours…Even when we haven’t even claimed you as such…Yet.”

And then–

He kissed you again.

But this time, you leaned into it.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the slope of his shoulder, until they reached the nape of his neck and tangled in the softness of his light brown hair. You pulled—gently, but enough. Enough to make him groan against your mouth, low and wrecked, like your hands on him were something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

The sound vibrated into your jaw, into your throat, and you kissed him harder in response. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your knees soften and your lungs burn and your body ache.

He shifted then–closer, impossibly closer–his hips brushing yours, his chest a wall of heat against your front. You were pinned between him and the wall now, not trapped, but held. Like he wanted to keep you there forever. Like you were a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud yet, but couldn’t stop whispering beneath his skin.

Your hands fisted tighter in his hair, and he made that sound again, louder this time. His hand slid from your waist up your spine in a slow, aching drag that left you trembling, fingertips pressing between your shoulder blades like he needed to feel every part of you rising to meet him.

You gasped against his mouth, lips swollen and breathless, and he took that as an invitation to devour the sound, to kiss you deeper, and to drink from you.

And the truth was…

You both were starving.

For touch. For closeness. For something that didn’t end in fear or retreat or silence. Something that pulled instead of pushed.

And now, here he was–Sentry, Bob, both of them–finally holding you like you were the only thing in this world that had ever felt real.

And you didn’t want to waste this moment on overthinking.

You didn’t want to question it, to slow it down, to analyze the weight of his hand or the heat of his mouth or the way your body arched so desperately into his—because for once, it all made sense. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t timing. This was inevitable.

The kiss became sloppy fast.

It was still all teeth and tongue and soft, panting sounds that echoed between the cracks of restraint–but now your hands were dragging down the planes of his back, curling in the hem of that soft black shirt like you could pull him closer than physics allowed. He groaned into you again, louder this time–richer, rougher–like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until he had it, and now he didn’t know how to stop.

Your legs shifted on instinct–widening just slightly for balance as you arched into him–and he responded immediately.

Sentry shifted.

The movement was fluid and almost too smooth for something that carried this much desperation, but you didn’t care. You barely even noticed the transition–your world had narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of his mouth, the stretch of your lungs trying to keep up.

You felt the moment his knees hit the mat.

The world tilted, and suddenly you were lower–his arms supporting you as your back hit the padded floor with a quiet, muffled thud.

And then he was over you.

Not crushing. Not smothering. Just there–braced on one arm, hovering above you with his chest heaving and his golden eyes wild, like he hadn’t expected to find himself here either, but now that he was, there was no chance he’d leave.

Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing the warmth of his cheeks, and he leaned back down like he couldn’t stay away–not even for a second.

His mouth found yours again. Hot. Messy. Open. His tongue brushed against yours and you whimpered, breath catching as your hips lifted just slightly into the space between his. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Not about the compound. Not about the team. Not about anything except him.

And then–without warning–he pulled back.

Only a few inches. But it was enough for the cold air to kiss your spit-slick lips. Enough to make your brows pinch with protest.

But Sentry was staring at you.

His eyes were wide. Dark with heat. Glowing with something that went beyond hunger.

He looked wrecked.

“Do you know,” He said softly, voice hoarse, “How many times I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your breath hitched.

He shook his head slightly, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ve imagined it in every damn room I’ve been in. The med bay, the kitchen, my room, your room, the living room…Fucking everywhere.” He let out a breathless laugh, pressed his forehead against yours. “I can barely breathe when you’re near me. I try to act normal, I try to just watch, like Bob does, like I’m supposed to–but it’s never enough.” You blinked, heart in your throat.

He leaned down again, brushing your jaw with his mouth.

“I think about your hands when you’re not here,” He murmured. “I think about the way you talk when you’re irritated. The way you look when you’re focused. How your voice sounds when you laugh. I remember every fucking sound you’ve ever made.”

His mouth kissed a line down the side of your throat–hot, reverent, barely restrained. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, body arching into his like gravity was conspiring with him.

He lifted his head again, gaze locked to yours, barely more than a breath away.

“I think about touching you every time I close my eyes,” He whispered, “I think about what it would mean. To be yours.” You stared up at him, chest heaving beneath the weight of everything he’d just said. Everything he’d confessed. There was no filter in him now. No veil. No divine wall of restraint.

Just truth.

Raw and devastating.

And yours.

Your hands slid up the sides of his face, thumbs grazing the delicate dip beneath his cheekbones, palms cupping the sharp angles of his jaw like you were trying to hold the entire sun between your fingers. He leaned into the touch–starved for it–and you surged forward.

You kissed him hard. Biting his bottom lip gently, tugging just enough to make his body jolt above yours, a sharp, shuddered groan escaping from deep in his chest.

Then, breathless, lips still brushing his, you whispered with a crooked smile:

“God, you really know how to make a girl feel wanted, huh?”

That made him laugh.

Low and stunned and wrecked, like the sound had been dragged out of somewhere deep in his ribcage. His forehead dropped to yours for a beat, and he let out a warm, shaky exhale.

Then he kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thank-you and a promise and a claim all at once. One hand slid down your side to hook beneath your thigh, adjusting his body above yours, fitting himself to you with a precision that felt nothing short of divine.

“I could go on forever,” He said, voice low and thunder-warm, “About how much I’ve wanted you.”

His eyes flicked over your face like you were scripture carved into flesh.

“I could tell you how many times I’ve had to hold Bob back from saying your name in his sleep, how he’ll flinch when someone says it in a hallway because his heart just–stops.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth like a prayer.

“I could tell you how he made me promise I’d always be near. Always listening. Just in case you needed something he couldn’t give fast enough.”

Another kiss–your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple.

“He tethered us to you.” His voice dropped into something reverent. Barely audible. Worshipful. “Not out of fear. Not duty. But because his love for you has become instinct.” You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand was cupping your side, warm and grounding. Sentry felt it—felt the way your body vibrated with something between overload and surrender, the way your breath stuttered beneath his palm. He shifted just enough to look at you properly again, his thumb dragging softly across your ribcage.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not with concern, but awe. Like your reaction was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked at the edges.

He searched your face for a beat, then dipped his head, pressing a gentle kiss beneath your jaw. Slower now. Calmer. He lingered there, lips barely brushing your skin, just breathing you in like he needed it to steady himself.

But you didn’t want steady.

You wanted more.

And he could feel that too.

“…This floor isn’t exactly comfortable,” you said softly, your hands still buried in his hair, voice tinged with a breathless laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you’re leaking nuclear heat through your t-shirt.”

He huffed, and the sound vibrated against your throat.

“I’m trying not to melt you.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

His mouth curved into a crooked smile against your neck. “Come with me,” he said—quiet, but sure. “Before I forget how to be gentle.”

You didn’t ask where.

You didn’t need to.

He rose slowly, cradling your hips with one arm as he guided you upright with him. His other hand stayed on your lower back, grounding, reverent. You stood together for a beat, close and flushed and breathing each other in–your body barely keeping from leaning back into the mat out of sheer sensory overload.

But he kissed your forehead like a promise, and you followed when he took your hand.

The hallway was quiet.

He led you through it barefoot, fingers laced with yours, his other hand resting low on your spine to steady you whenever your steps faltered. The air felt cooler outside the training room–barely, but enough to raise a chill along your sweat-damp skin.

You didn’t realize where he was leading you until the scent of clean steam and citrus hit your nose.

The locker room.

He pushed the door open gently, the fluorescent lights humming above, diffused by the quiet fog curling in the air. You hadn’t even asked if anyone else was around–but somehow, you knew they weren’t. They wouldn’t be.

Not right now–especially this early in the morning.

Sentry released your hand just long enough to walk over to one of the shower stalls. You heard the soft hiss of water turning on–heard the shift in his breathing when he adjusted the temperature with pinpoint care.

By the time he turned back to you, the steam was rising in slow tendrils around him.

His shirt clung damp to his chest, darkening in the heat. You watched the golden flicker in his eyes catch the haze and hold it there, like light bending for him alone.

You stepped toward him slowly.

“You sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?” He shook his head–slowly, reverently, steam curling around his jaw like a shroud.

“Please…” His voice was quiet. Unsteady in that way gods rarely allow themselves to be. “I think the admission of what we felt for you was long overdue. It’s not the adrenaline talking.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace, but it made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

It was wet now–sticking to the hard lines of his torso–but he peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing what you had only ever glimpsed in slivers beneath battle-torn fabric and half-buttoned uniforms. And even then, nothing had quite prepared you for this.

For him.

He looked like something carved out of devotion. Like a figure from myth brought to life in firelight and steam. Dense, sculpted muscle corded through his frame, every inch of him wrapped in strength that seemed impossible yet undeniable. Not exaggerated. Not grotesque. Just…Perfect in that terrifying, celestial way. His skin was flushed from the heat of the locker room, as steam caught along the slopes of his shoulders, trailing down the valley between his abs.

Your gaze traced the scars scattered across him—some faint and faded, some darker, older, deep with memory. Not many. But enough. Enough to know that even gods bled sometimes.

And then there was the light. The quiet flicker of gold beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his sternum and branching like veins of starlight across his chest. Glowing. Alive. Like divinity itself was trying to escape through him.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic.

And you stared.

You had always wondered—always imagined. The way his shirts clung when he lifted something, the way muscles shifted in his back when he moved too quickly. You’d dreamed of what was underneath, fantasized in quiet, guilty moments.

But now, there he was. Bared. Unashamed.

And he was looking at you.

Not demanding. Not expecting. Just…waiting.

You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks as your fingers found the hem of your own tank top and slowly pulled it upward, peeling it away from your flushed skin. It slipped over your head in one smooth motion—and you stood bare-chested before him, breasts exposed to the low locker room light, skin flushed with effort and anticipation.

Sentry’s breath hitched audibly. You saw his jaw flex. His eyes—already glowing faintly–went molten.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were some divine vision made flesh. Like you were something sacred he was afraid to reach for in case he ruined it.

Then his eyes dropped.

You saw the moment they landed on your breasts. Saw the subtle twitch in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lower lip–hard. A sharp, restrained motion that made the muscle in his cheek jump. He didn’t speak, but he exhaled roughly through his nose, like he was trying to calm a fire that had just started to roar.

Then, with one slow, fluid motion, he pushed his sweatpants and underwear down in a single breath.

And your brain short-circuited.

Because even semi-erect, he was…Big.

Thick. Heavy. Perfectly shaped. You could already tell that when he was fully hard, it would be something else entirely–something that bordered on surreal. And the way he carried it–no posturing, no arrogance, just naked truth–made your thighs clench so hard you nearly gasped. It was instinct. A raw, involuntary reaction that ran straight down your spine and pooled low in your gut.

He caught the movement.

His gaze flicked from your legs back to your face, golden eyes smoldering with understanding. Hunger. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t move forward or press his advantage.

He just let you look.

And maybe that was what undid you the most.

That even now–even with your nipples tightening under the locker room air, with your mouth parted and breath shallow, with your eyes darting back down to the weight of him hanging between his legs–he waited. Like this wasn’t about lust or claim or need.

It was about offering.

“Tell me what you want,” He said, his voice low. Gravel rough. Unsteady in a way that told you he was holding himself back with every ounce of divine willpower he had.

“Because I’ll give it to you,” He added. “All of it. Anything. Just say the word.”

You stared at him–at the awe in his face, the restraint braided through every muscle in his body–and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

Knowing that whatever this was, whatever it became, you’d never feel anything like it again.

Your lips parted.

“I want you,” you whispered. “All of it. All of you.”

A beat. Your voice dipped lower, rougher, shy despite the heat rolling off your skin.

“But more than that… I want you to do what you want to me.”

Something cracked in him—visibly. A flicker of gold pulsed brighter across his chest, blooming in a stuttered vein of light over his collarbone like lightning caught beneath his skin.

And he breathed your name.

Once.

Just once.

Like it was a prayer too holy to say more than once without unraveling the world.

You took a small step back and hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts, shimming them down your hips with quiet, fluid ease. They fell to the damp tile around your feet, and you stepped out of them with a soft exhale.

You were bare before him now.

No shields. No distance. No more questions.

Just you–and the way his eyes drank you in like he hadn’t believed you were real until now.

Sentry moved before the silence had a chance to grow heavy.

His hand reached out–strong, open, reverent–and he took yours like he was terrified you might change your mind if he moved too fast. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as he pulled you gently into the shower stall beside him.

And then the water hit.

Hot.

Steam curling instantly around your joined bodies.

And just like that–

His mouth was on yours.

Not rough. Not frenzied.

But urgent.

Like something eternal was unraveling behind his ribs and the only way to stop it was to feel your breath in his lungs. The kiss was full and deep, lips parting around each other with soaked, open-mouthed need as the water poured over both of you. His hands roamed–slowly, reverently–one skimming down the side of your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed you into him, skin to skin, heat to heat.

Your nipples brushed his chest and you whimpered against his mouth. His answering groan was low, ragged.

The kind of sound a man makes when devotion collides with desire.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. Water ran down his face, catching the light stubble along his jaw and the ridges of his collarbone, tracing the light glowing faintly beneath his skin.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Then show me…” You whispered. The water cascaded over your skin in steady, rhythmic sheets, hot enough to sting faintly where tension still lived in your muscles. Steam coiled around both of you, clinging to every surface, wrapping your bodies in something sacred and unseen. And he kissed you like the storm had broken inside him.

There was no hesitation now.

His mouth moved against yours with growing heat–messy, wet, open, and needy. Every time your lips parted, he drank from you like he couldn’t get enough, like the taste of you was something he’d craved since the moment Bob first laid eyes on you. You moaned into him when his hand slid down your waist and cupped the curve of your ass, squeezing with a low, desperate growl against your mouth.

His hips pressed forward—slow, grinding, not to take, not yet, but to feel. To savor. His cock, heavy and flushed, dragged against your stomach as he kissed you deeper, your thighs trembling from the sheer tension rolling through your core.

And then—he broke the kiss.

Just barely.

Only enough to trail his lips along your jaw, then lower–down your neck, where the skin was flushed and damp, where your pulse pounded loud and hot. He kissed there once. Twice. Then again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and tilt your head back against the tile.

“That sound,” He whispered, his voice rasping low over your throat, “I want to hear it again.”

And he kissed lower.

Your breath caught.

His lips traced the arch of your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts–open-mouthed, reverent kisses that dragged over your skin with unbearable heat. When his mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking and lips sealing tight, you gasped–body jolting forward, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other bracing against the wall behind you.

“Sentry–” You whimpered.

He moaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest as he suckled just hard enough to make your knees tremble. Then he shifted to the other breast, lavishing the same wet, aching worship there, tongue teasing, lips tugging.

Your body arched against him, chasing every touch.

Every kiss.

And still–he moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was reading you through his mouth, tasting every inch of what was his now, what he’d been denied for too long. He kissed down the slope of your stomach, tongue dipping to trace the curve of your navel, his hands anchoring you in place as your thighs trembled under the water’s steady heat.

Then he knelt.

Slow. Controlled.

God-like.

The moment his knees hit the tile, it felt like worship. Like he was built to kneel here. For you.

The sight of him looking up from between your legs–hair plastered to his forehead, steam curling around his cheeks, eyes glowing gold beneath thick lashes–made your lungs seize. One of his hands slid behind your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, until your foot braced on the small edge of the bench beside you. He coaxed your leg up over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, voice low and grounded. His palm pressed firm and warm to your hip, the other bracing your opposite thigh against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

And then he leaned in.

You cried out softly the moment his mouth found the inside of your thigh—kissing there first. Not rushing. Just dragging his lips across the tender flesh like he wanted to memorize the texture of your skin.

He nibbled gently, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch.

Then lower.

A breath against your folds.

Then–his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made your whole body tense, spine pressing against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His lips parted around you and he groaned—loud and low and so deeply aroused it sounded like it had been pulled from his chest by gravity.

“You taste…” He didn’t finish the thought. Just moaned again and buried his mouth between your legs like he was starving.

You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soaked strands as your hips jerked forward.

His tongue moved slow–dragging through your folds with a precision that made your thighs clamp instinctively around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He just groaned into you, hands tightening their hold to keep you in place, and he began to work you open with steady, fluid movements. Licking. Tasting. Worshiping.

Every pass of his tongue was devastating.

Soft, then firm. A flick, then a slow, sucking kiss. He circled your clit with unbearable care–taking his time, mapping you, learning you. And when he finally sealed his mouth around it and sucked—

You moaned.

Loud.

High-pitched and wrecked, echoing off the tile, lost in the steam.

“F–Fuck–” You gasped, your head hitting the wall behind you.

Sentry grunted at the sound, tongue flicking faster now, more precise. One of his hands left your hip and slid between your thighs, two fingers parting you gently, spreading you open as he devoured you. His mouth moved in time with his hand, tongue teasing, lips sealing, fingers slipping lower–coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with every devastating pass.

You couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The world had narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the weight of your leg trembling over his shoulder as he dragged moan after moan from your throat.

Your hips rolled on instinct.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

And Sentry groaned against you–louder this time–like your pleasure was fueling him. Like your moans were what he needed to keep breathing.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, lips soaked, eyes wild.

“Let go for me,” He whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it.”

Then he buried his face in you again–tongue flicking against your clit in quick strokes, fingers curling, hitting just the right spots, and his entirety finding a rhythm so perfect it felt otherworldly.

And you shattered.

Your release hit hard–sharp, hot, trembling. Your cry echoed off the shower walls as your body seized, thighs trembling, hands gripping his hair like you might fall into the heat of him and never crawl back out. He held you through it–mouth never breaking contact, swallowing every moan, every quake of your body, drinking your pleasure like holy water.

Only when the aftershocks made your hips twitch did he finally ease back to look up at you. His mouth lingered just above your inner thigh, lips parted, breath hot against your trembling skin. You could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through your body, each one fainter than the last, but no less devastating. And Sentry–this god of heat and reverence–was still kneeling between your legs, steady as stone, as though worshiping you wasn’t something he wanted to do.

It was something he was made to do.

His fingers were still inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, coaxing soft, wrecked little gasps from your throat that you couldn’t have swallowed even if you tried.

He kissed your hipbone, tender and warm.

Then he whispered, voice husky and low:

“Give me another.”

Your chest hitched. Your hand was still tangled in his soaked hair, your hips twitching each time his fingers pressed into that unbearable spot. You were so close to the edge already, but his voice—that voice—it broke something in you.

“I want to watch you fall apart again,” He murmured, teeth grazing the hollow where your thigh met your pelvis. “I want to feel you break for me. To taste it. To swallow it down like it was made for me alone.”

You whimpered.

And he didn’t stop.

“I’m not asking for much,” He rasped, lips moving like a hymn across your skin. “Just one more. One more time, and I’ll make it so good for you… you’ll forget there was ever a world outside this.”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes…Okay–God, yes–please.”

That was all he needed.

His eyes burned gold–molten and bright–and then he adjusted.

Slow, precise strength carried your other leg up over his other shoulder. He adjusted with you like it was effortless, like your weight was nothing to him–just something sacred he got to carry. The wall steadied your back. He steadied everything else. You were open to him now, bare and flushed, your thighs trembling over his broad shoulders, your hands braced in his hair like you might fall to pieces if you let go.

And then he devoured you.

There was no teasing this time.

No hesitation.

Just need.

He pulled his fingers out of you, and replaced the emptiness with his mouth. His tongue plunged deep in you before dragging up in a slow, sinful flick that made your entire spine arch. You cried out, head falling back with a sharp thud against the tile, but he didn’t stop. He held you there–hands firm under your ass, keeping your hips tilted up, off the ground, pinned to the wall by nothing but his mouth and the carved weight of his divine strength.

He moaned into you, loudly, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then his tongue found your clit again–slick and swollen and already aching from your last orgasm–and he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

You screamed.

Your hands flew from the wall back into his hair, yanking hard, grinding forward instinctively, trying to press yourself deeper against his face. And he let you.

No–he welcomed it.

He groaned like it fed him, like your hips grinding into his mouth were the prayer he’d been waiting centuries to receive.

His tongue worked faster now, flicking and circling, relentless, worshipful, and when you moaned his name he made a sound you’d never heard from him before.

Unholy. Wrecked. Like he’d just been blessed.

He slipped his fingers back inside you again–curling, thrusting, fucking into that perfect spot while his tongue ravaged your clit, every motion synced like a symphony of sin and praise.

You were crying, now.

Not in pain.

In pure, trembling pleasure.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your body lifting against the wall, barely tethered to earth by the strength of his grip and the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed your clit and you shattered with a sob.

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff–hard, hot, unstoppable.

You screamed his name. Your hips jerked, bucked. You held his head to you like it was life or death, grinding against his mouth as your body convulsed through a release so sharp it made your vision white out.

And Sentry?

He groaned into your core like it was his reward. He kept his mouth on you through every twitch, every moan, every desperate grind. His fingers stayed buried, stroking you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into gasping whimpers and your thighs shook uncontrollably around his ears.

And only then–only then–did he slowly pull back.

He let your legs slide gently from his shoulders, your body trembling as your feet found the tile again, barely standing. But you didn’t have time to breathe before you saw him—

Lips slick. Face soaked in you. Gold eyes burning like wildfire as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body.

And then–

He licked them clean.

One at a time.

Tongue dragging up each finger, slow and deliberate, moaning like you were ambrosia poured straight from the heavens.

“That,” He rasped, licking the last drop from the web between his fingers, “was the most divine fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You stared.

You couldn’t speak.

You could barely stand.

But your body was vibrating with heat and want and disbelief–because no one had ever touched you like that. No one had looked at you like that. Like you were something sacred. Like your pleasure was a commandment.

Sentry rose to his full height, golden eyes flickering with restrained need as he looked down at you–soaked, flushed, trembling, and utterly undone beneath the weight of his devotion.

His breath was ragged. Controlled, but only just.

And then, voice low and rough, he whispered:

“Taste yourself.”

He leaned in–slowly, reverently–and kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched with the echoes of your pleasure, and when your lips parted to meet his, you tasted it. The sweetness. The salt. The heat. You moaned softly into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a low, aching groan that rumbled against your chest like thunder curling behind the clouds.

He deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth with deliberate, hungry care, like he was giving you everything he had—everything you’d poured into him—now returning it in full.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently across your cheek, and the kiss turned hot, messy, intoxicating. You were gasping now, hands pressing against his chest, your body aching with the overwhelming desire to be filled, to be claimed. To be his in every way.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, panting against his lips.

Your voice trembled, desperate and sure.

“Sentry, please…Please take me.”

His breath caught.

“Mark me. Claim me. Make it so I’m officially yours. I want to walk around and make sure people know who I belong to.”

The sound he made was something between a groan and a laugh–a stunned, reverent huff that left his chest trembling.

He looked at you like he was seeing a miracle. Like the universe had answered every prayer he didn’t know he’d made.

“ I will carve my name into the marrow of your soul with every stroke, every breath, every cry of mine that fills you.” His hands slid beneath your thighs, and with effortless, godlike strength, he lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms clinging to his shoulders as your back pressed gently against the slick tile behind you. He held you there like you weighed nothing–like you were made to be in his arms, always.

“You want the world to know who you belong to?” He rasped against your throat, voice molten. “Then I’ll make sure they never question it again.”

His cock, thick and heavy, slid against your slick core–hot and pulsing between your thighs. The sensation made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

“Sentry–”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ll always have you.”

And then–slow, devastating, divine–he pushed inside you.

You cried out, head falling back with a soft, strangled moan as your body stretched to take him. He was massive, thick and perfect, and the way he filled you made stars burst behind your eyes.

He stilled once he was buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy. Your nails dug into his back, thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Move–please, just–fuck, move–”

And he did.

He pulled out slow, just enough to make you clench, and then drove back in with a low, guttural moan that sent a tremor through your spine. His thrusts were deep. Measured. Devastating. Each one stole the air from your lungs, each one carved his presence deeper into your body like a brand.

The sound of your bodies meeting was wet, sinful–echoing in the steamy air with every hard grind of his hips.

“You’re mine,” He growled into your neck, biting gently where your pulse pounded. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pace quickened–thrusts growing hungrier, sharper, your back braced against the tile as he fucked into you with divine rhythm, every stroke hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“You take me so fucking well,” He groaned, his voice breaking, “So perfect, so tight-God, you were made for me–”

Your cries filled the room–his name a mantra on your lips, every gasp an offering, every moan a confession.

You felt your climax building again–fast, furious, overwhelming. Your walls clenched tight around him and he let out a broken moan, his thrusts turning erratic. Each one punched a gasp from your lungs as he slammed up into you, the full weight of his strength braced into your hips, your back pressed tight to the slick tile. You clung to him like gravity had forgotten you existed—your fingers buried in his soaked hair, tugging hard with every roll of your hips to meet his.

And he loved it.

“Fuck—yes,” he groaned, his voice breaking against your throat. “Pull harder—don’t stop—God, I need—”

The sound of your slick heat swallowing him over and over again echoed off the steamy walls, and you could’ve sworn—

You heard it.

A soft sizzle in the air.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the radiant heat pouring off his skin–golden veins pulsing beneath his shoulders, sweat and steam beading off his spine, chest glowing like a furnace that had reached the edge of combustion. It rolled off him in waves. The kind of heat that seared. That warned. That branded.

And then–

He bit you.

His mouth opened wide over the curve of your shoulder, and his teeth sank deep into the tender flesh there–not teasing, not playful, but primal. Claiming.

You screamed.

Not from pain.

From devastation.

Your body seized violently against his, a sob torn from your throat as your climax ripped through you, sharp and fast and absolute. The pain and pleasure twisted together, blooming like fire through your blood. Your muscles locked, your walls clenching down so hard on him that he choked on a groan, arms trembling where he held you.

You could feel it.

His teeth.

Breaking skin.

Not deep enough to destroy–but deep enough to mark. Permanently.

To scar…To mark.

”You’re all mine.” He grunted against your skin, voice shredded with need. You were already shaking, still riding the aftermath of your orgasm when he growled into your throat:

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

A savage thrust.

“I want it dripping down your thighs.”

Another.

Harder.

Deeper.

You moaned so loud your voice cracked, hips bucking helplessly as he thrust into you again, again, again–

And then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard against your hips, and his forehead dropped to your burning shoulder–right over the mark he’d made–as he let out a long, broken moan.

His body shuddered, muscles locking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you with everything he had.

It was endless.

Hot. Heavy. Worshipful.

You could feel him–his release pulsing inside you in thick waves, his breath stuttering against your skin, his hands shaking where they clutched your thighs like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart completely.

And he was falling apart.

You felt it in every twitch of his hips. Every tremble in his chest. Every wrecked, holy sound that escaped his throat as he stayed locked inside you, trembling from the force of his own climax.

“You’re…Fuck–You’re everything,” He rasped, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if I burn for this. I’d burn again. A thousand times. Just to feel you like this.”

You clung to him, panting, overwhelmed, every nerve still humming.

And when his arms finally loosened and he kissed the wound he’d left on your shoulder–soft, gentle, as though to apologize even while owning it–your breath caught all over again.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was immolation.

[jade-zzz]

INTERMEZZO

( platonic batfam x neglected reader)

SUMMARY : The family reels under a rising tide of public backlash. As headlines vilify their pursuit against crime, an unexpected solution is offered: reaching out to Bruce's estranged firstborn, a figure trusted by the people, ultimately forcing the family to confront their past. TRIGGER WARNINGS ! Child Neglect. No other warnings at this moment.

a/n : this is just me spitting out an old idea i had, most likely wont become a series or a p2. but a lot of neglected reader stories start off with them young and uninvolved with the vigilante scene and i was like 'oh yeah, let me make reader a badass crime fighter so they have a chance against these crazies. if this was longer it would eventually continue into batfam becoming yandere but theres none of that here dw Interactions and Reblogs encouraged!

The Batcave was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the Batcomputer’s multiple monitors. A sickly blue light flickered over the dark, cavernous space, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch in every direction. The screens were awash in a flood of headlines, each one a blade dipped in poison. Bruce sat motionless before them, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line, as if the words themselves had weight enough to crush him. The same phrases repeated over and over, like the beat of a relentless drum:

“Vigilante Justice: A Dying Breed?”

“Do vigilantes cause escalation in criminal activity?”

“Batman’s War Against Crime: Our Cost”

Each headline felt like a knife twisting deeper, the rot of public opinion spreading faster than a wildfire. The truth, it seemed, no longer mattered—only the perception.

Jason’s figure loomed above them, leaning casually against the railing of the upper level. His arms were folded tightly, muscles tensed in a way that seemed natural to him. The flickering glow of the monitors cast eerie highlights across his face as he surveyed the headlines with squinted eyes. “I gotta admit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “This one... actually makes a few decent points.”

“Don’t start,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp but tired. He was sitting on the stone steps, his hand running through his hair in a frustrated motion. 

Tim, seated at the foot of the steps with his legs folded cross-legged and a tablet in hand, was already knee-deep in data, scanning through analytics with practiced ease. Empty energy drink cans—some familiar, some strange—littered the ground around him, a quiet testament to his dedication to stay awake for this situation. "They’re using our own cases against us," Tim said, his voice low and serious, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Even if we are the good guys, that only goes so far. Gotham knows we’re willing to work outside the law.”

The sharp clicking of keys echoed in the cave as Barbara’s fingers flew across the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Every keystroke seemed like a futile attempt to dam the rising tide of bad press. But for every article she deleted, two more appeared. "I won’t be able to keep this under wraps for much longer," she said, her voice tight with frustration. “Gotham Gazette ran the story last night, but now it’s on CNN, Forbes, The Times. The commentators are tearing it apart.”

Barbara paused, scanning an article that flickered on her screen. “It’s all cherry-picked data,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re drawing correlations without even attempting to prove causation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But people are desperate for a reason to turn against us.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Bruce’s. “And that’s what they want. Someone to blame.”

From the dark corner near the Batmobile, Damian’s voice cut through the tension like a dagger. He had been silent until now, observing from the shadows, his figure barely visible in the dim light. “They don’t want truth,” he said, his tone cold and detached, almost predatory. “They want a scapegoat. And Father”—his eyes flicked to Bruce, his expression unreadable—“is the easiest target.”

No one dared to disagree.

The Batcave settled into a thick, suffocating silence. The low hum of the machines filled the space, a soft, mechanical murmur that only seemed to highlight the oppressive quiet. From the cavernous walls, water dripped steadily, each drop a tiny echo in the vast emptiness. Above them, the city pulsed with life—its towering lights burning bright against the ink-black sky. Below, however, the family who had sworn to protect it sat, bound together by blood, sweat, and the weight of their shared past, in a silence heavier than lead, an unspoken acknowledgment of something that had shifted irrevocably.

Bruce stepped away from the console, his movements slow and deliberate. He stood for a moment, staring at the glowing screens before him, his face drawn, his expression unreadable. “We’ve survived worse.” His voice, when it came, was low—raspy, like it had been dragged through the years with him. Yet there was something different now. This wasn’t just another crisis. It wasn’t just the press or another criminal on the streets. This hit too close to home. This was a reminder of his very beginning, of the fragile thread that connected him to the man he had once been.

‘Armed robbery, double homicide, has a taste for the theatrical, like you.’ The words Jim Gordon had spoken to him long ago echoed in his mind, the memory of that first case—a playing card left behind, like a message that would haunt him forever.

Barbara’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. “But we haven’t mended worse,” she said, her gaze not leaving the screen in front of her. “This one’s different. People used to think of us as the lesser evil. Now, they’re starting to wonder if we’re just another form of crime.” The words struck Bruce harder than he cared to admit. She wasn’t wrong. In their attempt to be Gotham’s saviors, they had come to embody something far darker in the eyes of the public. They had always lived in the shadows, but now those shadows were threatening to swallow them whole.

Alfred, standing near the table with a tray of untouched tea—its warm fragrance drifting through the room—cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "Perhaps what’s needed," he said carefully, his voice measured, "is not another war fought in the shadows, but a reminder that others still stand with you."

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, his gaze narrowing, as if weighing the butler’s words. The others followed suit, their expressions unreadable, waiting for Alfred to elaborate.

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce’s voice was edged with uncertainty, something he rarely allowed to show.

The butler gave a small, measured nod, his hands setting the tray down with the practiced grace of someone who had spent decades in the service of this family. "I believe, Master Wayne, that what the people need is reassurance. A bridge. Someone they trust. A voice they still believe in."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "There’s not exactly a waiting list of pro-vigilante influencers out there, Alf."

“On the contrary,” Alfred said, a quiet confidence in his tone. "There is one. Someone still admired by the people. A symbol of protection, not fear. They’ve worked openly with first responders, collaborated with officials, stayed in the public’s good graces and operated within the law..."

Tim blinked, his mind struggling to process the thought. “In Gotham?”

Dick’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “Wait… you’re talking about—?”

Bruce’s expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. But the question hung in the air, unspoken, like an invisible thread tugging at the edges of his resolve.

Alfred’s lips curled into a faint, wistful smile, his voice gentle as he spoke again, almost as if recalling a cherished memory. “Yes. I am referring to your firstborn child, Master Wayne.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a sudden detonation of shock and disbelief that rocked the room. Damian froze mid-step. Tim and Jason exchanged a glance, eyes wide with uncertainty. Barbara shifted in her chair, almost as if waiting for someone to confirm that she hadn’t misheard. Dick’s throat tightened, a knot of guilt coiling in his chest. The past was a fragile thing, fragile enough that sometimes it felt better to pretend it didn’t exist. But in moments like this, the weight of regret bore down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into a well of emotion he had long since tried to forget.

Bruce remained still, frozen, his gaze distant. "They haven't been involved in family matters like this for years..." His voice trailed off, thick with the unspoken history between them. The bitterness in his words wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.

“And yet,” Alfred countered, his voice soft but unyielding, “they have remained exactly what this city needed from us.”

A long, heavy pause lingered in the room. The truth was that Bruce had not heard from them in years—not since they had left everything behind at eighteen, vanishing from the world they had known. Alfred had maintained a fragile connection, sending occasional messages through a burner phone, reminding Bruce of their existence whenever he saw their exploits on the news, despite his stubbornness to avoid all topics linked to them. But how long had it been since any of the family had tried to reach out? How long since anyone had even bothered to speak to them, beyond the occasional fleeting word, a distant acknowledgment of someone they once knew?

“People trust them,” Alfred continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “They believe in their methods. Their clarity. Their distance from... all of this.” He gestured around the cave, to the monitors, to the chaos, to the shadows. “If there’s anyone who could speak to your cause and be heard, it would be them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They wouldn’t want to be dragged back into this.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, his voice calm, “but perhaps they deserve the choice. After all, they didn’t walk away without cause.”

Another silence fell, heavy with the weight of years and regrets left unspoken. Bruce’s mind churned, searching for answers in the fragmented memories of a younger version of himself. He tried to picture their face, but the years had stolen the details—just a pair of small eyes peering up at him from behind Alfred’s legs when they had first arrived at Wayne Manor. 

“It might be nice,” Alfred added softly, almost as an afterthought, “to have them on your side again.”

A/N: feeling devious hinting towards something happening in the past but not mentioning it,, meanwhile reader is sitting on their sofa, watching the news as their prayers for their families downfall worked

[hearts4hughes]

It’s the middle of the night rn but I have to request this before I forget it.

Exbf!Rafe where reader forgot or never got around to removing Rafe from their emergency contact list. And one day the police or hospital call Rafe about reader being in an accident of some sort.

he doesn’t recognize the number at first. some 252 string of digits that buzzes across his screen right as he’s halfway through a voicemail he’ll never send you. he almost lets it ring out—almost.

but something—gut or god or just bad luck—makes him swipe. “yeah?” he answers, short, distracted, a little annoyed like usual. then someone says your name.

~

the hospital is white in all the wrong ways. fluorescent and echoing, two things rafe hates. it smells like something between bleach and breathlessness. like someone died here last night and they’re still trying to scrub the memory out of the tiles.

he’s already pacing when the nurse finally finds him. pale blue scrubs and a clipboard tucked against her ribs like a shield. “you’re rafe cameron?”

he turns. “yeah.”

“you’re still listed as her emergency contact. we tried calling someone else but she didn’t have anyone else listed.”

something shifts behind his ribs. a pinch, a pull. his jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just nods once like that makes it okay. like he didn’t spend the last six months trying to not be that person for you anymore.

“she was in a car accident,” the nurse continues, voice dipping gentle. “minor injuries, mostly bruising and a mild concussion. but she hit her head. we’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

rafe chews on his fingernails hard enough to feel a pinch. he drops his hand like its venomous and is already moving towards your room.

you’re asleep when he finds you. curled up on your side in a way that makes you look impossibly small, like a rewind version of yourself— the version he loved first.

your wrist is wrapped. your lip’s a little swollen. the iv hums soft and steady in your arm. he stands there like he’s on the outside of a life he wasn’t supposed to walk back into.

he shouldn’t be here. but you called him, didn’t you? no, you didn’t, your phone did. because you forgot or never got around to removing him. because some stupid form still says he’s the one they should call when everything goes to hell. and for some reason, he showed up anyway.

“fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair, staring at the slow rise and fall of your chest. “you don’t even want me here.”

then you shift and begin to stir. you blink hazily in the dim light, eyes swollen and unfocused, but they find him. even now—months and many tears later. “…rafe?”

his name. a ghost in your throat. he exhales. almost flinches. “yeah. it’s me.”

“what are you doing here?”

there’s a pause.

“apparently,” he says, voice quieter now, rough around the edges, “you still think i’m the one who’ll come.”

you don’t say anything. he doesn’t move to sit down. just stays by the door like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“i forgot,” you admit, swallowing hard. “i didn’t mean to still have you listed.”

he nods slowly. he expected that, but it hurts the same either way. “yeah,” he says. “but i came anyway.”

this time, you don’t say anything. you just blink at him. glassy-eyed and something slips through the cracks of your voice when you whisper, “thank you.”

he looks at you for a long time. longer than he should. then he drags the chair closer to your bed. sits in it like it’s always belonged to him. elbows on knees and his jaw set.

“go back to sleep,” he mutters, eyes still on your face. “i’ll be here.” just for tonight. just until they say you’re okay. just until you forget him again.

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[anon-sect]

Bryan woke up the next morning. He went to the spare bedroom in the three-bedroom apartment he shared with his roommate, Paul. His brother had come to visit him for a few days. Today was his last day before he was to catch a flight back home. He had planned a lot on the last day before he would have to drive him to the airport for his flight back home.

Bryan went into the guest bedroom but found his brother's things missing and the bed made up. He looked outside and didn't see him out there at all. He wondered where his brother could be. He came into the kitchen to see Paul standing there in just his underwear and socks.

"Hey, have you seen my brother? His stuff isn't in the guest bedroom and the bed is made up." Bryan asked Paul.

"Oh, I saw him early this morning. He took a taxi to the airport. He said it was an emergency." Paul said.

"Strange that he would not wake me up to drive him there, especially since it was an emergency." Bryan paused. "Are you really sure about that?" He asked him. He noticed his brother was staring at his roommate last night when he wasn't looking. He was aware that his brother was gay, but that never bothered him.

"Yeah, I am sure. He said he will call you later once he gets back home." Paul paused. "I am sure things are fine. You shouldn't worry." He added

"I am really concerned that he would leave without telling me." Bryan spoke, still wondering what the emergency could be since his flight wasn't due to leave till tomorrow.

"I am sure your brother is doing fine. You will probably hear back from him soon." Paul said as he walked back to his room. When he closed his door, he had a devious smile on his face.

Devin was powerless to let his brother know where he was. Paul and he had a little fun once Bryan had gone to bed. Paul had enjoyed him so much that he didn't want him to leave. He actually wanted to keep him around. Since that wasn't possible, he was turned into underwear. No matter how hard he tried, Bryan didn't hear a single plea for help.

"Your brother will never know what happened to you, my underwear. This way I get to keep you around and no one will know where you are." Paul whispered down to his underwear as laid down on his bed to watch TV.

Bryan hoped he would hear from Devin soon. He was concerned.

[goyardgoyangi]

˚₊‧꒰ა lifeguard! sukuna x local beachgoer reader

# goyangi's fav tropes: heatwave induced horny, enemies-to-lovers energy, flirts to provoke, public teasing while on duty, fingers between your thighs under your towel, dragging you into the lifeguard tower during break, calling you a slut with his mouth on your chest, tongue on your sunscreen-slick skin, jealousy sex after some other guy helps with your umbrella, biting the strap marks of your bikini into your shoulders

part of 𐙚 goyardgoyangi's summer festa!! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

He’s a problem.

That’s what you decide on day four of watching him peel off his shirt at the edge of the lifeguard tower, saltwater dripping down the grooves of his abdomen like he’s the center page of a summer fantasy you never asked to have. He’s tall, arrogant, and barely looks at anyone— until you.

The first time it happened, you thought it was a coincidence. A flick of his dark, brooding gaze in your direction as you sprawled on your towel, book resting open on your stomach. But then it kept happening. His sunglasses would dip just enough to peek over them.

His mouth would quirk when you caught him.

And then came the remarks.

“You actually know how to swim, or just tan all day?” he’ll ask, pausing by your chair with a dripping rescue float over his shoulder and an arrogant grin like he already knows the answer.

You roll your eyes. “I’d drown on purpose if it meant you’d shut up for five minutes.”

He snorts. “Cute. Shame I’d have to save you anyway.”

The game started there. No rules. No one keeping score. Just the constant push-pull: your flippant smirks, his growled comebacks, the unspoken dare to "do something" each time you caught the other staring too long.

But today? You’re ignoring him.

Not intentionally at first. You’re just sun-drunk, halfway through a steamy romance novel, and too lazy to do anything more than stretch and sip your watered-down lemonade.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and the breeze is soft, your limbs heavy with heat. You haven’t looked up at the lifeguard tower in over an hour.

What you don’t see him climb down.

Cold drips onto your bare stomach, the shock of it making you flinch. An ice cream cone, already half-melted, lands squarely in your lap. Vanilla seeps between the curve of your thighs and your towel, sticky and sweet.

Your book slides off your chest.

You blink up through your sunglasses.

Sukuna stands above you, shirtless, tattooed, unapologetic. Arms crossed like he’s proud of himself, one brow lifted in challenge.

“Gonna pretend you didn’t notice me all afternoon?”

You stretch slow, lazily, like a cat in the sun. “Wasn’t pretending,” you murmur, brushing a drip of ice cream off your stomach with your pinky. “I didn’t notice you.”

His jaw flexes.

You pick up the cone with delicate fingers, a small smile tugging at your lips. The vanilla’s warm now, melting fast under the sun— but you don’t care. You bring it to your mouth and let your tongue swirl around the tip, slow and deliberate, catching the drip before it reaches your knuckle.

His silence is deafening.

You take another lazy lick, lips wrapping around the ice cream with a soft sound, and smile when you see the flicker in his expression, tight jaw, blown pupils, hands twitching at his sides like he’s thinking very un-lifeguard-like thoughts.

“Didn’t peg you for the wasteful type,” you murmur. “That was six bucks’ worth of sugar you just dumped on my bikini.”

His eyes trail down your body, lingering where the ice cream has started to run between your breasts. “Didn’t peg you for the type who’d lick it up so damn slow.”

You tilt your head. “Worried someone’s watching?” you whisper, voice syrupy sweet. “Or do you just wish it was your fingers instead?”

Sukuna doesn’t answer. He just stares, stares like he’s calculating the exact amount of self-control he still has left.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” you purr, lips glossy with vanilla, tongue darting out one last time to clean the edge of the cone. “You always do this for beachgoers? Or am I just special?”

He finally steps closer, one hand braced against the back of your chair, dipping down until his mouth is beside your ear.

“Special?” he rasps. “Nah. You’re just a fucking menace.”

His breath is hot. It brushes over your jaw, your collarbone, makes goosebumps rise under sun-warmed skin.

And just like that, he turns and stalks off to get lunch, the line of his back disappearing behind the tower.

You take another bite of the melting ice cream, smug as hell.

But you’re not the type to let things go easily, so you decide to find him during his break.

Sukuna's crouched behind the tower, cigarette lit between his fingers, smoke curling through the sticky summer air. His red uniform shorts hang low on his hips, a towel tossed over one shoulder, muscles flexing as he exhales.

You close the distance between you anyway, the air thick with the smell of salt and smoke and sunscreen. You’re still holding the half-melted cone, dripping down your fingers.

He notices.

“Messy girl,” he mutters, flicking the cigarette away. “C’mere.”

You don’t question it. You step in close until your knees bump his. He grabs your wrist, licks the melted vanilla from your skin slow and deliberate. His tongue is hot and wet and dirty, curling between your fingers before his teeth scrape your palm.

Your breath catches. “Fuck��”

Sukuna grins. “Thought that’d shut you up.”

You shove at his chest (he’s burning under your palms) and he grabs your hips, dragging you forward until you’re straddling one of his thighs, back pressed to the wood of the tower. His hands snake up under your towel, fingers skimming the sides of your bikini.

“You gonna be a sweetheart and stay quiet?” he murmurs.

“In public?” you whisper, heart thudding.

He chuckles, low and rough. “Tower blocks most of it. And I’ve got a few minutes.”

You bite your lip, arousal pooling fast as his fingers dip lower.

“You get off pissing me off,” he says, pressing a hand between your thighs, fabric dampening instantly under his touch. “Walking around like this, distracting me all shift, bending over in front of the water cooler—”

“I didn’t—”

“Liar.” He slips a finger beneath your bikini, finds your clit, rubs once, hard and slow.

You gasp, hips twitching.

“I’m working, and you’re over there moaning in your chair, legs all spread while you read some shitty romance novel.”

“It’s not shitty,” you whimper.

He laughs into your neck. “You’re right. It’s funny. Bet the guy in the book doesn’t even finger her under a towel behind a lifeguard tower.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Probably both.

But then he slides two fingers into you, curls them just right, and all you can do is gasp his name.

“Look at you,” he groans, pressing his mouth to your collarbone “Fucking soaked. Could feel it before I even touched you.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging into his sun-warm skin as your hips roll into his hand. The slick sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you is sinful in the quiet.

Two fingers curl deep, knuckles slick as he fucks them into you slow, deliberate, messy. The wet sound of it is obscene in the hush between the dunes, drowned only by the crash of waves and your ragged, bitten-back whimpers.

“You act like you hate me,” he murmurs, lips dragging over your shoulder. “But your pussy says otherwise.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, but it’s shaky, broken, way too close to a moan.

He chuckles, thumb pressing into your clit with a teasing pressure that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“You wish,” he mutters. “But you’ll take this instead.”

He fingers you deeper, faster now, until your legs tremble and your stomach coils tight. You can’t stop the little gasps that escape, even when you slap a hand over your mouth.

He grabs your chin with his free hand, tilting your face toward him. His eyes are half-lidded, blown with lust under the shade.

“No hiding. Let me hear you.”

“Sukuna—”

“Say it.”

“Y-Your fingers, god— they feel so fucking—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he snarls, pressing his forehead to yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “I know. You were soaked before I even touched you. Sat there for hours reading your stupid little book, legs open, pretending I didn’t exist, and all the while you were thinking about this, weren’t you?”

You shudder. “Maybe.”

He grins. “Maybe, huh?”

His hand moves faster. Deeper. The squelch of your cunt around his fingers grows wetter, louder. He’s close, so fucking close, his breath hitching every time you tighten around him.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, teeth grazing your neck. “Be a sweetheart for me, yeah? Or do I have to make you cry for it?”

“Suku, fuck—”

Your orgasm hits hard. You clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound, thighs trembling around his. He makes rides it out with a smug look in his eyes, fingers pumping slowly until your hips start to twitch.

When he finally pulls back, he licks his fingers clean. “Tastes better than the ice cream.”

You stare at him, dazed, bikini bottoms soaked and bunched around your thighs. Your breath catches, chest still fluttering from aftershocks, and you barely manage the words:

“You’re disgusting.”

You expect him to laugh. Maybe throw another smartass comeback, flick your thigh and walk off cocky.

But instead—

His eyes flash. And then he’s on his knees.

“What are you—” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.

He shoves your towel to the sand, grabs your thighs with both hands, and drags you to the bottom of the tower like he’s starving. Spreads you open like you belong to him.

“You think that was disgusting?” he rasps, hot breath fanning over your folds. “Then you’re gonna fucking hate what I do next.”

His mouth is on you before you can even gasp.

Tongue flat and filthy, he licks you up from the base of your cunt to your clit, slow and deep, moaning into the taste like he’s already addicted. Your back arches, hands flying to his hair— fuck, it’s soft, and fuck, he’s good at this.

Too good.

“S-Sukuna— fuck, oh my god—”

He groans again when you say his name like that, mouth never leaving your pussy. His tongue devours you like he’s doing it out of spite, flicking and flattening, sucking your clit just to hear your breath stutter.

And then, without warning, his hips jerk.

He ruts against the sand, grinding into his own shorts, chasing friction like he’s possessed. You hear the quiet, wet sound of it— feel the twitch in his shoulders, the tension in his grip.

“Sukuna,” you gasp, tugging his hair, thighs trembling around his ears, “are you— are you fucking cumming?”

He groans into your cunt, hips still rocking, and you realize— he is.

His cock twitches in his shorts, his release hot and sticky against the fabric, soaking through his red swim trunks as he moans into your pussy, like getting you off pushed him over the edge too.

You’re soaked, overstimulated, and dripping down his face— and he’s licking all of it up like it’s his fucking job.

When he finally pulls back, lips glossy, chest still heaving, he smirks up at you.

“Fuck, sweetheart” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you taste like a fucking dream.”

You’re speechless, blinking at him as he stands, abs tense beneath the sheen of sweat and come still staining the front of his shorts.

He runs the back of his hand across his mouth, licking what’s left off his fingers.

“Still think I’m disgusting?” he smugly teases.

You shift, legs wobbling as you slide off the towel, reaching for him, half-lidded eyes dragging down the tight stretch of his stomach to where his cock twitches beneath his shorts.

“I want it,” you murmur, voice hoarse, ruined. “I want your dick, Sukuna.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and wicked.

“Yeah?” he mutters, tilting his head. “You want me to fuck you right here, sweetheart?”

You nod without shame, desperate, still dripping from his mouth, his fingers, his words. You grip his hips, fingers slipping under the band of his shorts. “Please. I want you inside me.”

His eyes flick to the beach, still empty behind the tower, still just the two of you.

For a second, you think he’ll give it to you.

You think he’ll finally snap and slam you against the wall, fuck you until you can’t remember your name. Your body leans into him, already ready, already begging.

But then—

“Nuh uh,” he says, voice mocking, and grabs your waist.

He pulls you off his lap with an infuriating ease, like you weigh nothing, like he didn’t just come in his fucking shorts over how you tasted.

“Fix your towel.” He smirks. “Break’s over.”

You gape at him. “Are you kidding—?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” as he adjusts himself lazily, arms stretching overhead like he isn’t half-hard and smug as fuck. “You want my cock, sweetheart? Then next time, don’t ignore me all afternoon.”

You start to pull your towel down, muttering under your breath, flushed from arousal and frustration.

But just before he walks off, he bends low again, lips brushing your ear.

“Think about me while you clean up,” he says. “And if you really want it…”

He lets his hand trail over your stomach, just above your waistband.

“…come ask nicely next time.”

[nekonaps0]

Excuse me… SIR?! Pt3

✦part1 part2

✦characters: first years

✦gn!reader

✦the boys suddenly cracked a naughty, suggestive joke

✦you guys really loved the “You are NAUGHTY!!” Series so what if we switch it up and the boys gonna surprise you this time!?👀

Ace Trappola

You were sitting together on the couch in ramshackle, and you reached for the popcorn in his lap. His voice was calm, smug even:

“Careful where you reach, babe. Unless you’re trying to grab something other than popcorn.”

You freeze. Arm extended. Soul leaving your body.

“Ace! WTF?!”

He grins wide, clearly loving the way your face goes up in flames.

“What? Can’t a guy have a little fun? You're the one digging around down there~”

You throw a cushion at him. He cackles and dodges.

“You are unbelievable!”

“Aw, come on, It was a joke! You’re cute when you’re all shy like that. I should say stuff like this more often.”

Help. He will say worse next time!!

Deuce Spade

You were patching up a small scrape on his arm, being all sweet and gentle, when he accidentally dropped this line:

“I think I’m developing a condition. Every time you touch me, my heart does… weird things. Like—like I’m overheating. Down there.”

You paused. He paused.

“W-WAIT! NOT—NOT LIKE THAT—!! I MEANT—MY STOMACH—NO—MY LEGS—WAIT—!!”

You stared in shock. He was melting. Blue hair fluffing up in panic.

“I-I’m not trying to be weird I SWEAR!!”

You burst into laughter, and he just buried his face in his hands.

“Please forget I said that. Or kill me. Either works.”

Jack Howl

You were play-wrestling with him, something you always did, until this time he pinned you down and said, dead serious:

“You keep letting me win like that and I’m gonna start thinking you like being underneath me.”

BOOM.

Silence. You stared at him, wide-eyed. He blinked.

“...What?”

You just kept staring.

“Wait. Did that sound… oh. Oh.”

He stood up immediately, face red, ears flattened in embarrassment.

“That came out wrong. I meant in a battle sense—! I wasn’t—!!”

You started laughing.

He groaned and covered his face.

“Stop laughing—! I didn’t mean it like that!!”

Now you’re both flustered idiots.

Epel Felmier

You were helping him fix his uniform collar after he’d come back from spelldrive training, all windblown and flushed. He grumbled, face pink but still trying to act cool.

“You’re fussin’ over me like we are married…”

You laughed. “Well, someone’s gotta take care of you.”

Then he smirked. That dangerous, Epel-is-up-to-something smirk.

“If I say I want a reward for lettin’ you baby me… would you sit in my lap or would you ride it?”

You choked.

“EPEL! WHAT THE HELL?!”

He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

“Heh~ I knew I’d get that look outta you. Who’s blushin’ now, huh?”

You tried to scold him, but he was too proud of himself.

Sebek Zigvolt

You were helping him clean his sword when you jokingly called him your “knight in shining armor.” He turned dead serious, chest puffed with pride, and declared:

“If I were truly your knight, then I would ravish you like in the human romance stories!! Wait—NO—I MEANT—!!”

You choked.

“RAVISH?!!”

Sebek turned red all the way to his neck. He started waving his arms like a malfunctioning NPC.

“I meant protect!! Protect!! CURSE THESE HUMAN WORDS!!”

Lilia was laughing so hard in the background you could hear it through the walls. You were wheezing. Sebek was panicking.

“DISREGARD THAT STATEMENT! I AM STILL A CHASTE AND LOYAL KNIGHT!!”

He will never live it down. You’ll quote it back to him every time he tries to scold you.

..............................................................................................................................

[barnesonly]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Lust ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ──

professor!bucky barnes x reader

summary: You’re a literature student. He’s your English professor — brilliant, composed, and entirely off-limits. But the more you write, the more he notices you. And what begins as admiration quietly unravels into something far more dangerous.

word count: 10,8k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, mutual desperation, age gap, dirty talk, praising kink, dry humping, PiV, breeding, unprotected sex.

Part 3 | Previous Part

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The weight of the day had just… pulled you under. No dreams. Just heavy, exhausted stillness.

And then you heard it. A sharp clink. The soft creak of a window hinge. The smell of smoke.

You stirred, blinking into the dim blue-gray of your dorm room. It was late. The kind of late where the campus was silent and the world outside felt far away.

A small shape sat perched on the windowsill—bare legs, messy bun, oversized hoodie. Cigarette pinched between her fingers, glowing faintly in the dark.

Your roommate—Sarah.

She turned her head a little when she heard you shift, eyes flicking over her shoulder.

“Shit,” she whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You pushed the blanket off slowly and sat up, rubbing your face.

“S’okay.”

You crossed the room barefoot, the floor cold beneath your soles, and slid down next to her on the wide sill. The breeze curled in gentle through the cracked glass—cool and quiet.

She held out the cigarette without a word.

You hesitated for a beat. Then took it.

You didn’t smoke. But tonight? You didn’t want to think. Or explain. Or pretend like everything was fine.

You brought it to your lips. The burn was harsh—your eyes watered slightly—but it steadied something in your chest. Anchored you.

Sarah let out a breath, watching the smoke trail disappear.

“That boy again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You stared out into the dark—the golden halo of the nearest streetlamp, the way the trees moved like shadows against the library wall.

Then you said, softly, “Yeah.”

Sarah tilted her head and looked at you, almost scanning your expression. She knew something was wrong. She always did.

There was something about the way you were between the lectures. Quiet and pink in the cheeks. Or the way you sat curled on your bed some nights, rereading something on your phone with your mouth pressed into a tight line.

Sarah flicked her ash into an old mug by the window.

“You look sad,” she said.

You let out a breath. Something too close to a laugh.

“I feel sad.”

She didn’t push. Didn’t offer advice. Just bumped her shoulder gently against yours.

“That bad?”

You stared down at the cigarette between your fingers. At the way your nails trembled just slightly.

“It’s just… complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” she said, smiling without teeth.

You didn’t answer. The silence between you filled the room, warm and human. A soft place to land.

Sarah leaned her head back against the frame, her hair a messy halo in the glow of the streetlamp.

“Well,” she said after a pause, exhaling a long breath of smoke, “whoever he is—he’s clearly got you fucked up.”

You let out a tiny laugh through your nose. It came out brittle.

Sarah turned to look at you, her gaze softer than usual. Not prying. Just… present.

“You want to talk about it?”

You hesitated. Shook your head.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” she shrugged. “But still. Sometimes it helps to say it out loud. Even if it’s just—‘he’s an asshole’ or ‘I’m in too deep’ or ‘I think I fucked up.’”

She glanced sideways. “Or all three.”

You smiled, faintly. The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers.

“It’s not just about him,” you murmured. “It’s me, too. I let it happen. I keep letting it.”

Sarah tilted her head, flicking ash lazily into the mug.

“Letting something happen doesn’t mean it’s your fault. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

You blinked at her, surprised.

She shrugged again. “I mean… unless he’s married or forty-five or something…” She scrunched her brows. „Well, you did mention he’s older… in that case—I take it back.”

You choked on a laugh and quickly looked away, coughing. You shook your head, trying to play it off, but the look on her face said she wasn’t going to press. Just file it away and let it hang between you, unspoken.

After a few seconds, she nudged your knee with hers.

“Hey. You wanna go to that place tomorrow? The one with the waffles and the weird fake plants?”

You looked at her, startled. “The café by the bookstore?”

“Yeah,” she said, blowing out one last drag. “Weird vibes. Pretty lighting. Might be good for your moody writer spiral.”

You snorted, the weight in your chest easing slightly.

“Sure.”

“Cool.” She stubbed the cigarette out and yawned, stretching. “We’ll romanticize the hell out of our sad-girl bullshit.” She smiled then thought for a moment. „And maybe later we can go to some bar… Or a club. First round on me.”

You sighed and shook your head.

„Come on! It’s weekend. I’m not gonna let you sit here and cry through it. You need some fun.”

She stood, ruffling your hair as she passed.

“Night, lover girl.”

You rolled your eyes, but it stayed with you.

Lover girl.

You sat by the window a moment longer, the breeze brushing your skin, the faint throb of too many feelings caught in your throat.

———

The bar was too loud, too warm, too much—but it didn’t matter.

You were drunk.

Like, really drunk.

Sarah was still laughing at something a guy at the bar had said—some failed pickup line that barely registered in your brain. You’d been nursing your drink too long, straw limp and lipstick-smeared, ice half-melted, but your blood was buzzing and your cheeks were flushed and for once, you didn’t want to think about him.

But of course you did.

Because no matter how loud the music got, how sweet the alcohol tasted, how many jokes Sarah whispered in your ear—you still felt it. Him. His voice, his hands, his goddamn forehead kiss lingering like a brand on your skin.

You picked out your phone from the pocket. You unlocked it and stared at your texts.

His number.

That thread.

You knew you shouldn’t.

You really shouldn’t.

But your fingers were already typing.

You | 11:04PM

you’re an asshole, yk that?

Sent.

The moment it delivered, your stomach dropped.

Oh god.

No.

No no no no no.

You threw the phone face-down on the sticky tabletop and buried your face in your hands.

Sarah slid back into the booth beside you with a tray of fries, looking smug and slightly out of breath.

“Okay, he totally thinks I’m into him, but I did get us free fries, so that’s a win. What’s your deal over here, huh?”

You looked up, eyes wide and horrified. “I just texted him.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “The guy?”

You nodded, lips parted. “I called him an asshole.”

She cackled. “Is he?”

“…I don’t know.”

You did, though.

He wasn’t. Not really.

You just felt small and stupid and messy and… used.

And the worst part? You still wanted him.

Sarah reached over and stole your phone before you could stop her, squinting at the screen.

“Oh shit.”

You slapped your hand over your mouth.

“Okay, you’re panicking,” she said. “Which is normal. But you’re also drunk and hot, which means you’re allowed to say stupid shit.”

“I called him an asshole, Sarah—”

“You texted him,” she corrected. “That’s, like, one level above a drunk voicemail. You’re safe. Probably.”

You groaned and slumped down in the booth.

Your phone buzzed and you two froze.

„Is that him?” Sarah whispered.

You slowly—slowly—picked it up and flipped the phone over. Your heart beat so hard you could barely breathe. You stared at the screen.

One new message. From him. You tapped it open with shaking fingers.

James | 11:07PM

Are you safe?

That was it.

No questions, no scolding, no confusion—just that.

Are you safe.

Not What the hell?

Not Don’t text me like that.

Not even Are you insane?

Just… concern.

And god, that made it worse.

You bit your lip, throat tightening. The tears that had been sitting quietly behind your eyes all night started to rise.

Sarah peered over. “Well? What’d he say?”

You just turned the screen toward her.

Her face softened. “Damn.”

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered. “I don’t think he’s—”

“You don’t have to explain it to me.”

“I think I’m just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I’m scared he only wants me for one thing. And I hate that I still want him anyway.”

Sarah nodded. No teasing this time. “Then tell him that. Or don’t. But either way—you’re not crazy.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You didn’t want to lie.

You didn’t want to push him away.

But you also didn’t want to fall any deeper without knowing if there was something real underneath it all.

So finally, you typed:

You | 11:09PM

yeah. i’m safe. just drunk and stupid. i’m sorry.

Send.

You stared at it.

You didn’t expect him to reply. Not tonight, not really but thirty seconds later, your screen lit up again.

James | 11:09PM

You’re not stupid. And you don’t have to apologize to me.

Then another one.

James | 11:09PM

Text me when you’re home, alright?

Your chest ached.

And maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the lights. Maybe it was just the part of you that was hopelessly, stupidly his. But you smiled. Just a little and whispered to yourself, “Okay.”

———

You made it back to your dorm a little past 1 a.m.—still swaying slightly from the drinks, your coat wrapped too tightly around you, cheeks flushed from the night air and the alcohol and everything unsaid.

Sarah kicked her shoes off and collapsed face-first into her bed with a groan.

“Dead,” she mumbled.

You laughed softly. “You’re literally the one who made me do tequila shots.”

A muffled, traitorous noise from her pillow. “Peer pressure builds character.”

You didn’t answer. Just toed your boots off, peeled off your jeans, and climbed into your bed. The room was quiet now, dark, warm. The buzz of everything—noise, music, doubt—was finally fading.

You rolled over and reached for your phone. You stared at it for a second. Your heart fluttered. Just a little. Then you typed:

You | 1:11AM

i’m home.

You hesitated then added—

You | 1:11AM

still a little drunk. but safe. promise.

Send.

You tucked the phone against your chest and turned onto your side, watching the ceiling blur in the dark. You didn’t expect him to reply immediately.

But he did. Not even a full minute later.

James | 1:11AM

Thank you for letting me know.

Get some rest, sweetheart.

You read it again.

And again.

Your fingers hovered. Then slowly, quietly, you typed another message.

You | 1:12AM

goodnight, james.

Send.

You didn’t expect anything else after that but then, one last message blinked onto the screen:

James | 11:12AM

Goodnight, my girl.

Your heart stuttered. You set the phone down. Face buried into the pillow. A quiet, breathless kind of ache blooming in your chest.

His girl.

———

You woke slowly.

The kind of slow that came after a night of too much alcohol and too many feelings. Your mouth was dry. Your head was a little fuzzy. But the ache in your chest—the one that had been gnawing at you—was softer somehow. Not gone. Just quieter.

The sunlight filtered through the blinds, golden and gentle, casting long lines across the room.

Sarah was still out cold in her bed, snoring softly into her pillow, hair tangled around her face. You smiled faintly.

You turned over and reached for your phone, expecting the usual cluster of unread texts or maybe a blurry photo or two from the bar.

But there was just one message waiting for you.

From him. Sent sometime early this morning—maybe while you were still curled into yourself, still half-spinning in the dark.

James | 8:37AM

Morning. Are you okay?

You blinked down at the screen, lips parted slightly. The warmth in your chest spread, slow and sticky and sweet. He didn’t have to text. He could’ve chalked it all up to drunken nonsense, pretended nothing had happened.

But he didn’t.

He asked.

You stared at the message for a long moment. Then, fingers a little hesitant, you typed:

You | 11:33AM

yeah. just… had a weird night.

You hovered for a second, then added—

You | 1:33AM

thank you for checking in.

Your phone stayed in your hand. You didn’t expect a quick reply—it was the weekend—but you couldn’t help it.

You watched the screen anyway. Time time it didn’t feel pathetic. Just… honest. Just human.

After nearly ten minutes the phone buzzed in your hand, and your breath caught before you even looked.

James | 11:42AM

You’ve been off lately. I asked you ’bout it and you said you were okay, told me I didn’t do anything wrong. And now you’re sending me a message in the middle of the night calling me an asshole.

Then another buzz.

James | 11:42AM

I know you were drunk but I am worried, sweetheart.

There it was again.

That word.

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t angry. He still wasn’t scolding you. If anything, he sounded… tired. Maybe a little hurt. But mostly—he was just worried.

Your fingers hovered over your screen, unsure how to even begin to explain the ache that had been pulling at you lately. The doubt, the fear, the way you couldn’t stop wondering if it was all just sex to him.

But he was the one who reached out. Who noticed. And he called you sweetheart. Maybe… maybe he did care.

You ran a hand over your face.

Get yourself together.

You hesitated, then started typing with trembling thumbs.

You | 11:45AM

I’m sorry. It was just a stupid drunk thing. I didn’t mean it. I was just being dumb. Please don’t worry about it.

You stared at the message for a long moment before hitting send. The read receipt appeared almost immediately. Then came his reply.

James | 11:45AM

We’ll talk about it in person, okay?

Your stomach flipped.

Because you knew what that meant.

He wasn’t mad—at least, not in the way that scared you. But he wasn’t brushing it off either. He wanted to see you. Look you in the eyes. Have a real conversation.

And you didn’t even know what you were supposed to say to him. Part of you was angry, the other so deeply in love you weren’t even sure what you’re doing. What you should do.

But maybe he was right. Maybe it’d be the best to finally talk about it.

———

The monday lecture ended like all the others—pages rustling, backpacks zipping, quiet chatter fading as students filed out one by one. You stayed in your seat, pretending to gather your things slowly, pretending not to notice how he hadn’t even looked at you once during the entire hour.

But when the last student slipped out the door and it clicked shut behind them, you felt him approach.

“Can we talk?” James’s voice was low, careful. “About the message you sent me.”

You let out a quiet breath, still focused on stuffing your notebook into your bag. “It’s nothing. Really. I told you—it was just a stupid drunk thing.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said gently. “And you know I don’t.”

Your fingers stilled on your bag’s zipper.

He took a slow step closer.

“You’ve been off for days. And then that message… it wasn’t just drunk, was it?”

You swallowed hard. “I told you it doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.”

There was something too sincere in his voice, too calm. It made your chest tighten.

“I care about you. And I want to understand what’s really going on in that head of yours.”

That broke something loose.

You stood up too fast, your voice snapping before you could stop it. “Fine. You want to know what’s going on? I want you to give me good grades because you actually think I’m a good writer. Not because I sneak into your office hours so you can fuck me!”

The silence that followed cracked like ice. Your words hung between you—loud and raw and aching.

He stared at you, jaw clenched, something pained flashing behind his eyes.

“Sweetheart…” he started, stepping forward and reaching out his hand to touch you. “I’m sorry. I’ll make this up to you. I didn’t realize—”

But when he reached for you, you flinched. Took a step back. Shook your head.

“God,” you laughed bitterly. “Not everything can be fixed with fucking, James. Maybe in your head it can, but not in mine.”

He froze. His hands lowered slowly. And for the first time since this whole thing began, you watched him fall completely silent—no soft words, no charming excuses, no dominant control.

Just stood there with something breaking across his face—quietly, painfully. Like he’d been struck. His throat worked around silence for a second too long before he spoke—soft, almost uncertain.

“I’m sorry. I… I didn’t mean to.”

His voice cracked just slightly at the end. You hated how it made something in your chest twist, how even now, with everything burning inside you, your heart still ached at the thought of hurting him.

But the ache wasn’t just his. It was yours.

Your shoulders trembled before you could stop it, and you turned your face away, one hand coming up like a shield—but it was too late. He saw.

The tears had started to fall.

You tried to wipe them quickly, tried to pretend they didn’t matter, but your voice gave you away.

“I just…” you swallowed hard, chest heaving, “I don’t want to be some fucking fantasy to you. Some toy you get to praise and fuck and keep in the shadows. I want to be seen, James. I want to matter. To you.”

His expression shifted—his whole face softening, brow creased like your pain had carved its way into him too.

“You do,” he said, so quiet it almost hurt to hear. “You do matter.”

You shook your head, another tear slipping down.

“I don’t know that. I don’t. Because everything gets so blurry when we’re alone, and then you act like nothing happened in public, and I’m just—” your breath hitched, “—I’m tired of wondering if I’m just a body you like to fuck or a girl you actually see.”

He took a tentative step closer, not reaching this time. Just… looking at you like you were something delicate he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I see you,” he said again, steadier this time. “And I’m sorry I ever made you question that.”

You said nothing, eyes downcast, breathing shallow as you tried to compose yourself.

And then—finally—he closed the space between you, slow, careful. He didn’t touch you until you looked up.

And when you did—just slightly, just enough—he opened his arms, wordless, waiting.

You stood there for a moment, trembling.

Then you let yourself fall into him.

And he held you tight, his chin resting against your temple, his hand gently cradling the back of your head as if he was trying to put all your pieces back together.

“I’m here,” he murmured. “You matter. You matter so much.”

James didn’t let go. Even after your tears had slowed, after your breath started to steady again—he just held you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, gentle and grounding, and his forehead dipped to rest lightly against yours.

“I don’t want it to be like this either,” he murmured, his voice so close it barely needed to be spoken aloud. “You think I like hiding this? Pretending not to know you in front of a room full of people, pretending I don’t feel what I feel when you walk in?”

You closed your eyes at that. His words settled somewhere deep in your chest—soft, aching, true.

“But you know why we have to,” he continued, quieter now. “It’s not just my job. It’s you. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you because of this. If someone found out and dragged you into it. I just…”

He paused. You felt his breath stutter, the way his hands held your face more tightly, like he needed to say it right.

“I just wanted to give you something real. Even if it’s only here. Like this.”

Your eyes opened to find him staring at you again—earnest, open, wounded by the very truth he was saying out loud.

“I care about you,” he whispered. “More than I should. More than I ever meant to.”

You let out a shaky breath, eyes still burning, and you pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry. I just… you gave me that extra grade and I thought…” You swallowed, voice cracking around the words. “I thought maybe you were just doing all this to—use me. Like it wasn’t about anything real, just… just sex and good grades and—god, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry.”

He pulled back just enough to make you look at him again, his hands still holding your face with that same unbearable tenderness.

“Hey,” he murmured, firm but quiet. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that.”

His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes, catching the tears you hadn’t meant to let fall again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes searching yours with a softness that broke you all over again. “You were doubting yourself as a writer and I… I don’t know. I thought I was helping. I thought it would push you, motivate you, show you I believed in you even if you didn’t.”

You blinked at him, lips parted, chest aching.

“But that was me being stupid,” he added, gently. “Not you. I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve asked. I didn’t mean to make you feel used, baby. I swear to god, I just wanted you to believe in yourself even half as much as I believe in you.”

The way he said it — quietly, with his eyes so open and honest — made you feel like you were unraveling in the safest possible way.

And you couldn’t help it: your hands found his again, clinging tight.

“I do care,” he whispered. “So much more than I’m supposed to. And I know we can’t say it, can’t show it—not how we want—but none of this is just physical for me. It never was.”

You nodded, tears slipping free again. This time from something else. Something softer.

“I know,” you whispered. “I know now.”

James exhaled softly and pulled you in again, arms wrapping around your back, holding you so close it felt like he was trying to shield you from the whole world.

You let yourself fall into it. Let yourself bury your face into the warm, familiar scent of his shirt. His heart beat steady under your ear, a quiet rhythm that calmed something deep inside you.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your forehead. Soft. Reassuring. Reverent.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your skin. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You sniffled, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like you were afraid you might fall apart again if you didn’t.

James pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you again — and when he did, his expression was all warmth, all honesty.

“I’ll do better,” he said, his voice low but certain. “For you. I promise.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting like you wanted to say something — but the words caught in your throat. So instead you just nodded, slowly, tearfully.

He smiled — that soft, rare kind of smile that barely reached the corners of his mouth but lived in his eyes instead. And then he leaned in, pressing one more kiss to your forehead like a vow.

“I’m not going to hurt you again,” he added. “Not if I can help it. No more mixed signals. No more making you doubt yourself. You deserve better than that. You deserve everything.”

And god — you believed him. Or maybe you just wanted to believe him. Either way, in that moment, his arms felt like the only place in the world you were supposed to be.

———

You got back to your dorm.

Sarah still hadn’t come back — probably out with her friends again — and for once, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You were curled up at your desk, legs tucked beneath you, laptop open and a textbook propped up beside it. A cup of tea sat cooling beside your hand. Your notes were more organized than they’d been in days. You felt—lighter. Not fixed, not whole, but… steadier.

Cared for.

The ache in your chest that had been there all week had started to dissolve, replaced by the warmth of James’s voice still echoing in your head. I’ve got you. I’ll do better. You deserve everything.

You were underlining a sentence in your book when your phone buzzed.

You glanced over, expecting a message from Sarah, maybe a group chat ping.

But it was him.

James | 5:58PM

Are you free tonight?

Your heart flipped in your chest. You stared at the screen. Blinking. Rereading the words, as if they might mean something different the second time around.

Free tonight?

You sat up straighter, teeth tugging at your lower lip. You didn’t expect it — not tonight. Not after everything you’d both just laid bare. But the question sent a thrill through you, curling low and warm in your stomach.

You typed back quickly.

You | 5:59PM

Um. Yeah. I am.

The reply came almost immediately.

James | 5:59PM

Come over. I want to see you.

[address attached]

You stared at the screen.

Your pulse kicked up. You could feel it behind your ribs, in your throat. Your fingers tightened around the phone.

Holy. Shit.

You’d never been to his place before. Office hours, dim-lit corners of the lecture hall after everyone left — those were the places you existed together. But this? His space? It felt so much more personal. So much more real.

You bit back a smile. Cheeks warm. Stomach fluttering. Then you stood up. Closed your laptop. You didn’t even bother finishing your homework.

You stood there for a moment, still holding your phone like it might vanish out of your hands. His address glowed back at you. You reread the messages three more times—just to be sure.

But still, your fingers hesitated before you typed.

You | 6:00PM

Are you sure?

You chewed on your thumbnail, heart thudding. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him—you did, desperately. But it felt like crossing into a new space. A new layer of this… whatever it was between you.

Your phone buzzed again.

James | 6:01PM

Yeah, I’m sure, sweetheart. Just make sure no one sees you, okay?

Sweetheart.

The word hit like a slow, dizzying warmth behind your ribs. You blinked at it, then slowly sat back down on the edge of your bed, biting back a breathless little smile.

You read his message again.

He wanted you there. He wanted you. Not just in some tucked-away corner of the university—but in his home. In a place that was his.

Your face flushed, a little dazed, a little giddy.

You scrambled up and padded barefoot to your wardrobe, suddenly seeing every piece of clothing with fresh, critical eyes. What would he like? What would make him look at you the way he sometimes did when no one else was around? That dark, intense gaze that burned through you and made you forget your own name?

You rifled through shirts and sweaters and skirts, pulling one out only to toss it back with a shake of your head.

Too casual.

Too obvious.

Too boring.

Too much.

You paused at a soft little dress you hadn’t worn in a while — black, just fitted enough to hug you right, the neckline subtly flattering without trying too hard. You held it up against yourself in the mirror, your heart hammering faster as you imagined his hands sliding beneath the hem.

You pressed your lips together, unable to stop smiling now.

You wanted to look pretty for him.

You wanted to make him want you the way you were already aching for him.

So you changed. You brushed your hair. You put on the softest perfume you owned — just a little, behind your ears. And when you finally stood by the mirror again, clutching your phone in your hand and staring at your reflection, you whispered to yourself:

“Okay. Let’s go.”

And then you slipped out into the night—heart pounding, cheeks warm, heading toward the man who had slowly, quietly, completely undone you.

———

You stood in front of the building, your heart thudding louder with every passing second. The address he gave you had led to a quiet street just outside the bustle of downtown—elegant, expensive. The kind of place with sleek glass windows and gold-lit balconies, the kind of place professors with tenure and old money lived.

You looked up once more before walking in. Marble-tiled lobby. Polished elevator. It all felt surreal.

You reached his floor, smoothed your hands down the front of your dress again, adjusted the neckline just slightly, and took a deep breath before lifting your hand to knock.

There was a pause.

Then soft, steady footsteps before he opened the door.

James stood there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to reveal the curve of his throat, the faintest hint of chest. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and the moment his eyes landed on you—

His lips parted, ever so slightly.

He took a breath in, gaze roaming—slow and reverent—from the hem of your dress to the way your hair framed your face. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you like he was memorizing something. Like maybe he’d been waiting for this.

“You look…” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “Beautiful.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks.

“Come in,” he added more softly, stepping aside to let you through.

His apartment was exactly what you’d imagined—and not at all. Minimalist but warm. The floors were dark wood, the walls a rich charcoal gray softened by warm lighting. There were books stacked neatly on shelves and records beside a sleek old turntable. A soft jazz instrumental played low in the background.

And from the open doorway of the kitchen, you caught the mouthwatering scent of garlic, herbs, something simmering slowly.

You blinked.

“Are you… cooking?”

He gave you a little smirk but there was something bashful under it, too. He nodded toward the kitchen.

“I said I’d do better, didn’t I?” he said, his voice gentler now, stripped of all that classroom command. “So I made dinner.”

You stared at him, a little stunned.

He ran a hand down the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Figured you deserve a real date. For once.”

Your heart melted.

Actually melted.

The room felt warmer. The world a little softer. And you—still standing near the door in your prettiest dress, still trying to make sense of how this man could make you feel both wrecked and cherished all at once—could only whisper:

“You really didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to,” he said simply. “You deserve it.”

And with that, he leaned in just a little, not kissing you yet—but close enough to make your breath catch.

“Dinner first,” he murmured with a crooked smile. “Then… whatever you want.”

He guided you toward the kitchen with a hand lightly grazing your lower back—barely there, but grounding. The dining area was just off to the side, lit by the soft glow of a hanging pendant lamp. A small round table had been set for two. Real plates, real silverware, cloth napkins. A bottle of wine already uncorked. Two glasses waiting.

It felt intimate. Intentional.

James moved to the stove, lifting a pan with practiced ease. “It’s nothing fancy,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Just pasta. I didn’t want to risk anything too… ambitious.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “You made me dinner. I think that’s already ambitious.”

He gave you that half-smile again—like you always managed to catch him off guard in the best way—and plated the food before joining you at the table. He poured the wine, then sat across from you, forearms braced on the edge of the wood as he looked at you fully.

For a moment, you both just ate. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, full of quiet glances and the soft clink of silverware. The food was… actually really good. Rich, garlicky, a little spicy. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until now.

“So,” he said eventually, voice soft. “How are you feeling?���

You glanced up. The way he asked—it wasn’t casual, not filler. He really wanted to know.

You hesitated, then said quietly, “Better. Today was hard, but… this helps.”

He nodded slowly. “I meant what I said earlier. I never want to make you feel like you’re just—” He stopped, jaw tensing like the words made him angry at himself. “You matter to me. Not just the work, not just the sex. You. All of it.”

You felt your throat tighten a little. You reached for your wine to cover the flicker of emotion.

“Thanks for… tonight,” you said after a beat. “This is the first time in a while I’ve felt like… I don’t know. A person.”

James’s expression softened instantly. He reached out across the table, hand brushing gently over yours.

“You are a person,” he said. “A brilliant, stubborn, maddeningly talented person who I can’t stop thinking about.”

You bit your lip, trying not to smile too obviously.

“And I’m trying,” he added. “To make this… right. Even if we can’t be open. Even if we have to hide. I want you to feel safe. Wanted.”

“I do,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Especially now.”

He smiled, quiet and real. “Good.”

You both fell into another easy stretch of conversation—talking about books you loved, a movie you wanted to see, how he once accidentally called another professor a dick during his first year teaching and never lived it down.

And for the first time in weeks, you laughed.

Like really laughed.

And when dinner ended and the plates were pushed aside and the wine was low in the glass, he stood slowly and held out his hand.

“Come here,” he murmured.

You took it and let him pull you into his arms.

He wrapped his arms around you fully, tucking you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on the top of your head for a moment, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing—calm, even, like holding you had settled something deep inside him.

Then he pulled back just enough to press the softest kiss to your temple.

Another to your cheek.

Then a slower one to the corner of your mouth.

You blinked up at him, already warm in his arms, but melting even more when he smiled against your skin and murmured, “Whatchu wanna do now, baby?”

You bit back a shy grin, cheeks warming. “I don’t know,” you said, voice small.

He kissed you again, teasing now—right on the nose. “Movie? Cuddling? Both?” His hand slid up your back slowly, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Or… you just wanna let me hold you all night?”

You couldn’t help it—you nodded, pressing closer. “All of the above,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Just wanna be close to you.”

He chuckled softly, something so loving in the sound. “God, you’re cute.”

You pulled back slightly to pout. “Don’t call me cute.”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “Beautiful, then. Gorgeous. Perfect.”

Your heart fluttered so violently you thought he might feel it.

“Okay,” he said, kissing your forehead one more time. “Movie it is. But I’m warning you—I have truly awful taste in rom-coms.”

He guided you gently to the couch, his hand never leaving yours. As you sat down and curled up beside him, his arm draped around your shoulders and pulled you close like you belonged there. Like you always had.

And the moment he hit play and the screen lit up in front of you, you weren’t even watching. You were too focused on the way he looked at you from the corner of his eye.

Like you were everything.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. And God, he was so beautiful like this—his expression soft and adoring, like he couldn’t believe you were here in his arms.

And maybe it was the wine still buzzing in your veins, or the way he’d made dinner, or how he looked at you like you were more than just someone he touched—but you couldn’t help it.

You smiled, cheeks warm. “Fuck the movie.”

Before he could respond, you swung a leg over him, straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. He blinked, surprised—but that familiar glint sparked in his eyes instantly, and his hands slid to your waist as you leaned in and kissed him.

It started slow. Tender. His lips moving against yours with a patience that made you ache. One hand cupped your cheek, the other gripped your hip like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you in place or pull you closer.

But then your tongue brushed his, and his breath hitched—and the shift was instant.

He deepened the kiss with a groan, both hands sliding up under your dress, fingertips warm against your skin. You rocked against him, and he cursed low into your mouth.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, pulling back just long enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

His lips found your neck, your collarbone, the space just under your ear that made your breath catch. And you let yourself melt into him, already dizzy from how much you wanted more.

Because here—wrapped in his arms, straddling his lap in his stupidly nice apartment—you didn’t feel like a secret. You felt like something he cherished.

Your lips parted with a soft gasp as you felt him, hard beneath you, straining against his slacks.

And God, you moved against him again—slowly, deliberately—and that drew a groan straight from his throat. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he was trying not to lose control too fast, but you could feel the way his restraint was slipping.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against your mouth, kissing you again—hotter this time, deeper, his tongue claiming yours. “What’re you trying to do to me?”

You didn’t answer—just kept rolling your hips against him, feeling the thick press of him beneath you. And then you whimpered when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and your fingers tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him closer even though you were already flush against him.

He kissed you like he owned your mouth—slow, hungry, possessive. Like he’d been starving for you. Like the very taste of you could undo him.

And then—without warning—his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you up with ease.

You gasped, arms flying around his neck instinctively, but he just smirked, eyes dark and hooded. “You think I’m gonna fuck you on my couch?” he murmured, walking you down the hallway with you clinging to him, legs wrapped around his waist.

“Not tonight, sweetheart.”

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as he nudged open the door to his bedroom. It was warm and low-lit, his scent already filling the space—clean linen and something woodsy and masculine.

He walked you straight to the bed and laid you down gently, as if you were something precious, something breakable. And then he hovered above you, eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorize every detail.

“I need you,” he whispered. “Need all of you.”

And when he kissed you again—God, it wasn’t just lust. It was everything.

His hands slid down your sides as he helped ease your dress from your shoulders, inch by inch. James looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured—more to himself than to you—and leaned in to press a reverent kiss to your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Then lower, along the curve of your chest.

His mouth worshipped every inch it touched, trailing slow, soft kisses over your skin. He lingered at your breasts, his tongue flicking, teasing, until your back arched off the mattress. His stubble grazed your skin as he sucked gently, then moved lower—your ribs, your stomach—his mouth worshiping every inch of you.

You buried your fingers in his hair, gasping when he grazed his lips over your stomach, each press a quiet confession. He didn’t rush. He took his time—as if he was memorizing you.

Then, you tugged gently at his shirt, needing him closer, needing more. He let you pull it over his head, and you finally saw him—his chest, lean and strong, all sculpted muscle and tension and heat.

Your breath caught. God, he was beautiful. All of him.

He smirked softly at the way you stared, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And then you were helping him out of the rest of his clothes—slow, shy, but eager. Each movement filled with that quiet urgency you both tried to keep buried.

He watched you the whole time, letting you look, letting you touch. And when your hands dipped lower to help him out of his pants, then his boxers, your breath hitched.

Then he moved again—settling between your thighs. Gently, he shifted, guiding you until he rolled, and suddenly, you were straddling him. Your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips. His hands rested on your thighs, warm and grounding.

You blinked, surprised, a little unsure.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and husky.

You nodded, still catching your breath. Still processing.

His thumbs stroked soft circles into your skin. “I want you like this,” he said. “I want to watch you. But more than that… I want you to show me.”

Your brows knitted. “Show you?”

He leaned up, just enough for your lips to brush. His voice barely a whisper against your mouth.

“Show me how you like it, sweetheart.”

Your breath shuddered as you looked down at him—chest rising and falling beneath you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded with want. His hands stayed on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, teasing circles as if he were giving you time—but you didn’t want time. You wanted him.

So you moved. Carefully at first. Your hips shifted forward, dragging your slick folds against the thick length of him where he was already hard and waiting beneath you. You both exhaled at the same time—his jaw tightening, your body already aching from just the friction.

“Just like that,” he muttered, voice rough now, filthy and full of heat. “Fuck, sweetheart… don’t stop.”

You ground against him again, slower this time, letting the drag of him through your folds send sparks down your spine. Every brush of your clit against him made you clench around nothing, made your fingers press into the solid planes of his chest for balance.

His head tipped back. You watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed hard. “You feel what you do to me?” he gritted out, hands gripping tighter at your hips now, guiding you without forcing.

You nodded, biting your lip as you moved again—slick and desperate and needy.

He groaned, low and guttural. “You gonna ride me, baby? Huh? Gonna show me how you fuckin’ take it?”

Your body burned at the words. You reached down, hand wrapping around him, guiding him to your entrance—he was thick and hot and pulsing in your palm. You lined him up and sank down slowly, inch by inch, until the stretch had you gasping and clenching around him. James cursed under his breath, head slamming back against the pillow.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “You’re so tight—so wet. You’re killin’ me.”

You braced your hands on his chest and rolled your hips once—slow, steady, taking him deep. He groaned again, one hand flying to your ass to squeeze, to pull you harder against him.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Just like that, sweetheart. Ride me. Take what you need.”

And you did.

You found your rhythm—rocking against him, rising and falling in time with his ragged breaths. His hands roamed now, gripping your waist, your ass, sliding up to your breasts, fingers tugging at your nipples as you moaned for him. The sound of skin slapping, the wet drag of your bodies, the way he kept whispering filthy things between gritted teeth—it was overwhelming in the best way.

“You like that?” he panted. “Like being on top of me like this, lettin’ me watch your pretty face while I ruin you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into his skin. “Yes—yes, James—”

“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarled, sitting up suddenly, arm wrapped tight around your back as he thrust up into you now, hard and deep and perfect. “Gonna come for me like this? On my cock, sweetheart?”

Your moans broke into something shameless and high-pitched as the pleasure built—tight and fast, deep in your belly.

“I—James, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Then do it,” he growled against your mouth. “Come for me. Let me feel how sweet that pussy gets when I fuckin’ break you.”

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and electric, and you cried out as your body clamped down around him. James’ grip tightened, and with a broken curse, he followed—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you with a groan that sounded like your name.

You were shaking. He held you through it.

And when your breathing finally slowed, his hands went gentle again—stroking your back, kissing your shoulder, letting you come down.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice hoarse and full of something raw. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me, baby…”

You were still trembling, limbs boneless and chest heaving, the aftershocks of everything you just shared washing over you like warm waves. He hadn’t moved much—still nestled deep inside you, the feeling of him gentle but grounding, his breath uneven against your shoulder.

His hand brushed through your hair, gently combing through it, smoothing it, slow and soothing, fingers tracing along your scalp like he couldn’t stop touching you. You buried your face in his neck, skin flushed, body burning, and he just held you like that—quiet and close, like you were something fragile. Precious.

He leaned in, pressing a slow, lazy kiss there. Then another. And another—each one softer than the last, like he couldn’t stop.

You felt the pad of his thumb stroke behind your ear, and your eyes fluttered closed at the tenderness of it all. His hand was on your back now, cool and comforting, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“James…” you whispered, voice barely there.

He hummed softly, stroking your hair again, then gently leaned back just enough to look at you. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw as he studied you—like he wanted to remember every inch of your face.

He pulled out from you, making you gasp and moan quietly. Then—he rolled you over, slow and careful, his body pressing you down into the sheets again as he came to rest above you. Still so close it made your heart ache.

And that’s when he said it.

“I love you.”

So quiet. So certain. No hesitation in his voice, no teasing in his tone. Just the words, raw and real, like they’d been burning on his tongue for weeks and finally broke free.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your heart felt like it had stopped and then exploded all at once. You stared at him—into those stormy blue eyes that looked at you like you were more than just a student, more than just a body—and it hit you like lightning.

He meant it.

You blinked, tears already stinging your lashes, and then you reached up and pulled him down, kissing him like your life depended on it. Like the world would end if you didn’t. It wasn’t needy or rushed—it was full, and slow, and sacred. A promise sealed in the way your mouths moved, the way you both broke a little more open.

“I love you too,” you whispered into his lips, breathless. “So much.”

And for the first time, you felt like maybe you weren’t just his secret. You were his. All of you. Completely.

You lay there with him, your bodies still warm from everything you’d shared, the room quiet except for the low hum of city sounds outside his window. The dim light painted soft shadows across his face, and his fingers traced lazy circles along your bare back.

But something sat heavy in your chest. A knot of fear you couldn’t quite swallow down.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured, not lifting your head from where it rested against his collarbone.

He stilled, then nodded. “Anything.”

You hesitated. “Have you… ever done this before?”

James went quiet.

You felt the shift in his body before he answered, the way his arms gently tightened around you like he could feel the question pulling you away from him.

“Done what?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

You closed your eyes. “Had something like this with a student.”

There was a beat of silence so thick it felt like you could drown in it.

“I just…” You took a shaky breath. “I need to know, James…”

He exhaled, and then shifted, rolling onto his side so he could see you properly. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw as his eyes locked with yours.

“No,” he said, firm. “No, baby. I haven’t. I would never do that.”

You didn’t answer right away, but your eyes shimmered in the low light.

“I don’t even let myself look at students that way,” he continued, softer now. “I built this wall so high between who I am and what I teach—because it matters. That line matters.”

You swallowed. “But you crossed it.”

“I did.” He nodded, not flinching from the truth. “Because you… you broke everything in me.”

Your breath caught.

“I read what you wrote and I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Then you’d sit in my lectures and ask the kinds of questions no one else ever asked. Your writing felt like you were talking only to me. You smiled at me like you saw me. And I—fuck, I tried. I tried to be good. But I couldn’t stay away.”

You blinked, tears slipping down the corners of your eyes.

“It wasn’t the sex,” he added. “Not even close. I fell for you the first time you talked in class. I tried to stop it. To push it away but I’ve been falling ever since.”

You nodded slowly, and when he leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, you let him.

He tucked your body closer to his, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re not just one of anything,” he whispered. “You’re the one.”

Your gaze softened. The breath you let out was shaky, caught somewhere between awe and ache. You melted into his arms, tucked your face against his neck and let him hold you like something precious.

But the warmth didn’t quiet the fear completely.

“What… what happens now?” you murmured, voice small against his skin.

He was quiet for a moment, and you lifted your head just enough to look at him.

“I mean it, James. I love you. I want this. But we can’t just… have it. If someone finds out—”

“I know,” he said quietly, cutting you off. “I know it’s dangerous.”

You swallowed hard. “So what do we do? Keep meeting in secret? Pretending like none of this exists once I’m back in the lecture hall?”

He exhaled, his fingers brushing over your lower back. “We’ll be careful. Smarter about it. No unnecessary risks. Office hours, quiet corners, places where no one’s paying attention—we’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly.

His hand came up, cupping your jaw gently as he looked at you, steady and sincere. “I’ll protect you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Or take this away.”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, the curve of his mouth gentle when he looked at you.

“You should stay,” James said, barely above a whisper. “For the night.”

Your heart fluttered.

You blinked, surprised for a second—even though part of you had been hoping, praying, that he’d ask. Still, the words caught in your throat. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, instantly. “Of course I’m sure.”

And then his arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you closer to his chest, and god—you could’ve cried again. Not from hurt this time, but from the way he held you like you were his entire world. Like this—you—meant everything.

You nuzzled into his chest with a small laugh, muffled against his skin. “You’re gonna regret it when I might make you skip your lecture tomorrow.”

You felt the rumble of his chuckle in his chest, low and warm.

“Don’t do this to me,” he groaned, tipping his head back with a smile. “You know I have to go to work.”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, smug and sleepy as you curled closer. “But I also know you’d let me distract you.”

He sighed dramatically, but you could hear the fondness thick in his voice. “You’re a brat.”

“And yet,” you murmured, lips brushing his collarbone, “you asked me to stay.”

His hands slid up your back, holding you like he’d never let go. “I’d ask you again a thousand times. I just want you here.”

———

Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, pale and gold across the sheets. The room was quiet, save for the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you.

You were already awake.

Had been for a while, lying still with your cheek pressed to his bare chest, listening to the way his heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your ear.

But now—now the clock on his nightstand blinked a little too urgently, and you knew you had to move.

You slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. You gathered your dress from the floor, smoothed it out as best you could, then padded silently toward the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror made you pause.

Your hair was sleep-mussed, your skin still warm from his touch. The fading flush across your collarbone told its own story. A little dazed, a little wrecked. But glowing.

You felt… whole.

You washed up, combed through your hair with your fingers, did your best to look halfway presentable. You’d have to swing by your dorm to change—your own lecture started soon, and James had his usual morning class.

You turned the light off gently and stepped back into the bedroom.

He was still there—curled under the covers, face half-buried in the pillow, hair mussed and boyish. It made your chest ache. So soft. So utterly unguarded.

You sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, brushing your fingers lightly through his hair. Then down along his shoulder. “James,” you whispered.

Nothing.

You leaned in a little closer, letting your lips graze his temple. “James, baby. Wake up.”

He stirred, grumbling something unintelligible before an arm curled around your waist and pulled you back down with a groggy strength.

“Mm—no,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t wanna.”

You laughed softly, trying not to melt completely. “I have a class. So do you.”

“Don’t care.” His hand slid up your side, palm warm and familiar. “Just five more minutes.”

“James—”

He cracked one eye open, finally meeting your gaze with a lazy, crooked smile. “You’re evil.”

“I know,” you teased, brushing your nose against his. “Now come on, professor. Time to be responsible.”

He sighed dramatically and let you go—reluctantly.

But before you could fully pull away, he caught your wrist, tugging you down for one more kiss. Slow. Sleep-warm. Full of the kind of softness that stayed with you all day.

“Text me when you’re back, yeah?” he said, eyes still barely open.

“I will.”

He watched you gather your things with that same quiet fondness, head propped on his hand. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. And when you left—soft click of the door behind you—you carried his gaze with you all the way home.

———

You slipped quietly into your dorm, letting the door click shut behind you with a soft snick. The hall was still quiet, most people probably just waking up or dragging themselves to early lectures.

You texted James you’re back and let out a slow breath.

God.

You still felt him on your skin. Still tasted him on your lips. Still smelled him on your clothes. Every step felt a little too floaty. Like your feet hadn’t quite touched the ground since last night.

You kicked your shoes off near the door, setting your bag down as you glanced toward your roommate.

Sarah was awake.

Sitting up in bed, legs tucked under her, hoodie pushed halfway up her arms and a mug cradled in her hands. Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling, the scent of cheap dorm coffee drifting through the room.

She blinked once. Sipped.

“Well, well, well,” she said, voice thick with amusement. “Look who finally decided to show.”

You froze mid-step. “Shut up.”

Sarah just grinned wider. “No you shut up. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That ‘I didn’t sleep in my own bed and I’m definitely not sorry about it’ look.” She set her mug down on the windowsill and leaned forward, squinting at you like a detective. “And is that… is that a love bite? Oh my god.”

You immediately lifted your hand to your neck, face heating. “There’s no love bite.”

“There is,” she said, delighted. “Don’t bother. You’re glowing. And you look freshly ravished. That’s not your walk-of-shame face—that’s your strut-of-shame face.”

You huffed, trying not to laugh as you grabbed a clean outfit from your drawers. “I hate you.”

Sarah flopped back onto her pillow with a smug smile. “No you don’t. You love me because I know when you’re getting laid.”

You pulled your hoodie over your head to hide your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” she said, pointing at you with both hands like a judge passing sentence, “are gonna tell me everything the second we both have time and coffee.”

You rolled your eyes as you slipped into the bathroom.

But god… you were still smiling.

And maybe she didn’t know the full story. Maybe she couldn’t. Not yet. But still—there was something about her caring like that, even in the smallest, most teasing way.

———

You walked into the lecture hall just a minute before class began, the low hum of conversation bouncing off the old walls and faded seats.

The moment your eyes found him at the front of the room, you couldn’t help it. The corners of your mouth lifted, soft and secret. He was organizing a few papers on his desk, posture composed, expression unreadable—but then he looked up and saw you.

His face softened instantly. Not much—barely there. Just the faintest twitch of a smile. A tiny gleam in his eyes. Like a secret passed between only the two of you.

Your chest fluttered.

God. You loved that. That moment. That knowing.

You slipped into your usual row, unzipping your bag—only to find someone already sitting beside you.

A guy. Same class, though you hadn’t really noticed him before. He gave you an easy smile as you sat down, a quiet hey, and you blinked in surprise, giving him a polite smile back.

It wasn’t a big deal.

Except—

From the front of the room, James’s smile vanished.

You didn’t see it at first—but you felt it. The subtle shift in the air. When you looked up again, his jaw was clenched. His eyes flicked once toward the guy next to you, then back to the attendance sheet in his hands—but he wasn’t really reading it anymore.

Oh oh.

You tried not to grin. Bit the inside of your cheek to hide it.

Professor Barnes cleared his throat, eyes sweeping the room again like nothing had happened. “Alright, let’s begin.”

But his tone was clipped now. Sharper. More precise. The lecture started—but his gaze kept slipping back to you. Or maybe not to you, exactly.

To the boy sitting next to you.

He didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t. He was the picture of professionalism, all cool control and eloquence—but there was tension behind it now. Something simmering underneath.

And when the boy leaned a little closer to ask if he could borrow a pen, you were certain James’s hand tightened around the marker in his fist.

You passed the guy the pen wordlessly. Smiled, but barely.

And when you glanced back toward James again, your eyes met.

He didn’t smile this time.

You saw it in his eyes. The dark glint. The jaw set just a little too tight. The look that said:

Mine.

And it sent a thrill straight down your spine.

You were trying to focus.

Truly, you were.

But the boy beside you had other plans.

He leaned over halfway through James’s lecture—voice low, but just loud enough to stir the silence between notes. “I’m Theo, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

He had soft brown eyes, messy hair, and that easy kind of grin boys wore when they thought they were charming. He gestured casually toward your open notebook. “You always take such clean notes. Thought I should finally say hi before the semester ends.”

You smiled—tight, polite, uncomfortable. “Uh… thanks.”

He didn’t seem to notice your hesitation.

“Maybe we could, I don’t know… study together sometime?”

You were just about to respond—just about to come up with something diplomatic, something that wouldn’t sound like I literally have a secret relationship with the man currently lecturing us on narrative motifs—when James’s voice rang out, cool and sharp:

“No talking in class.”

It was so sudden, so pointed, you jumped slightly in your seat.

Theo straightened, blinking. “Sorry, Professor.”

James didn’t answer. Didn’t look at Theo.

His eyes were on you.

Just you.

And the weight of that stare was heavy—controlled, but burning. The same calm tone, the same composed posture, but his gaze?

It was lethal.

You shifted in your seat, pulse ticking a little faster.

“Back to it,” he said simply, turning back to the board. “We were discussing subtext and implication. The things characters say without saying them.”

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

Theo didn’t try to talk again.

And you?

You didn’t dare look up at James for the rest of the class. Not because you were scared but because if you did—you knew exactly what kind of look you’d find waiting.

The rest of the lecture blurred.

James spoke with that same calm cadence, his notes smooth and deliberate, but you could tell. Something had shifted.

Toward the end of class, he adjusted his glasses, clicked his pen, and said, “For next week—an analysis of implicit desire in The Lover. Two pages minimum. No extensions.”

The groan that rippled through the room was collective, but James didn’t flinch. He stood tall behind the podium, one hand braced on the wood, eyes scanning the class with clinical detachment.

Then: “Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped against the floor. Backpacks zipped. Theo gave you a smile as he stood, but you didn’t return it. Your stomach had twisted into something tight and cold.

You stayed seated.

Like always.

Pretending to shuffle your notes slowly. Pretending to organize your bag. Pretending that maybe, just maybe, he’d call you forward like he used to—some quiet remark, some soft look passed between rows of empty chairs.

But today?

He didn’t even look in your direction.

He gathered his own things with surgical precision, clicked his laptop shut, and turned toward the exit. No pause. No nod. No trace of the man who kissed you and held you like you were made of something sacred just hours ago.

You looked up—hope flickering like a dying match.

But he was already at the door.

And then he was gone.

The classroom felt suddenly bigger. Colder. You sat frozen in your chair, the last student left, blinking at the door like maybe he’d come back.

But he didn’t.

And you already knew… he was jealous.

Part 4 soon 💋

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @iamthatonefangirl @hiraethmae @im-feeling-blue-today @beforemdnight @just4w3irdo @bloodmocha @lovinqbella @its-in-the-woods @muchwita @iyskgd @harrietandcats @shortandb1tchy @luv4kook @grovelingmen @buckybarneswife125 @xamapolax @glitterspark @azrielsgirll @mortallydistinguishedwolf @shaheea @simp4f1 @voidanima @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty

[ms-demeanor]

The shredding-a-banksy art auction thing was fucking hilarious (conceptually - would have been much better if the painting had actually been eradicated and irreparable; would have loved to see a million dollar painting turned into ash the moment it sold).

But also, yeah, I agree with @discoursedrome - his stencils are good. They're usually witty, they're a smart use of the medium, the images themselves are intelligible and evocative. If you isolated each stencil and they were never printed on t-shirts or arranged into fifty dollar coffee table books they would be perfectly solid pieces of protest art (I have always particularly liked the use of rats stenciled around security cameras and I continue to think that those look good and present an actual subversive message; unironically more people should highlight the presence of security cameras to point them out and to remind passers by that this shit is spying on you. Of course Banksy hasn't marked a camera in forever at this point, but at this point if he did people would roll their eyes about it and call him a sellout and the marked cameras would become a place where people congregated to take photos of the Banksy(tm)(c)(r) Art)

He got popular because people looked at what he was doing and nodded genially and went "yeah, man, I feel you" and enough of them did it that what he was doing basically stopped being criminal? But only if he's the one doing it?

IDK I think that Banksy is:

Good in a technical sense; he makes good use of his medium and separated from the Banksy of it all are well constructed and usually funny or thought provoking or at least witty enough to make someone pause and go "huh"

Difficult to take seriously as a political or street artist at this point because his mainstreaming has severed him from the subversive/interesting elements of his art (this is why the shredder thing was so good and funny)

Genuinely doing good work as a political artist in the sense that he knows rich people will buy his art for ridiculous prices so he uses sales of his art to fund refugee rescue boats (which means that the art that a bunch of people want to call shitty and sell-out is doing tangible, material good in the world)

Anyway. I feel like people mostly just roll their eyes at stuff like Dismaland and the walled off hotel and new murals because they feel kind of cringe but i feel like most Art with a capital A is kind of cringe at some level? But yeah, Dismaland feels. Bad. Pandering? Obvious? It feels obvious, the way that a lot of Banksy stuff feels obvious but I don't know how obvious it would feel if Banksy hadn't been doing it for thirty years?

I understand the "burn it all down or do a coke commercial" attitude, and I am certain that I've said something like "the best thing he could do is make sure that every painting he sells from now until the end of time is destroyed at the point of sale" but also, fuck, I can't fund a refugee boat.

That fucking rules, actually. I have made up my mind I don't care if his stuff is cringe he can make all the dismalands the world will take if it lets him keep paying for shit like this.

Anyway, here are two fun bullet points from his wikipedia page:

Asking I'm genuine interest: does anyone who follows me have anything to praise banksy over? Because I'd like to at least have checked my opinion of "hack"

[kenntoru]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ when you’re too sick to care for your baby, nanami brings her to the office strapped to his chest—calm, efficient, and completely unfazed as he gives presentations with a pacifier on his tie and a baby on board.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this is ridiculous i’m warning you

nanami doesn’t even flinch when you croak from under the covers, voice raw and pitiful: “ken, i can’t—i think i have a fever, and she won’t stop crying unless i’m holding her.”

your voice cracks halfway through the sentence. you look like a ghost of yourself, half-sunken into your nest of tissues and blankets, hair a disaster, eyes glazed and watery. the baby’s red-faced and sniffling too, sprawled across your chest like a little heater, tiny fists grasping your shirt like she knows you might try to hand her off.

nanami, standing in the doorway, calmly adjusts his watch.

“i’ll take her.”

you blink. “you… you have three meetings today.”

“and now i have three meetings with a baby,” he says, already crossing the room like a man with a mission.

you can’t even protest properly before he’s kneeling beside the bed and gently peeling her off you, expertly switching to his papa voice — warm and low, as if he’s de-escalating a tiny, fussy hostage situation.

“there we go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then yours. “we’ll manage. rest. you know what medicine you should take. call me if you need anything.”

ten minutes later, he’s at the front door in his usual tan coat, baby carrier strapped securely to his chest like she’s a very warm, very giggly piece of office equipment. she’s wearing one of those obnoxiously frilly headbands you swore you’d never put on her — but she screamed when he tried to take it off, and he’s not here to pick battles today.

diaper bag over his shoulder. bottle packed. pacifier clipped neatly to his tie. hair combed, shoes polished, baby securely swaddled and babbling.

“don’t let the interns try to hold her,” you wheeze weakly from the hallway.

“i would rather die,” he replies without missing a beat.

as he walks out, you hear him murmur to her, “no loud commentary during the finance report. we must suffer through it in dignified silence.”

cut to: the morning finance meeting, 9:01 a.m., in a fluorescent-lit conference room downtown.

the projector is humming. spreadsheets fill the screen. half the team is slumped in various degrees of caffeine withdrawal.

nanami kento walks in, perfectly on time, baby on his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t apologize. he walks straight to the head of the table, clicks open his laptop, adjusts the projector, and begins speaking with the same calm, measured cadence he always uses—

except this time, there’s a tiny foot sticking out of the carrier, gently bumping his blazer.

“moving into Q3,” he says, clicking to the next slide, “we’re forecasting a moderate increase in asset reallocation—”

the baby lets out a soft, inquisitive coo.

nanami glances down at her, gives a very small nod, and says to the room, “correct. the Q3 projections are, in fact, unfortunate.”

silence.

well—almost silence.

from somewhere near the coffee machine, an intern tries to whisper, “is that a—?”

nanami turns his head fractionally. just enough to shut it down.

“yes. she’s here in lieu of her mother, who is unwell. please direct all questions to me or her, depending on the topic.”

no one questions it.

she doesn’t cry, not even once. in fact, she seems thrilled. she clutches his tie like it’s her personal emotional support ribbon and waves her tiny hand every time someone shifts in their chair. at one point, she lets out a high-pitched giggle, and nanami simply pauses mid-sentence, gently pats her back, and continues like nothing happened.

someone tries to make eye contact and smile at her—

she beams and throws her toy at them.

nanami takes back the toy and sighs, “don’t encourage her. she’ll never stop.”

the entire time, he keeps presenting with his utmost precision, occasionally glancing down at her to tuck the headband back into place or swap her pacifier like he’s been doing this his whole life.

he wraps up right on time.

“any further questions?”

dead silence.

even the regional manager just gives a tight nod. no one wants to risk being shamed by a baby.

—

back home, it’s late afternoon when the door creaks open.

you’re still buried in blankets, half-delirious and clinging to a half-empty box of tissues. you blearily lift your head at the sound of keys in the bowl.

nanami walks in with the same exact expression he had when he left: calm, unreadable… except there’s a little extra softness at the corners of his eyes.

the baby is still strapped to his chest. fast asleep now, one hand gripping his tie, the other curled against his collarbone. she’s drooling slightly. he hasn’t removed the headband.

“she was very well-behaved,” he says quietly. “arguably more professional than half the team.”

you laugh — or try to, but it comes out as a croaky wheeze.

he crouches beside you, brushing a bit of hair from your face. “how are you feeling?”

“like death.” he nods and kisses your cheek.

you glance over at the baby. “how was she, really?”

“chatty,” he says, straight-faced. “opinionated about quarterly earnings. but otherwise excellent.”

he lifts her hand gently, unhooks her fingers from his tie.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he leans in to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“efficient,” he corrects.

then, after a beat—

“also… she now technically works in accounting.”

you blink. “what?”

he shrugs.

“someone handed her a spreadsheet. she drooled on it. that’s more than my latest intern did today.”

you laugh again, properly this time.

he finally unstraps her, carefully settling her into the bassinet. she doesn’t stir — not even when he tucks her blanket in with military precision.

you lie there watching him move quietly around the apartment, sleeves rolled up, tie chewed, hair slightly out of place, and realize:

papa nanami could take over the world with a baby strapped to his chest and a pacifier in his pocket, and he’d still be home in time to fold the laundry.

[emisluvr]

hi, emiii !! can i request sunghoon’s first time having sex & foreplay with his virgin!girlfriend who’s very cute and sweet, so he’s very careful, and please add size kink and he calls her bunny >< thank you so muchhh 🥺💗

hihii anon !! this is so cute oh my gahh

✧ tw. smut (18+ mdni!), virginity loss, pet names, size kink, praise

sunghoon kisses your naked figure that's sprawled out for him on the bed—your breasts, neck, stomach, even your inner thighs. "you’re so pretty, bunny," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin as his palms rest on your hips. "can’t believe i get to be your first."

you’re already squirming, breath hitching with every soft suck and bite he leaves on your body. he's been patient with you, taking his sweet time touching everywhere except where you need it most—just to hear your whines get cuter and needier.

"you’re doing so good for me," he murmurs, thumb rubbing circles on your hips as he leans down to kiss your lips. "so perfect for me.."

his fingers trail between your legs and he groans when he feels how wet you are. "fuck, bunny.. all this for me? you’re dripping."

he presses a warm kiss to your cheek before hovering over you, lining his cock up with your entrance and slowly pushing the tip in before pausing. "don’t wanna hurt you," he says, voice caring but deep. "tell me if it’s too much, okay?"

you nod, but still gasp the moment he starts sliding in deeper—stretching you so slowly yet perfectly. your hands grip his arms where he holds your legs up, eyes fluttering shut as you breathe through the pressure.

"fuck, bunny.. you’re so tight," he pants, jaw clenched. "i can’t go any deeper yet. ‘m too big, huh?"

you look up at him, eyes all teary and sweet. it makes his heart ache and his cock throb even more.

"you’re taking me so well," he groans, slowly thrusting in and out, making sure you feel every inch of his cock while keeping it as gentle and pain-free as possible—pressing kisses all over your face to calm you. "gonna make you feel good, bunny, i promise. i’ll be gentle."

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[hatethysinner]

i've been thinking about an angsty little thing where remmick can hear there's something very wrong with your heart. it started small at first, he'd barely noticed when he met you, but lately it's been getting worse and worse (he can see it in your eyes, too. smell it on you) and it gets to the point where he's begging and pleading with you to just let him turn you - but you refuse every time. would rather die, in fact, than lose your soul. thoughts?

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

ᴡᴄ: 5.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. fun fact, i was actually donna in my hs junior year spring musical (second fav role ever). i built my entire performance around meryl streep's i fear. anyway enough about me, YASSSSSS THIS ASK HAD ME SALIVATING HEAVY ANGST MY BELOVED!!! i honestly could've turned this into a full fledged fic but decided against it since i had so much other stuff to work on. i did not hold back y'all WE ALL NEED TO HURT! hopefully it doesn't seem too rushed but i as i said before i wanted to keep it drabble length so i had to consolidate the depression.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship, angst on x1000 lines of cocaine, this is actually so sad why did i make this, detailed description of heart issues, character death, very minorly playing around with vampire lore, excessive use of dividers

You never minded walking alone at night.

Had done it for years, really. Long before you met him. Something about the quiet made it easier to think, to breathe. The world got small when the sun went down. Just you, the dirt road, the cypress trees, and the warm Mississippi air pressing soft against your skin. Fireflies blinked like slow, patient stars at your feet. The cicadas hummed steady in the trees. And the moon was always so full, so close, you felt like you could reach up and pocket it if you wanted.

Folks told you it was foolish, of course. A woman of your complexion wandering out this late. But you weren’t reckless. You stayed on familiar paths, kept your wits about you. And for a long time, nothing ever gave you reason to be afraid.

Until him.

At first, you didn’t even see him.

The first few nights it was only a feeling. Something heavy hanging just behind your shoulder, close enough to stir the air but not close enough to touch. You’d pause. Look back. Find nothing. But the weight stayed, like a second shadow.

Then the sound started. The faintest crunch of boots against the loose gravel. The careful snap of a branch bending underfoot. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

You’d stop walking, heart thumping loud enough to hear in your ears.

Stillness.

Nothing but cicadas again.

It happened enough that your nerves should’ve snapped. But they didn’t. And maybe that was the strangest part. How the fear stayed distant, never quite blooming fully in your chest. Like whatever was following you didn’t mean you harm. Like it was waiting.

And then, one night, the silence broke.

“Evenin’.”

You nearly stumbled at the voice. Low, smooth, not more than a few feet behind you. You turned fast, breath caught sharp in your throat, and there he was.

Standing just under the curve of an old cypress, one hand hooked casually into his pocket, like he’d been there the whole time.

Pale, though not sickly, warm undertones kissed by the moonlight. Broad shoulders beneath a pressed white shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves cuffed up just enough to bare strong forearms. His dark suspenders cut clean lines down his chest, and a simple gold chain glinted faintly at his neck. Hair dark, swept back loosely, like it couldn’t decide whether to fall or stay neat. And his eyes, those eyes. A blue so deep you swore they held pieces of the night inside them, pulsing faint beneath the moon’s glow.

He smiled, small and careful, like he didn’t want to scare you.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, miss.”

You stared at him for a moment too long. Waiting for some signal. A reason to run. But none came.

He raised both hands slightly, as if to offer peace. “I been walkin’ out this way too. Thought I might introduce myself, since we seem to share the habit.”

And somehow, you let him.

His name was Remmick.

And after that night, he started joining you. Not every evening, not at first. But enough. Enough that the strange thing at your back became a quiet presence at your side.

He spoke little those first few weeks. Let you lead the conversation. Let you talk about your days, your small life, the world you carved out for yourself here. He listened with a kind of focus that made you self-conscious at first. Like every word out of your mouth was precious, worth tucking away somewhere safe.

Little by little, you learned how to read him. How his silences were full of thought, how his eyes softened when you smiled. How, even when he stood still, his chest rose and fell just a little slower than it ought to.

And how he never joined you before sundown.

He never offered much about himself. You didn’t press. Not then.

Until one night, cooler than usual, the sky pulled tight with stars, you invited him in. You don’t even remember why. Just that it felt right. The house was warm. The tea was sweet. And his eyes, God, those eyes, looked like they hadn’t seen home in years.

From that night forward, Remmick stayed close.

And now? He was part of your life.

The walks never stopped. But lately, they’d grown slower.

You noticed it first in your legs. The quiet heaviness that settled like wet cloth clinging to your bones. Then in your breath, how it seemed to catch quicker, how the cool night air filled your lungs less fully than it used to.

Still, you pushed forward. Like always.

The fireflies danced around your ankles, little pulses of amber blinking against the dark. You’d always loved them. They seemed softer here, in the night’s embrace. Like old friends keeping you company. You tried to focus on them instead. On the music of the frogs croaking near the creek, the whisper of wind through the tall cypress.

But you couldn’t ignore the ache that pressed into your chest, tight and hot beneath your ribs.

You pressed your hand there, fingers spreading instinctively as if you could ease it somehow, as if your own touch might convince your heart to behave.

Beside you, his voice came low, careful. “Ya alright?”

Remmick’s eyes were already on you. Always on you.

You nodded, too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just... winded, I guess.” You tried to lace the words with something light, tried to smile like you hadn’t just felt your own heartbeat stumble. “It’s been happenin’ more these days.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his gaze flickered.

Not surprise. No. He wasn’t surprised.

Something older moved in him. Something deeper, heavier. Like he’d been carrying this knowledge longer than you’d dared admit even to yourself.

He said nothing of what you both already knew.

Instead, he simply adjusted his pace again, falling half a step behind you, hand brushing your elbow in that soft, familiar way. Steadying without crowding. Comforting without pressing.

“Ya sure y’don’t wanna rest a while?”

You shook your head, biting down on the tightness in your throat.

“I’m fine, Remmick.” You smiled, though your breath came thinner than it should. “The air feels good tonight.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not out loud.

But you felt it, how his eyes never truly left you. How they flicked between the dark path ahead and your unsteady steps, cataloguing each stagger of your breath, every time your hand drifted to your ribs.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

And though he said nothing, you could feel it. The quiet storm building inside him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just your breath.

Not anymore.

The sharp pinches in your chest had been happening more often. Small flashes of pain that stole your breath for a moment, like invisible threads pulling tight beneath your skin. Your legs felt heavier in the mornings, your arms weaker by the end of the day. And when you were alone, when the world hushed itself and the stillness crept in, you could feel it clearest of all: your heart, stumbling through its rhythm. Like a bird with one wing broken, fluttering unevenly.

You hadn’t told him all of it.

You didn’t know how.

But Remmick?

Remmick knew anyway.

He could hear it. He could always hear it.

You caught him listening sometimes, when he thought you didn’t notice.

At night, when you were drifting to sleep, you’d feel his arm tighten around your waist, his head dipping just slightly, just enough for his ear to rest near your chest. Not in search of comfort. Not for closeness. But to listen.

To your heart.

To the quiet betrayals happening beneath your skin.

You could feel his breath hitch when it faltered. You could feel the way his thumb would start to trace soft, anxious circles on your stomach whenever it skipped.

He never said anything.

But it terrified him.

And somehow, that terrified you more.

Because if he was scared, a creature who had walked this earth longer than you could comprehend, who feared nothing and no one, what chance did you have?

The fireflies blinked around your feet again, little golden lights rising and falling like tiny prayers. The trees whispered overhead.

And Remmick stayed close.

Always close.

As if his nearness alone might steady you. Might hold you together.

But some things couldn’t be held.

Not forever.

And you both knew it.

Even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The morning started quiet.

Soft wind curling in through the open windows, carrying the faint smell of honeysuckle and damp earth. Sunlight poured in gentle stripes across the wooden floorboards, warm and golden, like the house itself was still waking up alongside you.

You hummed a little under your breath as you moved through the sitting room, fingertips trailing lightly across the old lace curtains as you straightened them. Dust motes spun in the light like tiny dancers, catching on the fabric of your dress as you bent to tuck a stray corner of the rug back into place.

It felt good to move. To do something.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Remmick, of course, didn’t agree. He never did.

He was only a few paces behind you now, arms folded across his chest, leaning lazy against the doorway. But you could feel his stare, heavy as a hand at your back. Watching every little thing. Waiting.

“Sugar, I told ya, I can get that,” he drawled softly. “Ain’t no sense in you strainin’ yourself none.”

You waved him off with a small smile. “I’m not strainin’. Just tidyin’.”

His brow twitched, jaw shifting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the place to press.

You weren’t fooling him.

You never really did.

Still, you moved carefully to the small table near the window, adjusting the vase there, fingers brushing over the wildflowers you’d gathered days before. They were already starting to droop a bit, their colors dulling under the weight of time.

That was the thing about delicate things.

They didn’t always last long.

Remmick stepped forward as you fussed with the tablecloth edge, voice gentle but firm. “Darlin’, truly. Let me.”

“I got it.”

You heard the faint exhale through his nose. A sound halfway between patience and worry. “You always got it. But that don’t mean you should.” His tone thickened a touch, slipping into that old softness when he got like this.

You didn’t answer. You just kept smoothing the fabric, pretending your fingers weren’t trembling slightly where they rested.

And for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But then,

It hit.

Sudden.

Fast.

Like your lungs forgot what they were made to do.

You felt it first as a tightness, sharp and squeezing, high in your chest, and then the air simply wouldn’t come. Your head went light. The room spun soft at the edges, colors bleeding like watercolors left too long in the rain.

Your knees buckled before your mind even caught up.

But you never hit the floor.

Because Remmick was there.

Quicker than any man ought to move. Like he’d known, heard, the shift inside you before it even fully arrived. His arms caught around your middle, pulling you up against him in one swift, desperate motion. The vase tipped from the table and shattered somewhere behind you, but neither of you looked.

“Easy, easy now, I got ya, I got ya,” his voice broke, fruitlessly attempting to mask its own panic as he lowered you gently to the floor, cradling you upright against his chest.

You gasped, mouth open, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. The pressure in your ribs pulsed like a fist tightening around your heart.

“Oh, Christ almighty- breathe for me, sweetheart, please, come on now,” His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking fast and shaky against your cheek. “Stay with me, hear? Just stay with me.”

Your vision narrowed, tunneling to the sharp blue of his eyes. Wide. Wild. His pupils blown so wide the color barely held. There was fear there, deep and raw, more than you’d ever seen from him before.

He was scared.

Truly scared.

And Lord, if that didn’t scare you more.

“I c-can’t-” you managed to wheeze, voice thin and breaking.

“Yes ya can. Yes ya can, baby. You’re right here with me. That’s it. That’s it, c’mon.” His arm tightened around you, steadying your weight as his free hand moved, pressing flat and careful against your sternum, like he could calm the storm inside you if he just touched it right. “Slow now, easy. Don’t fight it, breathe with me, darlin’.”

He rocked you gently as he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic, trying to guide your body back to itself. You felt the faint tremble in his limbs. He was shaking.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Eyes on me, sugar, okay?”

You did.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

The panic gnawed at your chest, but his voice, barely managing to keep itself together, laced with something old and desperate, cut through enough to ground you.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, there ya go.” His breathing exaggerated, slow and deep, trying to pull you into his rhythm. “In through the nose now, c’mon. Just like we do. Easy.”

Your chest hitched.

Then, finally, air.

Ragged and shallow at first, but air nonetheless. Enough to make the black at the edges of your vision pull back slightly.

“There it is, there she is,” Remmick exhaled, his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of it. “Good girl. Good girl, that’s it.”

You clutched weakly at his shirtfront, fingers curling into the fabric as your breathing steadied inch by inch. Tears pricked your eyes, partly from the panic, partly from the sheer relief of it.

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Shh. Don’t you worry ‘bout none of that now.” His hand never left your face, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But you could hear the strain behind his words.

Could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something back.

For the first time since you’d known him, Remmick looked like a man barely holding on.

“Remmick…” you whispered, voice still hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

His face broke then, like the word wounded him. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry for, sweetheart. Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked again as he blinked back tears of his own. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t.” He swallowed hard, pulling you tighter against him. “That’s why I’m here. I got you. Always got you.”

The house had gone so quiet you could hear both your heartbeats.

Yours, still uneven.

His, pounding fast as a hammer.

The evening light bled soft through the windows, painting the little house in long streaks of gold. Cicadas buzzed outside, low and steady, a hum that sat heavy beneath the quiet between you.

You hadn’t moved far from the spot where he caught you earlier.

Even now, hours later, you sat curled against him on the small settee, your head resting on his chest, his arms locked tight around you like he was still scared you might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Truth was, you didn’t want to.

The air between you had held nothing but silence for what felt like forever. But you’d known this was coming. Could feel it building behind his ribcage with every breath.

And finally, when the last threads of daylight slipped below the trees, he spoke.

“Y’know there’s another way.”

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

His voice was low. Steady on the surface, but trembling beneath, like something brittle pressed thin. The words caught now and then, like his throat couldn’t quite carry the weight of them.

“Y’don’t have to suffer like this, darlin’.” His hand rubbed slow along your arm. “I can stop it. You know I can.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight together. “Remmick…”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened, almost instinctively. “I can keep ya safe. Keep ya here. No more of this. This sickness eatin’ at ya, takin’ little pieces more each day.” His chest hitched beneath your cheek. “Ya wouldn’t have to feel like that no more.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. They shone too bright in the dim room, already wet at the corners, like just saying it out loud had cracked something open inside him.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered.

His face broke a little right there, like the words wounded him sharper than any knife could’ve.

“Y’don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice shook, barely more than breath. “Y’don’t- sweetheart, y’don’t see what I see. Y’don’t feel it.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft but firm. “I’ve thought about it. Long before now. And I know it sounds easy. Temptin’, even. But it ain’t livin’. Not for me.”

His breath hitched again, faster now. “Y’don’t know what it’s like. What it’s like for me, watchin’ ya like this. Every time ya stumble, every time your breath catches, I hear it. I hear your heart struggle. I hear what’s comin’ before ya even feel it.” His hand cupped your face suddenly, his thumb trembling where it brushed your cheek. “And one day I won’t hear it quick enough. One day I’ll be too slow.”

“Remmick-”

“Please.” The word broke out of him, so earnestly it made your throat ache. “Don’t make me watch ya go.”

Tears slipped free down his face now, unchecked. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as his hands clutched you tighter like the world itself was trying to pull you away from him.

“I can fix it. I can. Just say it. Say y’want me to, and it’s done.” His voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and desperate. “I’ll be gentle with ya. Ya won’t even feel a thing. You’ll be safe. Forever.”

You reached up, pressing your hands over his where they held your face, trying to steady him.

“No,” you whispered. “Remmick, no.”

His whole body shuddered beneath you like the word shattered him all over again.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single word, the sob behind it splitting straight up his throat. “Why won’t ya let me keep ya?”

“Because it’s not meant for me,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” He choked on the words, burying his face into the crook of your neck now, clutching at you like something drowning. “I can’t lose you. I can’t, darlin’. Please, please, don’t ask me to stand by and watch ya fade. Don’t ask me to bury ya. Not again.”

His shoulders heaved with the weight of it, his sobs spilling out ragged and broken into your skin.

You held him.

Ran your fingers through his hair as his body trembled against you.

“I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “Lord knows I’m scared too. But I need you to love me enough to let me go when the time comes.”

“I-” he gasped, breath catching again. “I don’t know how to live without ya.”

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the salt of his tears soak into your dress. “You won’t have to. Not yet.”

He clung to you tighter still, as though each passing second might be stolen if he loosened his grip.

The house stayed quiet.

Only the sound of his breathing and your heartbeat filled the room, steady for now.

And so you held him, as the night stretched long and heavy, wrapped together in the slow ache of what neither of you could stop coming.

You wished it had killed you quickly.

That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

Something swift, something merciful. Something that hit like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a sentence, gone before the thought even finished forming. You’d prayed for that, in quiet, exhausted moments. You’d begged for it, even. A sharp end, a quick fade. No drawn-out aching. No time for goodbyes.

But instead, it dragged you slow toward the end. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. Like the sickness wanted to savor its work.

Some mornings it started behind your eyes, a dull pressure you couldn’t blink away. Other days, it sat like lead in your spine, turning each small movement into something heavy and hollow. There were hours when you felt like a husk of yourself. Nothing inside but heat, and pain, and the weight of what was slipping through your fingers.

The mornings blurred together. Then the afternoons. Then the nights.

Meals became sips of broth. Then just water. Then even that burned going down. The world outside the bedroom slipped further and further out of reach. The sound of the creek, the light breeze from the back porch, the smell of wet grass after rain, gone now, like dreams too faint to hold onto. Each day stole more than the last. More air. More strength. More pieces of yourself.

Until all you had left was this bed.

And him.

Remmick never left your side. Not for a second. Not once.

He was always there, his silhouette hunched near the headboard, one hand gripping yours like a lifeline, the other on your torso, like he needed to feel the steady rise and fall of your chest to remind himself you were still breathing.

You’d lost count of how many nights he sat upright beside you, shoulders stiff and unmoving as stone, his frame outlined in the faint, flickering light of the oil lamp he kept burning low on the dresser. His clothes grew rumpled. His hair stayed uncombed. Days passed, and still he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Like his body had surrendered to the same rhythm as yours. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He cradled your hand in both of his like it was the last piece of you he could hold on to. Like if he held tight enough, if he laced your fingers between his and pressed the back of your hand to his chest, he might somehow keep your soul from slipping loose.

He barely spoke anymore.

No more half-jokes about your stubbornness. No more soft stories about the land or the creek or the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That steady hum of his voice, the one that once wrapped around you so tenderly and completely was gone now, tucked deep beneath the weight of his silence.

Just watched. Listened. Waited.

The house was dim, curtains drawn to keep the light soft on your skin. He’d done that himself. He said the sun hurt your eyes. Said the light made your cheeks too flushed. But mostly, he did it so he could sit with you in a room that didn’t ask for anything else. So the world outside wouldn’t press in.

The only sound was the steady rasp of your breathing, thin and fragile as a thread pulled too taut.

You could feel it.

The end wasn’t far.

It sat just beyond the horizon of your chest. Looming, certain. Like a tide finally rolling in to claim what it had been circling all along. You felt it in the cold weight at the base of your spine, in the dull flutter of your heart as it labored harder for less. It wasn’t fear you felt, exactly. Just… clarity. Like the world had stilled enough to let you see it for what it really was.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking to the heat beneath them. You searched for him even though you already knew where he was.

Right there.

Always right there.

He looked up the moment your gaze found him, like he’d been waiting for that small flicker of movement all day.

His hands tightened around yours the second he saw your eyes open. Not hard, just firm enough to steady himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might fall apart entirely.

His face was pale, drawn thin from the weight of too many sleepless days. The angles of his cheekbones had sharpened. His jaw looked tense enough to crack. The skin beneath his eyes had hollowed into deep shadows, bruised with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a lack of rest, but from a soul stretched too far for too long.

Grief was already carving its place inside him. You saw it in every angle of his face. Every shallow breath he took like he was afraid it might be his last with you.

And still, he held your hand.

Still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because to him, nothing else ever would.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice broke as he whispered it, low and rough.

You turned your head with effort, the motion slow and small like everything else these days. Still, you managed a soft smile just for him. It didn’t stretch far, didn’t brighten the way it once had, but it was real.

“Hey,” you breathed.

Remmick leaned in closer, close enough for his shadow to fall across your face. His fingers found your hair and ever so gently played with your curls, like he was afraid even that might be too much. His hands never used to shake. Now they trembled like he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even this moment.

“Y’still with me?” he asked, voice tight with held-in breath.

You gave the faintest nod. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shuddering breath and gripped your hand tighter in his. His thumb rubbed across your knuckles, over and over again, like maybe he could ground himself there. Keep you anchored with the rhythm of it.

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t think I can sit here and just… watch ya fade away.”

You brushed your thumb along the back of his hand, your touch weak but steady. “You don’t have to watch. Just stay beside me. That’s all I want.”

Remmick blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway, slipping past his lashes in silence. He shook his head, his whole body trembling like something inside him was unraveling.

Because it was.

“I could stop it,” he whispered. “Y’know I could. I’ve been beggin’ you for weeks now, but... sweetheart, please. Please just let me. One word, and ya won’t have to go.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, breath hitching between words.

“I can fix it,” he said, broken and full of hope so fragile it barely stood upright. “I swear to God, I can fix it. Ya’d never feel like this again. Ya’d stay. We’d have time. Real time. Just say yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a long, tired breath, letting his voice wrap around you like a favorite song. You wanted so badly to take the ache from him. To make it all better.

But your heart had already made its peace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice soft as you could manage. “I know. I know you could. And I know you’d give up everythin’ to do it.”

He clutched your hand tighter against his chest, like he could keep your warmth there a little longer. His tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath you both.

“Then why?” he asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why won’t ya let me? I can’t lose ya, sugar. I don’t know who I am without ya no more.”

You opened your eyes, and the sadness in his face nearly broke you in two.

“Because it wouldn’t be me anymore,” you whispered. “Not really. Not the way I am now. And I want you to remember me like this. Just me. Alive. Human. Yours.”

He shook his head again, wild with grief. “I don’t care what ya’d be. I’d still love ya. I’d love ya through all of it. I’d follow ya into hell if I had to.”

You smiled through the tears. “I know you would.”

Your breath hitched softly, chest fluttering like a bird trying to lift its wings one last time. He was already leaning close, so you reached up with what little strength you had and brushed your fingertips along his jaw. He caught your hand halfway and pressed it to his cheek like it meant everything.

“I love you, Remmick,” you whispered, so warm and sure it made his eyes squeeze shut.

He folded into the words like they gave him somewhere safe to fall.

“I love you more,” he sobbed, voice so thick he could barely speak. “More than life. More than anythin’. You hear me? You were always my breath, my light, my- my whole damn world.”

You smiled again, the edges weak but sweet. “Will you kiss me?”

His answer didn’t come in words, only in motion.

He bent toward you, lips trembling as he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The shape of every goodbye wrapped in one final touch. You could taste the salt of his grief, feel the way he poured every last bit of love into you.

When he pulled back, you leaned your forehead to his, your breaths mingling.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes shut tight.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And you smiled for him.

One last time.

Your eyes drifted closed.

Your chest rose, slow and shallow.

Then stilled.

The room fell silent.

The quiet stretched long.

Longer than time.

Longer than grief.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Not for him.

And then,

You gasped.

Eyes flying open. Chest heaving. Sharp and full and wrong.

The world slammed back into you like a storm door flung wide. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. You choked on the first breath like it hurt, because it did. It burned. Your lungs screamed with it, your body flooded with sensation you’d already let go of. Air. Heat. Sound. Blood in your veins that thudded too hard and too fast.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hovering above you, eyes wide and wet and terrified. His mouth trembled as it formed your name, soundless at first, then barely whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter something sacred.

Your body was still wrapped in his arms.

Still warm.

Still here.

He was staring at you like you weren’t real. Like you might vanish if he blinked. His whole frame shook against yours, every muscle tensed to breaking. Until it wasn’t.

Until something in him gave way all at once, and he collapsed forward.

You caught him out of instinct, what little strength you had now cradling him back. But it was strange, how heavy he felt. How fast his body sank against yours.

And then you saw it.

His mouth.

Red.

Not the dry red of old blood. Not the glossy red of smudged lipstick or split skin.

Fresh red. Your red.

His fangs, half-bared and still slick, glinted faintly in the low light. His lips stained deep like wine on white linen. No attempt to clean them. No shame.

Only relief.

A smile had begun to form on his face, shaky and unsure, like a man standing at the altar of a god he’d never believed in until now.

You knew what he’d done.

Before you could feel anything about it, not anger, not sorrow, not horror, he sank deeper into your chest, arms going slack but clinging all the same. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to faint or hold on forever.

He’d spent everything.

Poured it all into you.

And now,

Remmick was trembling, wracked again and again with guttural sobs. Breathing, but just barely.

You lay there, dazed and aching, one hand caught in the back of his shirt, the other pressed gently to his damp hair.

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was something else.

Heavy.

Stained with love and betrayal and devotion and grief, all tangled so tightly together they might as well have been the same thing.

And you...

You held him anyway.

[scarletmika]

Speak Now : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Summary: Bob Floyd is madly in love with you, and you're in love with him. The problem? You're getting married...and it's not to Bob.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), some angst, some fluff, insane amounts of pining, idiots in love, language, female reader, maybe some incorrect descriptions of the Navy, suggestive and steamy but no actual smut, drunken confessions/moves, moment of cheating, miscommunication, happy ending!

Word Count: 16,268 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

You were twenty-two when you first met Bob Floyd.

Wide-eyed, naïve to the world, you had arrived at Officer Candidate School in Rhode Island with a bright smile, prepared for the future you had chosen for yourself. Your great-grandfather was in the Navy, your grandfather, your father, and now you. But you were determined to be special, to be the first of your family to become a fighter pilot.

It was that thought running through your head that distracted you, causing you to trip over your own two feet when you’d just barely made it inside the doors of the main building. Luckily for you, someone was there to catch your fall.

“Whoa-! Are you good?”

Baby-faced, sandy blonde hair, and glasses that you, frankly, found adorable were staring back at you when you’d finally straightened yourself out. Those blue eyes behind said glasses never left you as you dusted yourself off, taking hold of your suitcase again and giving the guy in front of you a kind smile.

“Just peachy. Lost in my own head,” you couldn’t help but giggle at yourself, the smile on the guy’s face growing as you stuck your hand out and gave your name. “Thanks for the save, there. Can’t already be bumbling around like an idiot before we’ve even gotten started.”

“Bob Floyd, and d-don’t worry, you weren’t,” he paused for a second, tilting his head slightly with a teasing grin this time as he let go of your hand. “W-Well, I can’t lie and say I didn’t see you swatting at that bee outside. Bumblebees and bumbling through doors…sounds like the makings of a pretty good call-”

“If I’ve managed to get a callsign this early on in my career, I’m never letting you forget it,” he only laughed at your pointed look and fell into step beside you.

“Noted, just a personal nickname for now, then. So, uh, where’d you graduate from?”

“Boston University, Bachelor's in Physics. You?” 

You both thanked the woman at the front desk who gave you your assignments for your bunks for the rest of the multi-week course.

“University of Montana, Bachelor’s in Mechanical Engineering,”

The two of you came to a stop in front of the hallway before you; your barracks down to the left, and his down to the right.

“Want to grab dinner tonight after we settle in?”

“Yeah, I-I’d love that,” that smile on Bob’s face turned shy as he looked down at his feet for a moment. “I’ll grab you a coffee, how do you like it?”

“Two sugars, a dash of cream,”

“Perfect,”

“Well, Bob Floyd, I guess this is it for now. See you at dinner?”

“See you there, Bumble,”

It was meant to be just a nickname; he was meant to be the only person ever to call you that. But after graduating from officer training together, then attending and graduating flight training in Florida, you’d been shipped off to your different squadrons. Bob was off to Naval Air Station Lemoore in California, and you had been assigned to Naval Air Station Jacksonville in Florida.

The man who had become your best friend, your rock throughout training, was being shipped to the other side of the country. Approximately 2,546 miles away from you, and three hours behind you. That didn’t stop the constant texts or late-night calls to keep one another updated in the way you used to when you lived in the same barracks; if anything, they became a constant in both of your lives.

And when you’d stumbled through the doors of the base on your first day, your squadron was quick to try to give you your callsign for your clumsiness. But you smiled, and said you already had one: Bumble.

It was at Top Gun training where you finally had Bob Floyd back in your life consistently; that is, at least for the duration of your 13-week training. And you’d never forget the smile on his face when he’d pulled away from the first hug you’d shared in years and gotten his first look at your helmet, adorned with your callsign that you had somehow managed to keep a secret for so long.

“Bumble,” he’d said it so adoringly, in a way that had you trying to ignore the strange feeling that bubbled up in your chest at the way he smiled and admired the yellow and black stripes along your helmet. “I really did give you your callsign, didn’t I? Bet they think it’s actually because of the bee and not the tripping.”

“Eh, let them decide. We know where it really came from. But I think we should focus on how the hell ‘Bob’ became not just your name, but your callsign, too,”

Leaving the program was hard, because leaving your best friend was hard. So, when just a few years later you had been called back to Top Gun for a specialized mission that took the best of the best, you couldn’t have been happier to be back with Bob. Then, with how quickly your new squad had taken to each other, it didn’t take any of you long to say ‘yes’ when you’d been offered a permanent position in San Diego as an elite squadron.

That’s how you found yourself here, seated in the same back-corner table of the Hard Deck on a Friday night as you always were, surrounded by the team that had become your family just a year-and-a-half after that special detachment became permanent.

Natasha laughed at your side, recounting some story for Fanboy and Payback about how Rooster had hit on a woman while the two of them were seeing a show downtown the night before. Hangman is instantly arguing back that Rooster ‘isn’t slick enough’ to pull that off, and Coyote is backing him up as he typically is. Maverick is at the other end of the table, simply shaking his head at you all as he thanks Penny for his next beer with a kiss on her cheek, something that quirks the corners of your lips up just slightly.

Bob sat right across from you, at the far end of the table from Maverick, and you can’t help but find yourself watching him. He’s dressed down, as you all are for once besides Mav, in a white t-shirt clinging to his skin with a blue flannel hanging haphazardly around him. You recognize it, since you’d bought it for him for his birthday three years ago. He’s laughing at Hangman and Rooster’s petty argument, sipping gingerly on a Diet Coke. You’d only ever seen him drink three times over the decade you had known him, so it wasn’t surprising. Neither was the cup of peanuts he was snacking on.

His eyes drifted to meet yours, and his smile grew wider the second he did. You swallowed the lump in your throat, shoving that flutter in your chest away into the locked compartment you always kept it in, and smiled back at him. Your best friend, your rock. One of the only people you could never imagine life without, and you never wanted to find out what life without him would be like. You weren’t even sure at this point how you’d survived your entire childhood without him by your side, because life didn’t make sense without Bob Floyd.

Lips suddenly pressed into the right side of your head, your body instinctively shifting over as the body next to you finally sat down, arm thrown around the back of your chair and fingertips ghosting over your bare shoulder for just a moment.

“Sorry, couldn’t decide on a drink! Figured you’d want another vodka cranberry, babe,”

Your reply was quiet, just a simple thank you, as you took the drink from your fiancée’s outstretched hand.

Austin Fletcher was what some called the perfect man. At least, that’s how your old squadmates back in Jacksonville described him. A Senior Financial Analyst in the company named for his own family, working his way within the next 5 years to take over as CEO from his father after his retirement. Chocolate brown eyes, perfect vision that he could thank his laser-eye surgery from 5 years ago for, forever tanned skin from too many days spent in the San Diego sun, and jet black hair that always seemed to be perfectly combed back. Combined with the expensive taste in outfits, given the watches that would cost an entire month of your Naval salary, he always looked like he walked straight off a magazine cover.

And he was yours, and you were his. And in just a month and a half’s time, now, you’d be Mrs. Fletcher. The wife of who was once considered San Diego’s most eligible bachelor.

Active, ambitious, efficient, a true entrepreneur. Everyone’s dream man.

“Couldn’t even bring us some refills, Austy?” Hangman teased the man from down the table. There were light snickers from your team at the comment, everyone knowing how much he hated that nickname. You could feel him tense slightly beside you, and didn’t hesitate to send Hangman a pleading look, begging him to stop.

“You’ve got the barmaid at your beck and call, didn’t think I had to!” Austin had joked, gesturing in the direction of Penny with his own beer bottle as he laughed at his own comment. No one else laughed, though, not that he seemed to care. Penny’s glare was obvious from down the table, as you averted your eyes to take a larger swig of your drink than necessary.

Austin…definitely had his faults. Callous was probably the best way to describe it when he made comments like that. Conceited might even be a good word for it. If you thought too long about it, there were probably a hundred other synonyms that you could dream up.

Your eyes caught Bob’s, already looking at you, and that easy smile he wore before was pitched down now. It was easy to track the movement of his eyes, the way they flickered to the hand holding your drink, to the shining silver diamond ring on your finger that would cost you at least six months of your salary, before they flicked away. That hand was quickly back below the table, lying in your lap where no one could see it before you even had a chance to really think about it.

“What we should really be focusing on is that drill from earlier today, and that insane move that you pulled off, Bumble,” it was Coyote speaking up, pointing down the table to you with a smirk as your friends whistled, getting a small laugh out of you. “Pulling off a fucking Herbst maneuver? I may have to finally concede and call you the best damn pilot I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, let’s not go that far,” Hangman cut in, as he usually did, with a wink sent your way that had you rolling your eyes playfully. “Still no confirmed air-to-air kills like me, so I think I still have an edge.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know. I bet those two kills are what you use to entice the ladies every night, instead of those two inches downstairs,” Natasha practically choked on her drink at your comment, a smirk etched into your lips. Payback and Fanboy were slamming on the table in laughter while you watched Bob shake his head with a grin out of the corner of your eye. “Wasn’t that hard of a maneuver, Mav has been trying to teach us it for weeks-”

“Sometimes I don’t fully understand what it is you guys get paid to do,” Austin had cut in, cutting you off mid-sentence with another laugh and swig of his beer. “I mean, if you aren’t out there fighting any wars, then what are our tax dollars paying you guys to do? Play around in the air?”

Apathetic. Yeah, that was another word you could use for Austin. He never cared to hear about work, or really anything that happened between you and the rest of the squad. Apathetic, hedonistic, ignorant…yeah, that list really did go on.

“Non sibi sed patriae…means not for self, but for country,” it was Maverick who spoke up this time, and just the sound of his voice had each member of his team sitting up just the slightest bit straighter. When Mav put on his serious voice, you listened, even at the Hard Deck. “Means we spend our days preparing to protect this country at a moment’s notice…I’m sure you do something similar as a financial analyst, though.”

Another snicker ran through the entire team, and Rooster was the one this time having trouble keeping his laughter in. Even you were trying not to shake with laughter. Austin bristled next to you again before he recovered, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You caught Mav’s eye, though, mouthing a quick ‘thank you’ in his direction. His only response was a cool smile and a wink.

There were only so many of Austin’s stories from work, from meetings with clients, that you could stand, and you quickly found yourself grabbing your drink and leaving the table for the bar.

Many of the locals up around the bar nodded in your direction, knowing you and the squad from your usual nights out here, sliding off to the side to let you walk up and place your drink on the bar. Penny was on you in a second, an eyebrow raised.

“Let me guess; he started talking about market data and economic indicators again?”

“Just like he does every night,” you shot back with a laugh, though Penny looked less than impressed. You simply refilled your glass again, this time going heavier on the vodka than the cranberry without you even having to ask. “You’re the best, Pen.”

She’s left you alone in your thoughts, which, granted, was the last place you wanted to be. Your eyes simply stayed locked on your drink, staring down into the reddish-pink liquid, and every once in a while glancing back at that diamond that weighed heavily on your hand.

“Looks like you’re thinking hard over here, bee,”

Even if you hadn’t recognized the voice, you’d recognize the nickname anywhere. The Navy had stolen the nickname of Bumble from Bob Floyd, so he’d made it his mission to find another one. It wasn’t that hard to settle on bee, given that first conversation you had together.

You glanced over to him. He was leaning against the bar, giving you a tiny smile as Penny passed by and passed him another Diet Coke without a word.

“Well, I’m not thinking about market data, if that’s what you mean,” he’d laughed at that, and you held your glass out to clink against his Diet Coke can. “Here’s to the longest month and a half I’m about to have.”

You watched him, like you always did, even when you didn’t mean to. It wasn’t hard to see the way his smile dropped just slightly as he turned, leaning back against the bartop and looking in the direction of your table in the distance. You mirrored his actions.

“The future Mrs. Fletcher,” he’d let out a sigh, but you kept your eyes trained on your friends instead of looking at him. “I-I know Rooster was pestering you the other day, and you refused to say, but I have to know…how much did that damn venue in Del Mar cost?”

“After vendors…somewhere close to $70 grand, if I remember correctly,” Bob’s cough that sounded a lot like choking got you to finally look over at him, laughing lightly as you patted him on the back. The second he found his breath, his wide eyes turned to look at you, and you could only nod embarrassingly, your hand never straying from his back. “Trust me, I’m not happy about it. I wanted 50 guests, now it’s somewhere near 200. I wanted a vanilla cake, now it’s red velvet–hell, did you know my dress was fucking $8 thousand dollars?”

Bob, still wide-eyed, shook his head with a tiny smile back on his lips.

“$8 thousand for fabric i-is…insane. I hope you plan to wear it every day for the rest of your life,”

With a quick shove to his shoulder and a roll of your eyes, Bob laughed, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“No, trust me, I know. Almost an entire month’s salary for me, just so it can sit in my closet until the end of time,”

There was silence between you both for a moment as you really thought it all over. A venue you didn’t want, a guest count way too high for what you wanted, a cake you didn’t want, a dress you were terrified to wear given the price tag…it was, in fact, insane. It was just making this month and a half until you walked down the aisle even more exhausting. You just wanted it all to be over.

“You always wanted to get married at that country club, that one back home in Boston. Never near the beach,” Bob’s voice was soft when he spoke up again, just barely able to be heard in the rowdiness of the Hard Deck. But you heard him loud and clear, and you were listening. “Indoor or outdoor, whatever you preferred or whatever the New England weather allowed at the time. The perfect mix of rustic and modern. Perfect view of the city skyline in the distance. The fall, too, not the summer. You wanted to make sure you could see the changing colors in the leaves in the photos, and because you just love fall.”

When he finished speaking and turned to look at you, you were already looking at him. Your jaw was slack, lips just barely parted, and eyes wide as you stared at him in what you could only describe as wonder. Marveling at the way Bob Floyd, out of thin air, had just described to you everything you’d ever dreamt of for your wedding since you were a little girl.

“The same place my aunt got remarried when I was eight,” your head tilted as you spoke, a smile creeping up your lips. “I told you that, like, once back in officer training, when we were both on night duty. You…you remembered all that?”

“I remember everything about you,” was the only answer he gave back, combined with a tiny shrug of his shoulders. “You…you deserve the wedding you’ve always dreamed of.”

There it was again: that tug. That tug on your heart, on your very soul, that had happened sporadically throughout the last decade of knowing Bob Floyd. That tug that sent your stomach into your throat, as if you’d just been tossed over the hump of a roller coaster. It didn’t help when he looked at you like that, like the moon itself was forged by the very breath that left your chest.

He was the first to look away, clearing his throat as a flush crawled its way up his neck. You weren’t any better, tugging at the neckline of the halter top you wore to give yourself room to breathe, as if it was suffocating you.

“So, uh…you’re coming with Nat and me tomorrow, right? To my final dress fitting?”

“...wouldn’t miss it for the world,”

He didn’t. You knew where he was that next afternoon, standing out by that little black couch with Natasha, waiting for you to emerge from the boutique dressing room and stand on the platform before them. To twirl, to don your veil, to smile…like the perfect bride they’d dressed you to be.

The worker with you, Sasha, finished lacing off the back of your dress, exclaiming in excitement as she clapped her hands. You wanted her from the mirror in front of you as she fussed over the dress.

“Oh, you are just the most perfect bride!” Sasha exclaimed, swinging the door open and holding out her hand for you to take. “Most people might say that you’re a lucky woman to bag Austin Fletcher, but I’d say it’s the other way around!”

You’d laughed at her comment, taking her hand, but even you knew it was a pitiful laugh, your smile not meeting your eyes.

She’d paraded you out into the showroom, and you kept your eyes on the floor in front of you as she announced your presence to Natasha and Bob, placing you up on the little platform in front of the full-length mirror. You still didn’t look up as she bent you down to her slightly, draping the extravagant veil picked out by your future mother-in-law over your head. Only then did you finally look up.

Your eyes skipped right over Natasha and settled on Bob.

He wore a tiny smile, and even through the mirror, you could see the red blush to his skin, from his neck to his cheeks, dipping right under where his glasses lay. His hands were both in the pockets of his jeans as his foot tapped on the ground, a telltale sign that he was anxious. You knew him, you knew him too well. You knew that smile didn’t reach his eyes. You knew that little twinkle in his eyes wasn’t as bright as it could be.

“You are…” you could tell Natasha was trying not to get choked up, gladly taking a tissue from Sasha as you giggled lightly at her actions. “God, Bumble, you’re truly the most beautiful bride.”

“Well, let’s let our bride fully take it all in for a moment,” Sasha placed a hand on Natasha’s shoulder, guiding her off toward the room adjacent to your own. “The bridesmaid dresses just came in, and I think you’re going to love the way they look after those alterations.”

It wasn’t until they had fully left the room that you’d spun around on the platform to face Bob, throwing out your hands to the side gently with a little shrug of your shoulders.

“Well…what’s the verdict here, baby-on-board?”

He seemed to swallow most of his laugh and shook his head, taking a few steps toward you until he stood just a few feet from you. His eyes trailed from the veil, down to the edges of the skirt, and back up to the veil.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this dress definitely wasn’t your mother’s pick,”

That had gotten a hearty laugh out of you and a genuine smile, as you spun back to the mirror. Bob had met your family plenty of times over the years, at every graduation event, just as you had met his. They adored him, thought of him as part of the family, like his own family thought of you as one of their own, too. Of course, he could clock that your mother hated this dress.

The skirts of the dress billowed with the movements, swinging with you as you examined your own reflection. A full princess ball gown, adorned with lace from head to toe. The fabric was heavy, the skirts thick, and the lace continued down the sleeves that came to rest at your wrists. The veil itself was more of that same lace, its length trailing down the train of the dress that was much too long for your liking.

“No, not at all,” was your response after a moment, your hands gliding over the lace of the dress. “This was a Mrs. Fletcher pick. With the way she cried, and his sister Melissa cried, it…was hard to say no. It really is a beautiful dress.”

“It's kind of hideous,” Bob put bluntly, taking another step toward you, but there was a tiny smile playing at his lips, a hint of teasing laced through his voice. “I think you’re the only thing saving it.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment, but couldn’t deny the smile that quirked up on your lips, or that tug in your chest once again. You eyed the dress again, eyes trailing over the lace along the sleeves.

“It’s not hideous, it's just… It's not-”

“It’s not you,”

In the mirror, your eyes found him again. The second he said it, that statement that you’d been begging someone to say since you’d first tried on the dress, had a weight visibly lifting off your shoulders as you let out a sigh.

“No…no, it's not me,”

You could see it, the way Bob hesitated for just a second, before he stepped up beside you at the platform. Even with that extra inch the platform gave, he was still taller than you, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him in the mirror.

“I’ve seen it, y-your dream dress. You showed it to me before,” his voice was light, not a whisper, but just light. As if the moment itself was delicate, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it without shattering the glass. “A-line, not a ball gown. You always hated having too much fabric, found it too heavy. You wanted something freeing, flowy…something that reminded you of the feeling of flying your F-18, your favorite thing in the world to do. The lace is good, but…too much. Same with the veil, you always hated those things.”

There was another brief moment of hesitation, behind his hand came up, fingertips just barely ghosting over your arm. Your breath caught, eyes following him, as his followed the length of your arm.

“Sleeves…you hated these, too, at least like this. You wanted them shorter, flowy again. A v-neck neckline, too, not these sweetheart ones. You always said the sweetheart necklines made you think of your high school prom dress, which made you think of your asshole ex-boyfriend, which in turn landed them on your ‘banned forever’ list.”

A breathy laugh managed to escape you at the memory, your eyes still following him in the mirror.

“You describe my dream dress as if you’ve pictured me in it before…”

His eyes finally found yours again in the mirror. You weren’t sure what emotion it was you saw, what was crawling in his gaze as he looked at you, mouth slightly parted and tongue dipping out to wet his lips in a way that brought that tug back in full force. Whatever it was in his eyes, it was heavy, like it was holding the weight of a thousand words never said before.

And suddenly, when you pictured yourself walking down the aisle, you were in the dress that Bob had described. Flowy, light, and walking down the aisle in that rustic country club overlooking the skyline of the city you’d called home for so many years. But when you were handed off to the groom, your hand placed in his, it wasn’t Austin you were standing across from, that you were about to become the wife of. You weren’t standing there to become Mrs. Fletcher…you were standing there to become Mrs. Floyd.

“Hey…” you and Bob jumped away from one another, as if you were both suddenly a blazing fire that the other was trying to run from. Natasha was leaning in the doorway of the other room. Her eyes flickered back and forth between you both for just a moment before she nodded her head toward the room she’d just left. “Come on, Sasha wants you to take another look at these bridesmaid dresses before I give the okay on them.”

Wordlessly, you nodded and followed after her, never once glancing back at Bob. You refused to meet Nat’s eyes, even as they followed and watched you.

They kept watching you, too. You knew Natasha; she was observant. If she caught wind of something, she wasn’t going to let it go.

You were three weeks out from the wedding. Your dress was hung carefully in the spare bedroom of your apartment, alongside the bridesmaid dresses in their own bags. Everything was confirmed, vendors were a go, and everyone on the guest list on both sides had RSVP’d. Your mother and brother were in town for the month, staying in a hotel right on North Island. Austin’s family and extended family were all in town. You were in the homestretch, the finish line of what had become the most stressful time of your life in sight.

While Nat was your maid of honor, Austin’s sister Melissa had taken it upon herself to plan your entire bachelorette. Given the hectic work schedules that both you and Nat had, neither of you objected. Truthfully, she’d done well. An Airbnb, a gorgeous cabin, nestled right outside of Lake Isabella, north of Los Angeles, for the weekend. Relaxation, nature, and no stress of being in the city, just as you knew Austin was doing for his bachelor party with his friends.

Melissa and Terri, or ‘Dove’ as you knew her during your time in Jacksonville, were swimming together in the little alcove of the lake you’d all found during your hike after lunch. You and Natasha had taken to the man-made hot springs right on the edge of the lake, relaxing in the water and just watching the two women swim and converse from a distance.

“I can’t believe you convinced Maverick to walk you down the aisle and give you away,”

You laughed wholeheartedly at Nat’s comment. With your head thrown back against the rocks, you maneuvered your sunglasses to the top of your head to fully look at her.

“The second I told him that my dad has been out of the picture for me since I was 16 when he divorced my mom and remarried his comically young new wife, he didn’t hesitate. Besides, he knows he practically adopted us all as kids when he took us on as his full-time squadron,”

“True, I think he secretly loves it,” you hummed in agreement, turning your head back to the sky to soak in the sun. Nat was quiet for only a moment before speaking again. “I’ve been meaning to ask…how have you been, with everything?”

A complicated question. A loaded one, honestly.

“Doing the best I can,” you answered honestly, shifting in the warm pool of water surrounding you. “It’s just…stressful. Can’t wait until it’s all over.”

“Mhm…and you’re having no second thoughts?”

You hesitated for just a moment.

“Might have some issues with the fundamentals of the venue, my dress, and such, but…no, not at all,”

“Really? So the fact that you’re madly in love with Bob Floyd isn’t making you second-guess your wedding?”

Even in the warmth of the hot spring, your blood went cold. The water splashed as you fully sat up, now leaning back against the rocks. Your nervous gaze shot out to Melissa and Dove, but neither seemed to have heard the comment. Your gaze drifted back to Natasha, but all you found was an easy smile on her face. Not a single ounce of judgment.

That alone was enough to pull a simple sigh from you. There was no use in lying.

“How’d you put it together?”

“Always had a hunch,” she answered easily, sitting up as well and tossing her own sunglasses off to the side. “A few weeks ago, in the dress shop. I don’t know…I could just finally see it. More importantly, how long have you felt like this?”

“I’m not sure when it happened. He was just my best friend for a long time, even if I could always admit to myself that he was objectively attractive,” you shook your head with a slight laugh. Truthfully, you couldn’t believe you were finally admitting this out loud. “I hadn’t seen him for years, it was just texts and calls. Then, we both got into Top Gun, and the second I was back with him…there was this tug in my chest, and it’s just never gone away. I’ve…never told anyone this before.”

Natasha moved, the water around you both jostling, as she turned fully on the stone seating to look at you. You kept your eyes trained on the two in the water, terrified that one of them would overhear you.

“Bumble…why did you never tell him?”

“God, I tried to. Once,” you laughed incredulously at yourself, shaking your head as you willed the tears not to appear at the mere thought of the memory. “After we had become a permanent squad, we were at Hangman’s celebrating his new apartment. Somehow, we started talking about dating, and then we just went around in a circle giving an update on our dating lives.”

You tore your gaze from the girls in the lake, turning to Natasha now as those tears threatened to spill despite your push to keep them at bay.

“You spoke, and then it was my turn. And I looked at him, sitting beside me, and I thought…fuck it, what do I have to lose? You guys had put a few drinks in me, and lord knows I get a confidence kick when I’m drunk. So I confessed that I had a crush on a guy. Bradley asked if you guys knew him, and I said yes. I talked about how he was kind of nerdy, a little shy, but once you got to know him he was a sarcastic little shit just like they all were. That he was the perfect gentleman, the most chivalrous man I’d ever met, and objectively the most attractive man I’d ever laid eyes on. Mickey asked how long I’d known him for, and I said it felt like I’d known him my entire life. Even asked how often I would see him, and I said every damn day.”

“Oh god,” realization seemed to finally dawn on Natasha’s face, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as it dropped open. “Oh god, we were all too drunk to realize…you were talking about Bob.”

“Yup. Maybe I was just too drunk, but I thought I was being painfully obvious. So then it’s Bob’s turn, and what does he say?” you scoffed, furiously wiping at your cheek to rid yourself of the tears that managed to escape. “He says he’s been talking to some girl, and met her on an app. All this time–I’d spent years overanalyzing every moment between us–thinking there was a chance he felt the same. Instead, I laid my heart on the line to find out that my love had always been unrequited. So, while you were all passed out that night, I decided that I needed to move on. I downloaded those apps for myself, and a week later, I was on a date with Austin.”

The first time you had let yourself cry over Bob Floyd had been that night, when everyone was drunk and passed out around the living room. This moment, in a fucking hot spring on your bachelorette trip, you finally let yourself cry again over the man you’d been in love with for years.

Natasha let you, didn’t say a word. She only scooted in close, curling up into your side and letting your head rest on her shoulder, holding you as you finally cried, keeping her eyes on the other two girls, blissfully unaware of what was occurring on the edges of the lake. She didn’t speak up again until minutes later, when your silent sobs had finally subsided.

“Bumble…if you’re crying, then you still love him. Why are you getting married?”

“Because I have to,” your voice was broken, thick and hoarse from your own tears. “You know what my mother said when I told her I was engaged? ‘Good, your biological clock is ticking.’ And, fuck, I know she meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t wrong. We’re not getting any younger. Then, Dove and the rest of my fucking old squad, I told them and all they could do was make comments about how I ‘can’t fumble this man’ or how I’m ‘the luckiest girl in the world.’ Everyone just…expects this of me, and I can’t disappoint them. Plus...I can’t spend my entire life in love with someone who will only ever love me as his best friend.”

“What if you’re wrong, though?” Nat’s voice was gentle, reassuring, her arms squeezing you in the most comforting hug she could muster. “Babe, I see the way he looks at you. There isn’t a single one of us who doesn’t see it. He looks at you like you’re the sun, the moon, and every star in the damn sky combined. You got on those apps, you met Austin, to get over him. What if he was just doing the same?”

“He had plenty of time to tell me, then, if he felt the same, which I guarantee he doesn’t. He kept his secrets, just like I did,” was all the answer you could muster. You drew in a deep breath, trying to steel your nerves and bring a semblance of calm back to your inner self. “Maybe I don’t love Austin the way I love Bob, maybe I never will…I don’t think I’ll ever love someone the way I love him. Maybe he’s not my soulmate, not Mr. Right, but he’s safe. He has a job, he has goals, he has plans for the future…I can’t keep living in a world of what-ifs, Nattie, I can’t keep loving someone who doesn’t love me back. I need stability, I need someone sure of me. He put a ring on my finger; he wouldn’t do that if he weren’t sure of it.”

There was silence for a few moments after that, and you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince Natasha of this marriage…or yourself. Finally, you felt her sigh, and she just wrapped you up in an even tighter hug.

“I love you, Bumble, and I will always support you. We all will, no matter what you do, because it’s your life and in the end, it’s your choice. But, in the interest of being honest…you aren’t yourself when you’re with Austin. This entire wedding…it isn’t you. I don’t want to see you lose yourself to be with someone you feel you have to be with. If you marry the wrong person, the man you don’t love…you’re going to kill yourself trying to be the right person.”

Natasha couldn’t see it, nor could you, but you could feel it; the weight of those words, as they settled into your heart, and sowed the seeds of doubt into your brain.

❤︎

“Look, I’m just going to be the one to say it…we all fucking hate Austin, right?”

There was a chorus of laughter throughout Hangman’s apartment from each of the men sitting around, multiple boxes of pizza and cases of beer littering the coffee table of the living room. The ‘Real Bachelor’ party, as Hangman called it, since none of them had been invited to Austin Fletcher’s bachelor party in Las Vegas…not that any of them would’ve said yes.

“Hate him? More like loathe, detest, despise…must I go on?” there was a chorus of agreement around the room to Rooster’s comment, the man taking another swig of his beer. The Padres game was playing on TV, the volume so low you could barely hear anything, but no one was paying attention. “If he makes another comment about how he ‘doesn’t know what we do all day’ or ‘this is what my tax dollars pay for?’ I’m going to strap him to the wing of my fucking jet and do a couple hundred barrel rolls.”

Bob couldn’t fight his smirk, hiding it behind the neck of his own beer bottle from his place at the island counter overlooking Hangman’s living room. It wasn’t often that he drank, but being a month out from your wedding…yeah, he deserved at least one beer.

“You know, my cousin did some digging months ago when they flew home for my birthday,” it was Elijah who spoke up, your older brother. Already in town for the month for his baby sister’s wedding, he’d known Bob for years because of you, so it was natural for him to become friendly with the rest of the Dagger Squad and to be invited to the fake bachelor party. “That little degree he got, the prestigious one from Yale? Yeah…apparently daddy made a nice donation to the library, and by nice, I mean a heavily substantial one.”

There was another chorus of laughter from the men in the room. Payback laughed so hard Fanboy was beating him on the back, trying to keep him from choking on the bite of pizza he’d just inhaled.

“I’d say I’m surprised, but I’m not,” Coyote chimed in, shaking his head at the thought. “Dad’s company, I think we all knew he wasn’t earning the position of CEO in a few years, it was being given to him. No surprise there that a hefty check managed to get him through college.”

“You know, Eli, we might not know one another well,” Fanboy gestured toward your brother. “But honestly…I’m shocked that you’re okay with this whole marriage, given that you seem to hate the guy as much as we do.”

Bob swung off his seat, rounding himself into the kitchen to look out through the window into the living room, grabbing another cold beer for himself after finishing off the final swig of his. The night literally revolved around talking about your wedding after all; he was going to need some alcohol in his system to fight his way through it.

“I’m not okay with it, but you guys know my sister. Once she’s made up her mind, it would take a lot to talk her out of something,” Elijah shrugged, groans echoing throughout the boys in the room. “She talks about Maverick, your Captain, if I remember right, like some surrogate father-figure for our own. Why not ask him to talk to her?”

“Maverick once got busted in his early days for taking Penny Benjamin on a joyride in a fighter jet, and struck out with the ladies plenty of times before reuniting with Pen,” Rooster chimed in with a scoff of his own, a smirk on his lips. “That man should be the last person giving relationship advice.”

“Fair enough. Honestly, I’m surprised Robert over there didn’t put a stop to this before it got this far,”

Bob’s head shot up, and every eye in the living room was on him. And not a single man wasn’t slightly smirking in his direction, Hangman was even tilting his beer toward him in agreement with your brother. The WSO only shook his head with a short, clipped laugh, nerves already dancing through him.

“W-Why would I do that?”

Elijah cocked an eyebrow in his direction, casting a glance around the room, before his gaze settled back on him.

“Uh, because you’ve been in love with my sister since Rhode Island?”

Bob Floyd was caught, frozen like a deer in headlights, in the kitchen. Eyes wide, glasses almost slipping off the bridge of his nose, and he wasn’t sure if the beer bottle in his hand was just slippery from condensation or because he was suddenly sweating.

“You know, I have been wondering the same thing, too,” Hangman spoke up, taking a glance around at the group of men. “I mean, he only worships the ground that she walks on. How do you fumble a woman like Bumble?”

There was a chorus of agreement to Hangman’s statement, as Bob found himself back on the other side of the island counter and seated on his barstool once again. His eyes were trained on the beer bottle in his hands, fingers gliding over the glass and tracing patterns in the built-up condensation. After a moment, he looked back at your brother, who was just watching him with a tiny, almost knowing smile.

Bob let out a deep sigh.

“...was I that obvious?”

“Dude, when you guys graduated Officer Candidate School, your parents and sisters rushed up to hug you,” Elijah was laughing fondly at the memory, pointing his index finger in Bob’s direction. “But you? You never once stopped looking at her. This sea of Navy men and women, and you couldn’t stop looking at her. I remember watching you. You’d just graduated and officially joined the Navy; the rest of your life was about to begin with that graduation…but you were looking at her as if she were the rest of your life. If that wasn’t the most blatant depiction of love, then I don’t believe in it.”

“That look never left him, just so you know,” Fanboy hopped in, speaking straight to Elijah as if Bob wasn’t in the room. “The second we all got here and they saw each other at the Hard Deck, this man was out of his shell in seconds. The quiet, reserved Bob we’d been talking to was gone as he, like, lifted her and spun her around the room. It looked like a scene out of a damn Hallmark movie, we all legit thought they were already together.”

A tiny smile made its way to Bob’s face, his eyes just staring out into the corner of the living room as he relived those moments. Decked out in your Navy dress blues, greeting your mother and brother with tears in your eyes, laughing at something your brother had said. His mother was hugging him, talking about how proud she was, his father comforting his sisters who cried over how proud they were, but…he never looked away from you. It was the first time he’d seen you in dress blues, and the only thing he could think was how the color navy must’ve been designed specifically for you.

That day at the Hard Deck, his first time meeting his new team for the special detachment mission. He’d been so quiet, reserved, stumbling over his words as his friends had asked for his callsign, as he’d met his new front-seater. He was never good at meeting new people…and then, you walked in. Every nerve in his body dissipated in seconds, and he’d never shot up so fast to tug you into a hug, afraid if he let go, you’d be back in Florida before he could blink, and he’d lose you all over again.

“Bob,” it was Rooster who broke him out of his daze, his gaze trailing back over the expectant looks of all his friends, before settling on the man he considered one of his best friends. “Why did you never tell her?”

“Because how are you supposed to tell your best friend you’re in love with her? Especially after a decade?” Bob laughed at himself, adjusting his glasses and rubbing his jaw. “I-I don’t know what life looks like without her, and I didn’t want to get rejected. I’d rather have her in my life than push her away because I ruined it all.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself there, Bob,” Payback jumped in, and Fanboy nodded along with him. “You never even tried. How can you just assume she doesn’t feel the same?”

“I tried to. Once…I was going to tell her, once,”

The room looked at him expectantly as Bob sighed to himself, resigning to finally getting all of this weight off his chest. Hangman and Rooster immediately moved the pizza boxes off the coffee table, giving Bob room to plop himself down on top so that he sat right in the middle of all his friends.

“We’d just moved you into this apartment,” Bob pointed at Hangman, then to the couch he, Rooster, and Elijah were sitting on. “We were sitting right here: me, my bee, and then Nat. You guys got drunk, it was a long day of moving, and somehow we started talking about dating. We were trying to update one another on our dating lives, little ‘team bonding’ I think Coyote called it. A-And I thought to myself…okay, I’m going to do it. We’re having fun, we’re a permanent squad now, and she’s not going to get ripped away from me and sent back to Florida, so I’m going to tell her. Then it got to her…and she started gushing about Austin. With every little compliment she gave him, I realized that if I ever had a chance, I’d lost it. So when it got to me, I said I was talking to a girl off an app, and I told myself I’d just never tell her. It could be my little secret, forever.”

The weight was finally off Bob’s shoulders, and it felt like he could finally breathe again. Everything he’d ever felt, he’d kept bottled up inside for so long, and it was finally out in the open.

But every face around the room looked confused. Payback and Fanboy were quietly conversing to themselves, faces twisted in confusion. Coyote and Rooster were having a short, staggered conversation that Bob could barely make out as they tried to loop Elijah in on everything. Hangman? He just stared at Bob as if he had three heads.

“Hold up,” Rooster finally spoke up, drawing the attention of the room, as he pointed down to Jake at the far end of the couch. “Didn’t we move you in here the day after your birthday?”

“Yeah, because we were kicking ourselves for staying out all night at the restaurant downtown the next morning because of the move,” Jake snapped his fingers, eyes going wide as Rooster nodded along with him, both boys seeming to be on the same wavelength in seconds. “Shit! That’s right, we ran into that girl–Megan–the one I hooked up with on Tinder, like, a month before.”

“Bingo, bagman,”

Both men turned to look at Bob, smiling like they’d just guessed the winning lottery numbers on a whim. Bob, though, was more confused than he thought he ever had been.

“I’m sorry…w-what does that have to do with anything?”

“Because Bumble was complaining about Jake being a manwhore,” Mickey jumped in with the explanation, and Hangman snapped in his direction in agreement. “Hangman then made a stupid comment about how maybe he should try the app named after her callsign, and she told him not to use ANY of the apps because they’re dumb.”

“I remember asking if she was ever tempted to download the apps, and she said no. Even showed me her phone, she didn’t have them,” Coyote tacked on.

Bob was…so utterly confused by the direction that this conversation had gone, he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Again, what does this-?”

“Bob, your little bee hated those apps; she’d never had them, and proved it to us, and that was just a night before you thought about confessing,” Rooster explained to him, trying to lay it out for him as simply as he could. “When she first introduced us to Austin, she said they’d met on Hinge…so whoever she was talking about that night, it couldn’t have been him.”

Once again, Bob was frozen in place, trying to fully comprehend what the guys were all explaining to him at that moment.

“Bob, we were all plastered that night. Hell, I barely remember setting this place up that day,” Hangman leaned forward toward him, elbows resting on his knees, and his intense gaze never straying from Bob. “Tell us exactly what she’d said that night.”

Truthfully, Bob wished he didn’t know what you had said. He wanted to forget it, the way you gushed with that love-struck look on your face for a man who wasn’t him. But unfortunately for him, he remembered every word.

“S-She had a crush, said it was someone you guys knew,” Bob explained, eyes cast down to the beer bottle in his hands once again. “He was kinda nerdy, a smart dude. Shy at first, but once you got to know him, he was sarcastic. A gentleman, chivalrous, and it felt like she had known him her entire life. She…she said h-he was the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on, and that she spent almost every day with him.”

There was a beat of silence. Every man in the room seemed to look around at one another, before all chaos let loose.

Payback and Fanboy practically threw themselves off the loveseat, jumping around and high-fiving, fist bumping, chest bumping with yells that could be considered victory screeches. Hangman had gotten off the couch, grabbing himself another beer and almost chugging half of it as he paced around the room behind the couch, muttering ‘wow’ to himself over and over again. Rooster was almost in total hysterics, along with Coyote, while Elijah sat among the chaos, simply shaking his head with a smile.

Bob? He sat on top of that coffee table in pure disbelief of whatever the fuck was happening around him.

“Could she have been more obvious-?”

“No, honestly! How did we not clock it?”

“I FEEL LIKE WE JUST WON THE LOTTERY!”

“Maybe we all need to borrow Bob’s glasses, I think we all might be blind-”

“Baby-on-board, I’m so sorry,” Hangman was the one to apologize, running a hand through his hair with an incredulous laugh as he looked at the WSO sitting in the middle of the room. “I think we should all be banned from drinking after this information. If we hadn’t been drunk, we would’ve realized what she said–maybe we could’ve saved this disaster. My god, she poured her heart out, and you lied about a girl on a dating app and probably broke her heart! Bobby boy…she was talking about you.”

That alone was enough to stop Bob’s heart, to make him pause, to drop his jaw open and pop his eyes open a fraction wider than they had been.

That…that wasn’t possible. This was you they were talking about; his bee. His Bumble, who’d stumbled through the doors like the adorable idiot you sometimes were. The girl who’d stuck to his side like glue, who had been there for every major moment in his life. You were the girl who’d flown home with him for his older sister’s wedding, who spent a week with his family on a ranch in Montana as if you belonged there. The person who held him for hours, for days, after the bird strike, who had listened to every fear he’d voiced about what it felt like knowing he was going down, not knowing if he and Nat would make it.

This was you. Vivacious, patient, dependable, graceful, utterly perfect…you. Everything he could ever want, ever dream of, wrapped up into the human being he couldn’t dare live without. You couldn’t, there was no way-

“You’re wrong,” was what Bob finally said, his voice low and quiet. The noise of the room settled, and everyone noticed the shift in Bob. It was written clearly on his face, his own insecurities that were creeping in and eating away at him. “S-She…she’d never think of me like that. Maybe it wasn’t Austin she was talking about, but it couldn’t have been me.”

“It was,” Bradley chimed in, but Bob only shook his head immediately,

“No, it can’t be, because I’m me. She was top of the class, and everyone loved her everywhere we went. She was the light in every room, the best part of everyone’s day…and I-I was her shadow. My bee…she deserves better than me, she deserves everything that Austin can give her-”

“Austin’s pretentious self can go fuck off,” Fanboy practically shouted out from across the room, cutting Bob’s sentence off. “He’ll never amount to half the man you are, Bob. Bumble loves you, we all know you know that.”

“She loves me because I’m her best friend, and I always will be,” Bob choked out a laugh. His throat was constricting, and he could feel the pool of tears welling up behind his eyes. “If she loved me in any other way…she would’ve told me.”

“Unless she was scared, just like you,”

It was the first thing Elijah had said in a while, and Bob’s eyes drifted back to the older man. He leaned forward, with the softest smile on his face, and it brought a smile to Bob’s for just a moment; it looked so much like your smile.

“She once called you the best thing in her life to me, made me swear to never tell you that. It became pretty obvious to me that you were the one thing in this world she was terrified to lose. So…take the leap, because it’s going to have to be you, Bob. Forget Austin, forget the ring, forget the wedding, and tell her. If we’re wrong, so be it, but at least you won’t spend the rest of your life wondering what might’ve happened if you had just tried. Tell her before you lose the chance to, before you spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

❤︎

Natasha’s words hadn’t left your head, but you kept silent. You let them sit, marinate, stir up your emotions in the back of your head, deep within your heart. Each time they managed to flicker back to the front of your mind, invade your thoughts, you wanted to throw up.

You’re going to kill yourself trying to be the right person.

That simple phrase had taken hold of you again, that little timer in your head slowly counting down: two weeks. Two weeks until you’d be married, until you’d be Mrs. Fletcher. Those thoughts wouldn’t leave even as Maverick stood at the end of the Hard Deck table, raising his beer in toast to you where you sat at the other end.

“To our Bumble…you stumbled through the doors of North Island into our lives, and now you get to stumble through life’s next greatest challenge: marriage. They say love comes easy when you choose to love your best friend…and I’m happy that the pilot I consider my own kid has found that kind of love,”

The rest of the table raised their drinks in toast to you. Your entire squad, Penny and Amelia, your mother, your brother, even your old squadmates from Florida. Everyone who would sit on your side of the aisle, to marry you off, huddled together in the closed Hard Deck for a special, intimate celebration in your honor, moving tables throughout the bar all together to sit with one another. All for you.

Maverick held your eyes for a moment after his words, even as the rest of the group devolved into laughter and stories, or moved off to play pool or darts. You held his gaze. Your Captain’s eyes were intense, but soft, as if he was trying to instill something into you that he hadn’t quite spoken aloud. A moment later, he finally broke away, and that queasy feeling deep in your stomach was back in full force.

“Another glass?”

It was Natasha who asked, holding out another glass of wine to you, your first having been downed before Maverick had even given his speech. You could see it in her eyes, the concern floating there, like she was waiting for you to break. Honestly, you were waiting for yourself to break, too. You eyed the glass for just a second before your eyes found Bob sitting right next to her, and you were back in your head once again. 

You were back in the moment you realized you’d fallen in love with Bob Floyd.

“How in the world did you get the callsign of Bumble?” 

You groaned, shaking your head as the rest of your Top Gun classmates laughed at the question from Diver, another new classmate of yours now that you were officially in Top Gun. Bob laughed from beside you, too, his arm resting over the back of your chair in the mess hall of Naval Air Station North Island. 

“She was swatting at a bee back when we first got to officer training in Rhode Island, then stumbled straight through the door past me,” Bob was grinning as you lightly slapped him on the chest, shaking your head with a grin of your own as you thought back on that day. “She called herself a-a bumbling idiot, so…it wasn’t hard to figure it out.”

“Oh, so you got your callsign a long time ago,” it was Rogue, another aviator, who laughed with a shake of her head. “Damn, so you guys have been friends for years then?”

“Since that day,” your reply came easily, leaning into Bob’s side more than you realized you were. “Officer training, flight school, even stayed in contact when we got assigned to different squadrons.”

“She’s my bee, can’t go anywhere without my bee,”

Then, he looked down at you with that grin. That little smile, full of warmth and fondness that had just grown over the years, and that underlying mirth that was always present in him since you’d worked your way past that awkward exterior. And there it was–the tug–pulling at your heart and your soul like it had been for years.

“Bee? Might have to steal that nickname-”

“Nope,” Bob jumped in, an air of confidence to him that wasn’t typically present around people he didn’t know, shaking his head. “That nickname belongs to me only.”

And that tug just got more intense as you looked at him. His smile, his blue eyes, those smile lines that creased around his nose and mouth every time he smiled, those glasses that only made him more and more adorable every time you looked at him-

Then, it finally hit you. That feeling sank in, the feeling that little tug on your heart had been trying to tell you for years: love. You were in love with Bob Floyd.

It terrified you to look at Bob now, after all that had happened, after all that you knew lay on the 

horizon, and know that you still loved him. That you never stopped, and that every fiber of your being was sure that it was truly never going to go away.

So, you took that glass of wine and downed it faster than you’d ever drunk alcohol before. Then, you stalked off to the bar to pour another glass, ignoring the look of concern that Natasha sent your way, or the one she shot Bob as he chugged his own beer.

Without even realizing it, you had managed to avoid Bob for most of the night, as if your body was forcing you to avoid him. Every time you locked eyes across the bar, that queasy feeling was back, and you forced yourself to down yet another glass of red wine.

You weren’t sure of the time, but you knew you were on your fifth glass of wine; a desperate ploy on your part to keep the thoughts swirling around your head out of the way. Rooster was engaged in a game of pool with your brother Elijah, both conversing with your mother as she stood at the opposite end of the table from you.

“Thank you for always keeping my girl safe in the skies,” your mother directed her comment toward Rooster, who shot her that award-winning smile.

“Your girl doesn’t need anyone to keep her safe; she’s one hell of a pilot on her own. Though she does some of her best flying with Bob and Phoenix with her,” Rooster shot you a wink, and you responded with a playful roll of your eyes.

“No way, my sister loves flying with Bob?” Elijah quickly avoided the swift kick you attempted to land to his shins, bumping his shoulder with Rooster’s as they laughed together, as if they knew something you didn’t. “That’s only been, like, common knowledge for well over a decade.”

“Alright, there’s no need-”

“Well, I’m just glad she’s found someone she can depend on in life the way she can with Bob in the sky,” your words were cut off by your mother, her laughter light as she sipped on her champagne. “Now I’ve just got to wait around with my fingers crossed for some grandbabies!”

She laughed, but neither Rooster nor Elijah did. Their concerned looks turned to you, and you were frozen once again.

The air felt heavy, as if all the oxygen in the room was tugged out of the room, and pure panic settled deep within your bones. Your hands started to shake, the little bit of your wine left in your glass swirling around the cup. With a small ‘I need some air,’ you were out the door onto the back deck of the bar, shoes discarded on the wood as you took the stairs two at a time and stepped into the cool, nighttime sand.

Even in the cool of the night, that sea breeze carrying that salty scent straight to your nose and your feet dug into the sand, you still felt you couldn’t breathe. Your back hit the wooden post that stood over ten feet tall, from the sand and up over the deck of the Hard Deck to hold up the string of warm yellow lights that illuminated the seating. The second your back rested against something solid, your breath rushed back into your lungs, the wine glass fell from your hands, and you finally cried.

Honestly, you weren’t sure why you were crying at this point. Maybe you were crying over the fact that you hated your wedding venue, or that you hated your dress, or now that Natasha had brought it up, you realized that you did, in fact, act like a different person around Austin. A person you didn’t recognize.

Or, maybe you were crying because you were drunk on a beach, at a party meant to celebrate your wedding in two weeks, and you were still hopelessly in love with your best friend. The man you were not marrying.

Speak of the devil: there Bob Floyd was, in all his glory. Stumbling off the steps of the deck, clearly drunk. His skin flushed red, that same stupid blue flannel billowing around him in the nighttime breeze, and you were cursing the fact that he looked gorgeous like this: drunk, a hazy look in his eyes, glasses barely hanging onto his face, illuminated by the light of the moon that shone down on him and the ocean.

“I-I thought I saw you stumble out here-” he was giggling, the most adorable thing you’d ever heard in your life, as he turned to look at you. Even in his drunken state, you could almost see him sober up just slightly the second he caught sight of you. “Bee- Bee, baby, w-what’s wrong?”

You knew you looked like a mess. Tears were still streaming down your face, makeup running down your cheeks, which you knew had to be splotched red from your sobs. There was a stain of red wine against the edge of your white sundress, the liquid splashing against you when you dropped the glass to the ground.

It only took looking at him for a second for your sobs to resurface. You took two steps forward before Bob was on you, tugging you into his arms as you buried your head into his shoulder and just cried your heart out.

Bob did nothing but quiet you, whispering ‘you’re okay’ into your ear. His fingers tangled through your hair, nails scratching at your scalp in his own comforting way. And he just held you, just let you cry in the dead of night. The only sounds were your own crying, the rolling of the waves in the distance against the shore, and the faint sound of the music inside the bar reverberating through the walls.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bob whispered after a few minutes, when your tears had finally subsided. You shook your head, backing away just slightly as you wiped at your eyes to rid yourself of the stray tears and running makeup.

“No,” your voice was hoarse from the crying, and when you finally looked at those concerned blue eyes watching you intently, that stupid fucking tug was back, and the copious amounts of alcohol surging through your body weren’t helping keep the filter on your mouth. “I…I just want to be here with you.”

He smiled, that shy boy-ish smile, the one that reminded you of the day you had first met and asked him to dinner, and you couldn’t help the little smile that crossed your own lips at the sight of it.

“No arguments from me,” he’d laughed, his hands still ghosting over your elbows and fingers lightly tracing patterns into your skin, a shiver running up your spine at the slightest touch. “Last time I saw you cry was my sister’s wedding.”

You laughed, leaning toward him just the slightest bit as his hands fully enveloped your arms, properly holding you as fire almost spread through your skin at the slight touch.

“It’s not my fault they had the sweetest vows!” you’d managed through your hazy laughter, hiccuping as the full weight of the alcohol in your system hit you.

“Don’t forget my brother-in-law’s best man,” Bob shot back with a wide, teasing grin, the grip he had on your arms tugging you just a bit closer in his own hazy, drunk state. “I remember you calling him hot.”

“He was, but he wasn’t you,” you commented unfiltered, and Bob gave another one of those shy shakes of his head.

“You don’t have to flatter me, bee,”

That tug was back, and the words were flowing out of your mouth before your brain could fully catch up with what you were saying.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Bob Floyd…you’re the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on,”

The most innocent little statement, such a little off-handed comment, but the effect it had on Bob was visible in an instant.

He paused, his smile dropped, and he hesitated for just a moment, as if those words had ignited something deep within his soul. An unknown emotion was swimming around in his eyes before he shoved you back against the wooden pole behind you, cupped your cheeks in his hands, and kissed the breath straight out of your lungs.

Bob Floyd didn’t kiss like the sweet, innocent, awkward boy that everyone chalked him up to be. At least, not when he was kissing you. The gasp in your throat died in his own mouth, swallowed by his lips and replaced with a groan, and there wasn’t a single moment of hesitation in you as your hands ran their way up his arms, his broad shoulders, and into that sandy blonde hair that was always so perfectly styled. The intensity could be felt in your bones, the heat trickling through your skin.

The large, way too large, calloused hands slid down your neck from where they cradled your face. Another gasp left your throat as his fingers ghosted down your collarbones, right over the curve of your breasts, before wrapping around your body. One hand pressed between your shoulders, the other to the small of your back, as Bob brought you as close to his body as humanly possible, molding your body to his own until it felt as if you were one and the same.

You weren’t sure whose tongue dipped in first, but they met together in the middle in a dance. You could taste the hints of the bitter beer he’d been drinking the entire night along his tongue, throughout his entire mouth, as you let yourself explore. His kiss became harder, more desperate, more heated, his mouth almost completely devouring and overpowering your own as his hips pressed forward into your own, the presence of the bulge outlining his jeans so prevalent against you that yet another delicious moan spilt through your lips and into his own, swallowed by his kiss.

The second your hips pressed back against his own, Bob didn’t waste a second. His hands trailed down, cupping your ass in those large hands of his as he lifted you up with ease, your body aching with need at the pure show of strength he showed in that move. The edges of your dress slid up your thighs, bunching up around your waist as your legs locked around his back as lust blinded you, your body almost begging for the touch you’d been dreaming of for years as he grinded himself into you absentmindedly.

His lips left yours, allowing you a breath, finally, until they found themselves attached to your neck. His tongue dipped out, swiping along your skin as his lips followed the same trail/ From your jaw, down your neck and over your pulse, to your collarbone and below. The softest moan slipped back your lips, your hands still curled into his hair, and nails scratched at his scalp. One of those stupid sexy hands left your ass, but just as quickly as it had left it was curled around your breast, squeezing in a way that shot both a bolt of pain of pleasure through your body as his lips ghosted right over the swell of your breasts. His hips dipped into yours again, the little lacy panties that were the only barrier left on your body, positively soaked from just this moment alone.

With a single tug, you brought his lips back to yours, this kiss softer, sweeter, but still just as heated and passionate as it had been since the start. That tug in your heart, on your soul, was gone, as if it was an ailment you lived with your entire life, and this kiss was the sole antidote.

“Bob…” his name was the first word out of your mouth since he’d kissed you. It was the only word you could say, the only name you cared to have falling from your lips. He looked at you finally, those blue eyes that you loved so much.

The second that your eyes met, it was like the world finally came rushing back to you both, and the bubble you’d been existing in shattered in an instant as you both sobered up to a certain degree.

His hands dropped from you like you were heated metal, and yours left his in a second. Your legs dropped back to the ground, toes digging into the sand as if to ground yourself, your hands folded over your abdomen as you wrung your fingers together. Eyes blown wide, lips puffy and red, and every ounce of breath in your body gone as you stared at Bob.

He’d taken a few steps back, his own eyes blown wide before those glasses that were slanted across his face now. That sandy blonde hair was tussled, sticking up in different directions, and his white t-shirt was ruffled up on his chest, flannel barely hanging onto his shoulders. You tried not to look at his pants, at the wet spot clearly left behind against the bulge that was still ever present.

The weight of it all came crashing down on you as you brought your trembling hand to your lips, covering your mouth, as you tried not to look at that shimmering diamond glinting in the moonlight.

“I…I’m sorry,” Bob’s voice broke you. He sounded broken, he looked broken, like he’d just taken something so precious and fragile and thrown it on the ground and shattered it into a thousand pieces. “I’m…fuck, bee, I-I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you managed to barely get out, your voice barely above a whisper as the wind whistled around you, picking up slightly in the nighttime air. “Bob, i-it’s okay-”

“It’s not,” he quickly shook his head, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “It’s not okay. I-I shouldn’t have done that, that…that wasn’t fair to you.”

“Bob-”

“I wish I hadn’t done that,” his voice broke as he said it, and your heart broke with it.

Wish. That one single word had tears stinging your eyes once more.

“So you…you regret it?”

“No–I just–I meant…” he stumbled over his words, before he simply stopped. Time almost stopped for a moment as you both just looked at one another, that salty sea breeze flowing past you both, tears in both of your eyes. “...I’m sorry, bee. I’m so sorry.”

Then, he was gone, through the sand and up onto the deck and back into the bar before you could say another word. And when minutes later Natasha came outside and found you pressed against that wooden pole still, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as you stared out over the ocean, you shook your head and told her it was nothing. You were just drunk and emotional, that’s all.

You were on autopilot, and everything felt numb.

It continued to feel that way for days. Every day at work, when you avoided his gaze, that was, if he was even looking at you. The silence on the comms when you were in the air, when typically you’d both be jesting back and forth while in the air every chance you’d get. The team saw it, Maverick saw it, hell, you were all sure Cyclone even saw it.

Austin? He never noticed a thing. To him, you were fine, you were your usual self. He never even questioned it when you sat down for dinner together, 72 hours on the clock, and he informed you that Bob had sent him a text and said he could no longer attend.

You covered for him, simply saying there had been a family emergency back in Montana he needed to attend to, and Austin didn’t bat an eye. He broke your heart, and you were still covering for him, still defending him, still protecting him.

Because that’s what he had done that night on the beach, under the light of the moon: Bob Floyd had broken your heart without even realizing he held it in the palm of his hand. He’d always held it, long before even you realized it.

“Alright people, look alive! We are on the clock, and pretty soon I’m about to have a sister-in-law!”

There were cheers in the bridal suite, somewhere behind you, but your eyes were locked on your reflection. The makeup was too heavy, and your hair was too hardened by the hairspray, your dress was all wrong and was too heavy, the lace was itching at your skin-

Wrong. It was all wrong.

Your gaze flickered to Natasha in the mirror behind you, donning that soft pink bridesmaid dress just like Melissa and Dove were–god, even the bridesmaid dress color wasn’t what you wanted–and understanding seemed to pass through her eyes in an instant.

“Hey, let’s celebrate after the ceremony. Why don’t you two go find Maverick for me so we can get this rolling?”

The pair didn’t argue, simply left the room, still laughing and conversing. The second the door of the suite shut, Natasha stepped up to your side as a shaky breath fell from your lips.

“Nat, I can’t do this,” you were already shaking your head in the mirror as Nat’s hand came to rest on your back.

“Bumble, it’s okay-”

“Bob kissed me,” the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, spinning to face Nat with a wild look in your eyes as you continued to spew everything out to her before she could respond. “O-Or I kissed him, I don’t even know. But we kissed that night, on the beach behind the Hard Deck–fuck, I think I was seconds from fucking him in the sand, I was so drunk. And so was he.”

Natasha just watched you for a moment in silence as you finally took in a deep breath, the words hanging heavy in the air.

“Bumble…I know,”

Your eyes shot open wider, if it was even possible.

“You…you know?”

“Bradley and I came outside to find you, he said you’d looked kind of spooked after something your mom had said. We saw you. We just…went back inside,” she laughed lightly to herself, reaching out to take your hand in hers. You let out a shaky breath.

“He…he said he wished it didn’t happen, Nat. He regretted it. He’s not even coming anymore,”

“I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to watch the woman I love get married either. He’s scared,” Nat tried to reason with you. “Drunk words and actions are sober thoughts and wishes. Honey, he wouldn’t have kissed you if he didn’t love you too. You can still walk away from this…I will unlace this dress right now, and you can walk out those doors. You don’t have to do this.”

You wanted to believe her; every part of you was screaming to run. But your family was out there, Austin’s entire family was out there, and they were waiting. There was a ring on your finger…you’d made a promise, you’d said yes. People expected this.

“I do, though,” was all you could say, as a single tear managed to drip down your cheek.

There was a knock at the door, and there Maverick stood in his dress blues. 

It was time.

Natasha gave you one last pleading look, but your eyes shifted away to hide your tears. Her hand gave yours one last squeeze before she was out the door, leaving you alone with Maverick.

You took in a few deep breaths, trying to find it in yourself, and finally moved toward the door. Maverick didn’t say a word, simply took out a little tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from your eyes as you gave him a watery smile. Then, he held out his arm, and you looped yours through his.

The walk through the hallway was silent for a bit, a heavy silence that hung in the air, before Maverick broke it.

“I hear tears are typical before a wedding, the wedding jitters and whatnot…but this doesn’t seem like that,”

You laughed, but there was really no amusement in your tone.

“It’s not,”

Melissa, Dove, and Natasha were lined up outside the doors, prepared to walk as you and Maverick arrived, taking your places. Two of them were smiling, but Natasha couldn’t bring herself to smile. You gave them a wordless nod, and they opened the doors. The music kicked in, and they walked.

“The other night, at the Hard Deck,” your breath caught at the mention of that night, those moments on the beach playing out in your head like a movie on repeat. The doors shut behind the final bridesmaid, and you and Maverick took your places behind them. “I told you that love comes easy when you choose to love your best friend…”

The music began to change, and the staff were mumbling around you, preparing to open the doors so that you could walk.

“...I wasn’t talking about Austin,”

Your head turned to him, eyes wide. Maverick only looked at you with a tiny smile, the kind a father would give to comfort their daughter.

“You don’t have to choose all of them. You can choose yourself…you can choose him,”

Then, the doors opened, and the music kicked in.

❤︎

Bob Floyd was pacing. Honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t burned a pathway into his bedroom carpet from the pacing he had been doing back and forth for the last hour.

His dress blues hung on the door of his closet, mocking him. The invitation to your wedding lay on the dresser right beside it, that same wedding he’d texted days ago to cancel on, even though there had been a pit in his stomach as he did it. A nagging voice was in the back of his head screaming at him that this wasn’t right.

He should be wearing those dress blues. He should be sitting in the stupid, uncomfortable chair laid out in that fancy resort. He should be watching you walk down the aisle, watching Maverick hand you away, and watching you, his best friend, marry your new husband.

Instead, he was in the same t-shirt and flannel from that night at the Hard Deck, the flannel you’d bought him so long ago. It still held a hint of the scent of your red wine that had spilled against your dress and pressed into his own clothing. Your perfume, sweet like cherries, lingered on the fabric. He had to wear it; he had to relive those moments with you wrapped around him, pressed against him, where you felt like his.

Bob Floyd wasn’t at the wedding, sitting in the chair reserved for him, because he was selfish.

He couldn’t watch you get married. Not when he wanted–no, needed–to be the one you were marrying.

The clock on his bedside table read 6:42 p.m.; barely 20 minutes until you’d walk down that aisle at 7 on the dot and become Mrs. Fletcher, wearing the fancy lace ballgown that you hated, in the venue that you hated, with the man you shouldn’t be marrying.

His feet were itching to run, so instead he grabbed his phone and dialed the number he knew by heart, shakily bringing it to his ear. It only rang for a moment but his call was picked up.

“Bob-?”

“Mom, I-I need you to talk me out of getting in my truck, speeding down the highway, and interrupting a wedding right now,”

Bob’s mother was silent for just a moment before she laughed lightly. Not mockingly, but almost knowingly, on the other end of the call.

“Mhm, so you’ve finally accepted that you’re in love with her, huh?”

“Mom, I really just need you to stop me from doing something really stupid right now,”

“It’s not stupid, Robbie. It’s fighting for the woman you love,” there was a shuffle on the other end, before his mother let out a sigh. Bob was still pacing the room. “I remember meeting her at every graduation, seeing how happy you were with her. I remember when you brought her home for your sister’s wedding. I got to spend a week with the girl you called your best friend, and the only thing I could think was…wow, I can’t wait until the day she’s my daughter-in-law.”

Bob paused for a second before letting out a laugh of disbelief.

“I-I never told you I loved her,”

“You didn’t have to, Robbie, I could see it. And if you can’t see that she loves you too, then we need to up the prescription on those glasses of yours,” there was another shared laugh, before silence fell again. Bob finally stopped pacing. “I don’t know what has all gone down, but if you feel the need to stop this wedding, then somewhere inside you, you know she loves you too. Go get your girl before you spend the rest of your life wishing you had.”

You know what they say: mothers know best.

The only time Bob Floyd was speeding was when he was in a jet, pulling g’s in the air with Natasha that no normal person was doing. But the second he was behind the wheel of his truck, caution was to the wind, and he was speeding up the highway toward Del Mar without a care in the world.

Nothing mattered but you.

He’d haphazardly parked his truck in some spot outside of the resort, pushing past the workers who shouted out for him to ‘stop running’ or that this was a ‘private event’ as he raced down the halls of the resort. None of that matters.

He skidded to a stop right between the open doors, right in the middle of the aisle still lined with petals. There were people still inside, huddled together in groups. There was one group, closer to the altar, huddled up in a group. But workers were prevalent, moving throughout the room, bunching up linens or grabbing empty chairs and carting them away. He pushed the sleeve of his flannel up, not even changing before he rushed out the door, to look at his watch: 7:34 p.m.

“I missed it,” he mumbled to himself. Disbelief, pain, anger, Bob wasn’t sure what he was feeling. He was too late.

“Bob?”

He glanced up to his right, and there the squad was. All dressed in their dress blues, standing together with Maverick and Penny. It was Bradley who questioned him, Natasha standing at his side in her bridesmaid dress.

“...I’m too late, aren’t I?”

There was silence for a moment before everyone looked around at one another with small smiles. His gaze flickered to Elijah, who wore a smirk, leaning down to whisper to your mother as realization seemed to cross the older woman’s face.

“She didn’t walk down the aisle, baby-on-board,” Hangman spoke up.

Bob’s breath seemed to catch as he looked around at his friends, before he glanced back to the altar area. And there he was: Austin Fletcher, in the flesh. He was surrounded by his friends, and what looked to be his father and mother, and Bob couldn’t tell if he was pissed or upset, where his feelings ended or began as his family and friends tried to calm him down. Austin’s eyes met Bob’s for just a moment, and realization seemed to pass through every feature of his face. His glare hardened as he simply shook his head, shrugging off his friends and family and stalking out of the room without another word.

“She…she didn’t get married?” 

“Never even made it down the aisle,” Nat spoke up, giving her best friend the brightest of smiles. “We’ve all waited a long time for this, Bob. Better late than never. She’s in the bridal suite…go get your girl.”

❤︎

They’d tried to stop you, tried to talk to you, tried to talk you back into it. Austin’s sister, your old squad from Florida, Austin’s family, and even Austin himself. But there was no changing your mind. Your squad knew that, your brother knew that.

Maverick was right. You wanted to choose yourself…you wanted to choose Bob. You needed to.

You’d wiped off every ounce of makeup piled on your face. It had taken way too long to brush out every single ounce of hairspray sticking to your hair. It was almost impossible to unlace your dress yourself, but you had managed, tossing it onto the floor in a heap and leaving it there. The sight of it made you sick.

The second you were back in your robe, standing on the balcony of the suite and watching the sun set out over the horizon on the ocean just two streets away, the weight of everything finally felt like it was off your shoulders. You felt free, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel sick to your stomach.

“Hey bee…”

That voice sent a shock down your spine, and you spun on your heels. And there Bob Floyd stood, like he’d just blown in from a hurricane, standing in the sliding glass doorway to the balcony. That stupid white shirt, that stupid flannel, an exact image of the man who’d ruined you forever that night on the beach.

“Well…” your voice broke just slightly, tone low and soft, as you pulled your robe tighter around you. “I bet I look like a mess.”

He’d laughed, and it was enough to make you smile, something you hadn’t done since that night. Since the last time you were with him.

“Maybe…” his own voice was soft, his eyes trailing up and down you with a sincerity and a genuine adoration in them that you had never once seen in Austin’s eyes. “Most attractive mess that I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

You’d laughed this time, your hand resting on your lips to shield your smile, and those tears burned hot behind your eyes. He was here, he was really here.

“Bob…what are you doing here?”

“Well…I came here to tell you not to get married,”

You hummed, jutting your thumb in the direction of your wedding dress, thrown haphazardly into a pile in the corner of the room.

“I beat you to it,”

“Yeah, I see that now,”

He took a step out onto the balcony, leaning against the railing. Your eyes danced over his features, lit up in shades of red, pink, and orange in the setting sun. You turned to face him.

“I don’t know when it really happened, or started, maybe when we met…but I know when I realized I was in love with you,” you could see his breath catch as you laughed lightly at yourself. “And it’s terrified me, for years, because I didn’t want to confess and lose you. I couldn’t lose you. Life without you doesn’t make sense. But we moved Jake into his apartment, we all talked about dating, and I decided it was time to confess…and you said you were talking to some girl. You broke my heart.”

“I know,” was his answer immediately. Bob sighed, glancing at his shoes as he pushed his glasses back up his face, before looking back at you. “I was scared. I hated the thought of you liking someone else-”

“I was talking about you-”

“I know that now,” he was quick to interject, taking in a deep breath. “I’m late…but I know that now.”

“Then you kissed me…you finally kissed me. Then you said you wished it didn’t happen,”

“I know,”

“You broke my heart again,”

“I know,” his words came out in a whisper. He took another step toward you, his hands cupping your cheeks, and you leaned into the feeling on instinct. “I know I did. So I came here today to selfishly ask you not to marry that prick. Not just because you shouldn’t…but because I love you, too.”

It was all you’d ever wanted to hear, and having those words spoken was like the missing piece of a puzzle that had gone unsolved for years. You shut your eyes, letting a tear slip, as you turned your head and pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand.

“Selfish, huh?”

“Yeah, because I’m so incredibly late,” Bob laughed at himself, and you laughed at him too. You finally understood what that was shining in his eyes, that emotion you could never quite decipher: love. “I have loved you since Rhode Island. I tried to be happy for you and Austin, I wanted you to be in love and be happy, but you weren’t with him. He’d never be able to love you like me. So, yeah, I came here to be selfish and ask if I-I’m not too late…and if I can have the chance to love you the way I’ve dreamed about for the last ten years.”

The smile that crossed your lips as you spoke was the most genuine smile you’d worn in weeks. It was stitched to your lips, and you weren’t sure it would ever leave.

“And how would you love me?” you responded, taking just another step closer to him, closing that distance as he still cradled you in his hands. “How has Bob Floyd dreamed of loving me?”

“Catching you every time you stumble, whether it’s on the tarmac walking to our jets or on a sidewalk or beach. Getting you your coffee every morning, just the way you’ve always loved it: two sugars, and just a dash of cream,” you laughed, and his thumb swiped away the tear that slipped down your cheek. “Waking you up every morning, tangled in my sheets, wearing my old University of Montana t-shirt that you stole the night before after you tore it off me. Holding your hand, your waist, just holding you close to me in every moment that I possibly can, because I never want to not be around you. Kissing you, every inch of you, like I do in the dreams that have plagued me night after night for a decade. Holding you when you cry. Having your back in the sky. Buying you flowers. Staying up late at night, talking about anything and everything, like we did all through our lives in training. Fucking you–lord knows I’ve dreamed about that enough. Then…proposing to you, with the ring I know is saved on your wedding Pinterest board. Marrying you, in the venue you’ve always dreamed of, while you’re wearing the dress of your dreams-”

You didn’t let him say another word. Your hand bunched up in his t-shirt, tugging him in, and kissing him with all the love and passion that had been sitting dormant in you both for years. And with every moment that his lips moved against yours, that his hands slid down your body like they had that night on the beach and rested against your hips like they were meant to be there, everything fell into place. For the first time, life felt like it made sense because your heart had only ever belonged to Bob Floyd.

“You have me. I’m all yours, I’m only yours. I’ve been yours since the day we met,”

The next time you walk down an aisle, it will be the fall. The leaves will be changing colors, and the air will be crisp. You’ll be wearing a light and loose dress that billows in the fall wind, and Bob Floyd will be waiting for you at the end of the aisle. It was only ever going to be Bob Floyd waiting for you at the altar.

You were twenty-two when you first met Bob Floyd, but you were also twenty-two when you fell in love with Bob Floyd. There was never going to be anyone else for you but him.

Taglist: @venuslayla23-blog @bluegardenn @fandomxo

[seokminfilm]

gorgeous ☆ yoon jeonghan

☆, pairing: yoon jeonghan x reader ☆, description: gorgeous yoon jeonghan was all yours. ☆, warnings/tropes: non-idol au, established relationship, boyfriend jeonghan, a mention of food, a potentially suggestive line, flirting, kissing, lots of skinship, pet names: bunny (reader's), han, hannie (his), jeonghan is called pretty and gorgeous ☆, lyr's footnotes: missing jeonghan terribly. that's it. also this is dedicated to the biggest jeonghan stans i know @hanniescookie and @kissbyoon ily both sm ☆, now playing: banana shake ~ hus ☆, word count: 642 ☆, written for: @kstrucknet

"you're staring again, bunny." jeonghan says with a sing-song voice, lips curved into a tantalizing smirk as he sips on his lemonade.

flushed, you roll your eyes, not denying his observation as you shrug. "what can i say? my boyfriend is absolutely gorgeous."

that makes jeonghan fall back into his chair, fluffy black hair curling around his face as the wind starts to dance around him. his porcelain skin is glowing with the suns rays, and his tired eyes sleepily survey you up and down as his lithe, soft fingers drum on the table.

"you know, i'm starting to think that pasta got to your cute little head." the sentence makes a laugh bubble out of you, and you shake your head, standing up as jeonghan follows suit.

"oh no. i'm one hundred percent convinced it's you that got to my cute little head," you reach for jeonghan's hand, to which he takes quickly and rubs his fingers along his knuckles.

the parisian sun gently shines down on you and jeonghan's bodies as you stroll through the bustling streets. the sky is a dusty blue, fluffy clouds as soft as the kiss jeonghan presses to your forehead. "hannie, no."

""no" what? do you not want my love anymore?" jeonghan's biting back a smile, feigning surprise as you shake your head. your hand slyly slides up jeonghan's arm, cold pale skin under yours as he grins. his eyelashes brush his glass skin as he blinks, chocolate eyes wide open again seconds later.

"if you keep kissing me while we're walking," jeonghan pauses to giggle as you press another kiss to the back of his hand, "we're going to lose our turn to the park."

"are you sure you still want to go? doesn't our bedroom sound so much more fun?" you flirt, eyes filled with mirth as jeonghan looks down at you. he's enjoying this side of you, seeing you rise up to the challenge and react to his jokes in the way he know you will.

"later. i still need my vitamin d." jeonghan slides a hand around your waist, fingers digging in just enough to be a reminder that he's there. you laugh, trying to ignore the blush that rises to the surface of your face. jeonghan detects it anyway, smirking in triumph as he steers you to the park.

the park itself is slowing down, a few stray couples and families still lingering around. tourists also take pictures, posing in front of all the sights. jeonghan wastes no time leading you to a tree close to the waterline of paris, sitting on the ground bdfore strippinghimself of his jacket and letting you sit on it.

"oh, what a gentleman you are," you tease, finding a comfortable position on the jacket before you steal a glance at your boyfriend. his short-sleeved black tee hugs his body in just the right way, slender limbs encasing you in a hug that screams jeonghan.

his hands are calmly rubbing circles into your back, and he presses kiss after kiss onto of your hed as you snuggle into him.

"you really are gorgeous, han." you say after a few minutes of quiet reflection, and jeonghan chuckles that signature chuckle, pulling way just to look at you.

"really?" jeonghan asks, voice just barely above a whisper as you nod. you let your fingers find their place in his curly hair, gently scratching his scalp as he shudders under your touch.

"yeah. beautiful." you say again, leaning in as jeonghan's eyes fall half-lidded. he's staring down at you lazily, the ghost of a smile on his face before you lock lips with him. you taste everything that is jeonghan, lemonade, strawberry chapstick, and vanilla icing blending into a flavor that can only be described as 'yoon jeonghan'.

it's a flavor you know you'll never get tired of.