#i need to think of some tags for these characters...

[dandydilfdiddler]

You fucking slaughtered me with the last one. We are now pivoting from my doom scrolling to read all your Bob works I can before I need to go to sleep for work tomorrow. Let’s play the age-old game of chicken, I can read all this and get enough sleep to function ☺️

Oh god jealousy as a tag

Oh, fucking helllllllllllll too young as a tag. Yep. I am SAT

Furiously writing notes to pretend that this would work irl “You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.”

I love when Bob gets annoyed at others antics when it comes to a reader insert. Like yes, please, be possessive.

Yes Nat, you fucking tell them. A GIRL’S GIRL!

Oooooooo tension! A date that ain’t with Bob. Already we are setting up for that jealousy tag and I am on the edge of my seat

Jake is an antagonistic little shit and the way you write the team dynamic is how I aspire to write for multiple characters being in focus at once

“Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.” Dropping to my knees and barking like I want it. Already. This. Yummy. This is what my creative writing teacher would call an A+ at show not tell

“He lives for it.” Heart ripped out and thrown across the room because this is delicious and also OUCH

Okay, Reuben this is fic #2 you are a good wingman. I love you once again I give a lil friendly smooch on your forehead for being a catalyst to try and shove Bob and I together like a toddler ramming their doll’s faces

Fuckkkkk. If I had a peen, it would be hard at “You’re young—too young.” Something about those lil (or big… who said that) gaps that are just the right side of making one person feel like a creep are my Achillies heel. I know it’s toxic. I know it’s bad. But good god I am called DILF diddler as a username for a reason. I wanna be that controversially young girlfriend. I started to listen to fucking ethel cain and lana del rey because they are apparently the sirens of this sorta relationship (citing tiktok as my source here)

“And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.” SHOT THROUGH THE HEART AND YOU’RE TO BLAME

“he’s a carpenter” Baby I am thinking of Joel Miller. Why he gotta be named Ryan, my vagina just curled in on itself to run away

Ew. Okay yeah, I see why he was named Ryan. That is such a Ryan thing to do. The first Ryan to hit on me dead ass went “wanna play the firetruck game” and if you know anything about that it is for real the childishness. No offense to any other Ryans reading this but imma side eye you for that shit at this point.

OOOOF FUCK eMotIoNaL dAmAgE with “you’re not him”

Sobbing helping at the bar is so cute. I love this. This is a dream actually. Almost wanted to give up STEM so I could bartend because I read a book called the Drunken Botanist and I loved it so much

A compliment. I am tucking it away. This would work on me, I fear.

Lmfaooooo see you wrote this just for me because the next line!!!!!!!

Bob! Improper! Commenting on a girl’s-

Oh shit. Get outta my head! I am trying to be witty and funny to add to commentary and it is exactly right. The way I can see myself in this character!

“Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”  HELLO??? Can you chill on dropping banger quotes because I have flooded my friend IRL with little snaps of this. She is tired of my shit, she doesn’t like Bob and I need to be able to chill out about how fucking good your writing is

AHAHAHA CALL HIS ASS OUT

AHAHA PENNY CALL HER ASS OUT

I loved nights on the ships… I did oceanography and my shift was always 3 pm to 3 am and it was the coolest. When we weren’t actively sampling and in the research zone the crew showed me that you can shine lights off the side of the boat and get cute lil squid to zoom up at the surface… also may I interest you in bioluminescent phytoplankton propaganda… or hell even a copepod… Please love nights.

Jake with whale noises? Adorable. Stop making him cute when he annoys me lmfaoooo

THE DODGE TO COYOTE I AM SCREAMING

Lmaoooooo Nat said “girl I don’t even play about him”

CORRECT IF HE’S GREY I LIKE TO PLAY

MAVVVVV YOU KILL ME

I feel like a fucking pavlov’ed dog ““Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.” and my body is creaming… screaming for more

Ugh jesus christ I have nothing appropriate to say about an older man, even if it is slight, giving direct orders and fixing something. Nothing appropriate and I cannot scare off my new favorite fic writer addiction okay. So all I will put for this one is kgnojsnegouhgoirh mmmmmmmmm

“the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful.” I lied. I cannot hold myself back from this. I am a freak on main and proud about this man and how hot you make me during your writing. BARK BARK BARK BARK

ONLY YOURS HOLD THE FUCKING PHONEEEEEEE AAAAAAAA

“My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” I feel like he already put a baby in me from this point at the fic - and if it didn’t take, we’re trying again until it does

Jake isn’t wrong, he is annoying but he isn’t wrong

LMFAO BECAUSE THEY DO IT QUIETLY

“Did Bob really just override a direct order?” It’s just a fic I say to myself as I start to sweat because fuck that is hot. Feels all protective and shit and there is nothing quicker to make me swoon and open my legs to bring him home than that

Oop I know logically that would piss me off out in the field so this is correct but also awwww protective mmmmmm and bossy like yes daddy (who said that)

I hate to love you Bagman

DAMN RIGHT NO MAN IS THE BOSS ONCE THOSE DOORS OPEN

Okay that was a lie. A 24/7 dynamic but still, for the purposes of this, DAMN RIGHT

Yeah, you fucking apologize (adorable baby I could never be mad at you)

“I know”… “That’s why I’m apologizing”… HE’S A GOOD MAN SAVANNAH

“I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”  I’m in love. Period. I’d fold like laundry with extra fabric softener

“His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. ” Breath hitch? Baby not just that is reacting to this kinda move. I’d be belly up and panting

“Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”  YOU EDGE ME AGAINNNNN. I should expect it but I am ANGRY. I am throwing my phone, apologizing to it, and starting back up

“renowned little chaos gremlin” this. This. This. I need it. I need to be this. I am not getting called this IRL. I need this.

Grinder. GAE

OOOP he gave the call sign… ooooop

“you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement” I am not living up to my full potential and I never have been more disappointed in myself

HE IS GAY

HAHAHAHA

U R HILARIOUS

Oh god remember that hangman x bob fic I mentioned before? I also indulge in hangman x rooster because I like slutting this annoying fuck out like some sort of cheap whore. Please tell me he swings that way too in this fic. I need queer free ride for all jake

“has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.” okay I give up because there is no way my brain can produce lines like this

Lmfao Grinder is gonna wind her ass up. Fucker knows hook, line, and sinker

“I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”  Does he take friend applications because I need to learn from this diva

“Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”  HELL YEAH BROTHER *caw caw*

My grandmother had us in bowling lessons during the summer because she played league and to see this lil bowling part mentioned warms me

“All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis?” A GIRL IN STEM MENTIONED. Ah another level of warmth.

Nat knows, she always knows, that is a woman who could read a room the second she came out of the womb

Everyone shortens his name to Roo and I always giggle going ‘cock’ because I secretly have the humor of a teenage boy

I need to know, is Bob just a leg man? Like my own HC this man when asked is all about the ass.

Unofficial nicknames because I am invested in their silly shorts. Maverick - Rick (like a Rick Roll because he’s old). Rooster - Cock. Hangman - Bag. Phoenix - Phone (big brain for you I love it). Payback - Back (because Pay is too easy). Fanboy - Boy (why does make me giggle). Coyote - Yote (I am from a college town that this was the official shortened name for the coyote mascot).

Jake you play too much - good for you

FOGGY GLASSES ARE BACK I LOVE YOU

Lmfaooo baby boy the question was noton the dress

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” *clutching my pearls* bitch I woul fold too. My fucking glasses foggin too irl in my mf air conditioned room!!!!!

Omg Fboy is so much betterrrrrr yes!!!!! Yessssssssss!!!!! Nix like the goddess. I see you, intentional or not I see you.

Mickey, honey, lemme kiss your booboo

Marry me Nat

My grandma would offer me up to him on a silver platter to secure his bowling for her league

The only time I crave to be objectified is by fictional characters and I am eating this with a spoon

Bradley, I would love to see you in a skirt. I would pay for it really. I love hairy thighs. I need them.

Oh not the hand kink. Oh god. Oh no. I am about to start being disrespectful because Lewis Pullman has veiny arms and I have been looking at them all day.

Big fucking hands.

Hands to choke me with. Hands to grip me with. Hands to hold the heft of a titty or an ass cheek

Yep, there you are, correct.

Mmmmmm fucking MARK ME

“You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.” Correct. Right. Yes. You feel me. You basically writing fucking poetry as is

“And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?” Suddenly I am Rhett Abbott and I am about to RIDE

HE OFFERED HELP!!! YES

Solid grip, not too tight, like holding your dick - who said that!

Oh what I wouldn’t do to feel this man’s thighs. Why did you remind me they exist and not have me on top of them?

Oh he would talk you through it. Nothing like dirty talk with him

I BEG, PLEASE LET IT BE A BONER

BATHROOM? BONER. PLEASE BE A BONER.

I am a dog with a… bone… heheehe

A bitch in heat

Okay I’m done, not sorry about this though. You have had two fics and so far, no fucks and I am just foaming at the mouth

See? Natasha knows. She just knows things. These boys are idiots and I love them. My idiots.

AHAHAHA NATASHA FUCKING CLOCKED THAT SHIT TOOOOO

I swear on Lewis Pullman’s veiny arms, this has not been edited or changed as I go on. I write a thought like I am narrating, raw and unfiltered for the purpose of expressing my joy at these fics. All natural.

Lmfaoo Jake just caught up on the “extra”

He is pretty. You be right.

Because nerds are hot. Like it feels almost like a circle rather than a venn diagram as to kinky/freaky and nerds. Especially if you throw autism in there. “oh you mean direct and clear outlines of everything in the bedroom? Oh masks so I don’t have to make eye contact?” come on.

OH PLEASE TELL ME YOU WROTE FLOYD AS A FREAK

Begging. Knees. For you. Please write a lil freaky deak.

Brother coded Bob for Nat. Sobbing. Yes. Heart. Love. (but being between them both… yeah my bisexual heart also loves that flavor).

No distance, I wanna cuddle the man. He is warm. Short skirts means needed huddles for warmth

I have written so much my notes on my desktop is freaking out, look what you have done

OUCH REJECTION NOOOO OUCH MY HEART SOBBING THIS HURTS

“what did you do” immediate. 0 lead up. No other question about it being me/her. Accuse and abuse. I love you Nat.

OOOOOF THE DISAPPOINTMENT HURTS ME

The sound of ‘ooo I fucked up’ is just looping

Bradley revoked his first name privileges for that fuck up. Called him “Floyd”

Nat should still chew him out imho

A good man fears women

I am also terrible because I am eating his guilt like fine caviar

Oh shit my chest hurts at that ignoring. Props to you being a good writer but this better resolve fast because I need to breathe

Awwwwww he needs me

“because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you.” twisting the fucking knife

“Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.” YEAH BUDDY!!!!! YES YOU ARE

I think he is an ass man, this is another mention. A solid choice.

Okay, once again I must say, fictional men being like “yeah I got off to you” fucking HOTTTTT

Oh no… oh no… Bob is a boy. Boys are stupid. Bob isn’t gonna know this man is gae is he

And like that my chest hurts more. This feels like when I went through my breakup. Fuck you, but also I love you but also fuck this hurts. You tagged it properly, this was my own fault and I have no one else to blame but damn it.

No dummy you don’t have the right to be mad even if you are wrong

Mother fucker I been fucking waiting. Trying. Asking. Oh you stupid son of a bitch my chest doesn’t hurt no more I wanna start swinging. You cute but that doesn’t make you immune from catching these hands

Oh you stupid girl, Trevor is also right

I broke my cardinal rule about hating the miscommunication trope because I loved your writing, you should know this and also feel special.

Nat you are a good friend and I love you

I would be so mad if he kept correcting, I love you boo but one more word and I am crashing my plane into yours. You are just a jilted lil bitch (said with love and affection)

NOT THE EJECT – PLEASE I SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO GOOSE

“Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.” This is what I would read in a traditionally published book at the end of a chapter that would leave me screaming

“softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.” I’m gonna kill myself

Oh no, I’m really gonna kill myself this hurts so bad

Where is my comfort you hoe

WHER ARE YOU GOING NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO

“The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family.” Girl I know you read the other bits I wrote, I know you know this is my shit. I know you know that this is going to make me weep from love

“In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously.” Stop being the funniest one in the room, some of us also have to creatively spin to get readers

Nat is a tattle tale, I love you

I love this internal monolog. I would quote it all but you read it and I just am giggling at it. There is a lil comfort for the HURT YOU THREW AT ME

Nat is an accomplice, I love you

He has a throw blanket, this is a MAN

He makes a house a home

Awwwwwww helps, points back for the meanie

I am screaming at my screen, wanting to smack the both of them

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” It’s giving… “You are what I treasure most in this world. Not because you are pretty. Not because you are smart. But because you love me and I love you and you can try to deny it, but I will not believe you. When certain atoms collide, it is instantaneous and it is inevitable. It’s basic chemistry.”

IT’S CHEMISTRY

Aka you wrote a line that invokes the same level of awe and swooning and love that damn near broke me in Lessons in Chemistry

Oh it keeps going, oh god, oh I am not going to survive this

I came this far to crash too

HELP I’VE BEEN WOUNDED. He didn’t ruin anything you sweet stupid man

Oops when you assume…. It makes an ass out of you and me lmfaoooooo

“His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.” FUCKING FINALLYYYYYYYYYY

“It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.” Hey. Is there a way that you are not poetic because I love it but also you just upped this from a simple kiss to something that has me having to pause to take a breather and remember my senses.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” Help. Help. Help. 911. I need help. This is too good. Too sweet. It hurt for so long my body cannot handle this. It feels like I am being chased by a bear.

The goddamn shirt

Give her yours

Take your shirt off

I know what you’re packing Floyd

Lay a claim if it bothers you

AHAHAHA FINALLY A FUCK

Try

Oh good god

END

END

END

WHERE?

YOU HAD A POST ABOUT WRITING SMUT FOR BOB BEING HARD AND YOU FUCKING END THIS ONE TOO WITHOUT PEEN?

GIRL

GIRL

GIRL

HEY

THIS

EDGING ME

I NEED A COLD FUCKING SHOWER

I AM

I DON’T

THIS

YOU

>:[

Damn it the writing is amazing I can’t even be pissed but I need feral bob

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t. 

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t. 

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you. 

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar. 

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering. 

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?” 

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?” 

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily. 

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic���looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.��

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this���smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[digiflora]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘!

ꪆৎ choso ⸝⸝ sukuna ⸝⸝ gojo ⸝⸝ ino wc.

summary. life as a streamer creates all sorts of potential interactions- whether between other creatives, or just some random person in a csgo lobby...

contains! ꪆৎ streamer au ⸝⸝ cosplayer reader (choso) ⸝⸝ some suggestiveness + downbadness lmfao ⸝⸝ nerdjo my beloved

𐔌 gia's notes! ☆⌒(ゝ。∂) woioi chat. i've been on such a 2020 first lockdown nostalgic kick recently im ngl... hence the title of this fic LOL. and lowkey the content too 😞 you can kinda tell that i ran out of steam while writing this... but o well

streamer!choso [@/ch0k4m0] who is relatively well known- technically, for his gaming abilities, though what solidified his online fame was his rather candid commentary, with seemingly no filter between his thoughts and the words that come out of his mouth. that, and his looks which had broken the internet when he had face revealed, catapulting him from a fairly unknown but well loved streamer to regularly getting hundreds of thousands of views on his streams.

his current streams mostly consisted of him working his way through resident evil. viewers could expect to see a decent progression within each stream due to choso not being completely useless at playing the game, alongside his dumb comments diminishing the fear factor of the franchise ever so slightly. and of course, his ever so subtle crush on the character ada wong.

'chat oh my GOD i've never been so in love with some pixels before'

'ada baby please, just one chance. i know that i'm 3d and you're 2d but we'll make it work'

every time a cutscene of her plays, there's an absolute torrent of messages and donations teasing him for his poorly hidden crush, ones that choso takes the time to properly read through during his breaks in the stream. such an occasion happens now, with choso reading out some random comments when a new donation rings out, the text to speech voice that comes with it bearing a demand

'choso you need to look up this account RIGHT NOW and look at the video they just posted'

his brow furrows as he reads the username, deliberating on whether he should actually follow those instructions or if his viewer was just trying to mess with him. ultimately, he conceded to his chat's wishes and opened a new browser window, typing it in.

a mere few hours later after the stream, you found your notifications to be blowing up more than usual. you had posted a new cosplay video earlier today, but even then there was a little TOO many notifications to be your usual audience. you noticed that you had been tagged in an edit, inclining you to click on that before wading through the likes and comments. every time that you received one it was a special kind of joy, with the knowledge that someone enjoyed your cosplays enough to inspire them to make something. you hear the music begin to fade in once the edit loads, though the intro clip has you confused as you don't think that you've seen it before.

obviously, you recognise choso, the handsome and funny streamer who got really popular recently, and one that you have unfortunately joined many others in appointing as your resident e-crush. you weren't big on watching streams, but every time a clip of choso appears when you scroll, you can't help but watch the whole thing, partially for its entertainment value, and partially because of just how cute the guy looked on your phone screen.

so really, it was quite the surreal experience to hear your username fall from his lips as the clip plays on your phone, and you watch the edit in disbelief

'am i spelling this right, chat?'

'and the latest video, right- oh it's, holy fuck-"

the beat then kicks in. clips of your ada wong cosplay flashing across the screen, one final flashbang of choso's face as he watches your video with an almost comical expression of awe. you're left absolutely flabbergasted as the video begins to loop, clicking on the comments to see what the hell was going on

'get in damn line choso 😩'

'BROOOODJFNSJG I WAS WATCHING THE STREAM AND I JUST KNEWWWWW SOMEONE WAS GONNA MAKE AN EDIT WITH THAT CLIP 😭😭😭'

'the stream was like 2 hours ago this edit was so fast wtf'

'it should have been meeeeeee ughhh'

'the way choso scrolled thru her ENTIRE account and then followed her... that man's finally got a crush on a real personnnnn'

that last comment captures your attention specifically, and sure enough, you see his username amongst your many new followers. it pays to get noticed by a popular streamer, you suppose.

and then, to your utmost surprise, you also see his name pop up within your dm requests

@/ch0k4mo: sooo are you in need of a leon kennedy by any chance

the dm isn't exactly suave, but it has its intended effect as you blink at your screen as you process it, finally letting out a squeal of excitement, screenshotting the message shamelessly. your friends are not gonna believe this. and then, only after running laps around your room and waiting for your erratic heartrate to return to a normal tempo, you type out a shaky response.

@/yn: funny that you ask that, cos i had a few video ideas in mind ;)

you can only hope that on the other end of the line, choso is having a somewhat similar reaction to yours.

streamer!sukuna [@/kingkuna] who is notorious for causing chaos online, whether on fps games such as cs and valorant, or even on the more inane roblox games where he makes a living off of terrorising little kids. actions speak louder than words, though the streamer is quick to utilise both when instilling terror on whichever server has the misfortune of having him

'i do this for the love of the game, chat'

'well, that, and because bullying little runts is fun'

all of these actions, streamed live every wednesday and friday, helped to garner sukuna a rather.... distinct reputation.

despite being considered an asshole for all intents and purposes, sukuna had somehow amassed a following, all from his persona of being an online troll.

so this week's particular stream was especially shocking to his fans for all of the wrong reasons.

it started off like any other stream, sukuna casually reading off the odd message in his chat whilst preparing for the stream, retorting some snarky comment that has the chat getting more and more riled up, all with a shit-eating grin on his face.

it was more or less a love-hate relationship between him and his chat, though everyone seemed happy with the dynamic, expecting no less from the streamer.

this stream in particular was particularly anticipated, if the steadily increasing viewcount in the corner was anything to go off of, probably due to the fact that this wasn't quite like his other streams. despite the countless hours of his content, very little was known about sukuna, and as a 1 million subscriber goal, the man had acquiesced to people's demands for a q&a.

it started off as well as it could have, with rather generic questions rolling out. but of course, knowing sukuna's audience (and his lenient moderators), some raunchier ones started to worm their way through

'does it... jiggle when i walk? mods, get this clown out of here'

sukuna rattles through the questions, his fans clearly revelling in his embarrassing childhood stories, in the knowledge that his hair is not dyed, and how he views his streams as training to continue defeating his nephew in fortnite whenever they play together.

and then, finally, the fated question

'kingkuna i have to know for all the ladies out there... do u have a gf??'

it's a special donation message, one that rattles off loud and clear in a way that absolutely cannot be missed, though with the amount of time it takes for him to respond, he may as well have.

'hm, wouldn't you like to know?'

there's a torrent of outraged messages, before a deep booming laugh emits from the man.

'ehhh, i'm just fucking with you. of course i do, she's my forever girl.'

there's another torrent of messages in chat, though they're now oohing and ahhing at just how uncharacteristically sweet the streamer is being. his eyes flit over the incoming messages, his grin widening as his gaze lifts to somewhere beyond the webcam's reach.

there's a silent exchange, no words needed before sukuna reclines back in his chair, his legs spreading as he makes room for whoever's coming into frame.

'she's right here, too. everyone say hi to y/n'

and when she situates herself right on his lap and his arm wraps around her waist, the chat goes crazy. the streamer seems to remember his regular image, cackling at the desperate onslaught of messages eager to get even a morsel of information about the two of you, instead starting to click away at the preparations needed before he ends the stream

'oh would you look at the time, looks like i'll be having to end the stream now. see you suckers on wednesday'

'byeeeee!'

you can't help but chime in, giggling and waving right at the camera before the stream shuts off, and you feel sukuna begin to truly relax into his chair, shuffling you impossibly closer to his chest, hugging you to him and burying his face against you.

'aww, you big baby'

'dunno what you're talking about'

you giggle at your boyfriend's antics, though definitely used to them by now. instead, you get comfy, letting sukuna use you as his personal pillow as you card through his hair with one hand, the other unlocking your phone and you begin to scroll through twitter. #kingkuna1m was already trending thanks to the premise of his livestream, and you can't help but click on the tag, looking through some of the most recent tweets.

'never would i EVER have expected SUKUNA of all ppl to be relationship goals'

'praying on his downfall fr 🙏🙏🙏 he doesn't know how good he has it'

'he's so EVIL for ending the stream like that omfg'

'the way he looks at her IM SICKKKKK ☹️☹️☹️☹️'

that last one comes with a video, a hasty screen recording of those last few moments of the stream as you wave at the camera, though you're focusing on the shamelessly lovestruck expression on sukuna's face as he watches you. it's enough to have you giggling and kicking your feet right in his lap, and he grumbles, his spare hand catching onto your flailing ankle

'quit squirming, brat'

'but you're just so cute, kunaaa'

you show him your phone screen, and it's your turn to study his face as he looks at the video impassively, though he can't hide the little twitch of his lips.

'my camera must be faulty, gotta get a new one'

streamer!gojo [@/sago] who is affectionately known by his fans for being a big fat nerd. it's not like he tries to hide it, the background of his setup decorated avidly with all sorts of posters and memorabilia from his favourite shows and games. compared to other streamers, too, gojo wasn't one to particularly shy away from details of his personal life, his laidback and easygoing persona making it easy for people to become regular viewers of his streams.

on said streams it was commonplace for his chat to ask him questions about himself, and more often than not he would give them an answer- and on one of these such occasions is when he let slip the fact that he had a roommate. and that in itself isn't anything too worldbreaking to hear, but it's the way he almost lights up as he mentions your name that has his fans intrigued.

even more interesting is gojo's reluctance, for lack of a better word, about relinquishing more information about you. how quick he is to change the subject, or act as if he never read the original message at all.

and in an impressive effort which has the streisand effect in strong contention to be renamed to the gojo effect, this only further instils a need for his fans to know everything that they possibly could about you.

it's arguably one of his most well-loved bits with an incredibly long longevity, with a large amount of fanmade compilations of him at least alluding to it

'who's my roommate? i'll let you know when i find out'

'come back with a warrant, fed'

'that's some very personal information there which i would be hesitant to spread online. what do you MEAN i was telling you all about where i grew up 2 minutes ago-'

(you get the picture)

therefore, it's a rare and delightful treat whenever a new tidbit about you is let slip by the streamer. the day that your name got accidentally revealed by him on stream was a day for the books. and of course, since gojo's fans were deranged, your insta account and subsequent face reveal were soon to follow.

and once the cat was out of the bag, gojo seemed to begrudgingly relax about your secrecy. you started popping up in streams a bit more often, usually just a face peeking in to the room of gojo's setup, a sneaky wave that satoru would notice later and grin to himself about. he's got a highlight reel of your appearances on his twitch profile that he likes to rewatch more than he cares to admit.

one time, he even had you sat next to him during a just chatting stream, the two of you shooting the shit. his fans were quick to point out how red the tips of his ears were throughout the whole stream. and how he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars whenever you spoke. and how he kept looking at you like that even when you weren't speaking.

it was never official, but satoru's feelings for you were.. rather obvious to anyone with the time to tune in to his streams. his touchiness regarding you seemed to make a lot more sense now, and became the newest aspect of satoru's life for his chat to ruthlessly mock.

today was just a regular stream- some mindless shooter game that satoru was way too invested in, no mentions or guest appearances of you. until now.

the door opened in the background of the stream- satoru's eyes flick up just before the door even moves, as if he had a sixth sense just for you- and you storm into the room, closer to annoyed than your usual cheery self.

'toru, you forgot to take out the bins. they're being collected tomorrow so don't leave it too late

and just like that, you're gone again. there's not even an ounce of hesitation before satoru is getting up from his desk, headphones coming off despite the yells of his teammates for him to stop fucking around and help them rush a.

chat is making their usual comments, a spam of their love for you and excitement that you've made an appearance. a few keener watchers were geeking over the toru nickname that's sure to make their way into the next y/n and gojo compilation video.

and despite all of this, satoru's heading out of the room.

'my girl's mad at me guys, i gotta go fix it'

and he's only gone for a few minutes, at most. but it's like an implosion of oncoming messages, all scrolling past his screen with no eyes to see them.

gojospinkietoe: FIRST TORU THEN MY GIRL!!!???? OHHHH MY GOD 🥺🥺🥺

iwatchmen: the gojoyn fans are gonna loveeee this

gojoyn5evrrr: SOMEONE CLIP THAT

funnily enough, satoru doesn't even realise the slipup until he's almost back to his room. at least he can blame the blush this time on having to have gone outside very briefly.

it's not exactly the same as his usual slipups when it comes to you- usually, there's at least an element of truth to them, but this appears to be sourced from somewhere deeper in his brain, a lot more of a subconscious desire that he hoped wouldn't breach into the conscious realm.

not until he was ready, at least.

streamer!ino [@/yunglean4ever] who's more of an up and coming streamer.. but he's slowly and steadily making his way up the rankings!! his game of choice is usually an fps, with his default usually being csgo. or something like that. he enjoys the straightforward nature of it. and teabagging his opponents when he's in the mood to be a little shit.

during these livestreams he's met many a different player, some friendlier than the regular silence or automatic irritated mood that most seemed to have- or some russian guy screaming words into the mic that was anyone's guess as to what it meant.

and while interacting with said teammates is always a promising aspect of entertainment, ino wasn't one to remember most of these interactions, save for a few especially distinct ones.

one such occasion is when he meets you. you've got your mic on, which is always more appealing for ino than having to communicate via typing or reading chats, and even better is the almost instant connection that the two of you make. you giggle at his silly username, he indignantly defends his love for drain gang, and the rest is history.

one match played together turns into a friend request, which turns into becoming a party, which turns into playing duos, which turns into goving each other your discords, which turns into many more rounds which extend way after ino ends his stream.

it was merely a start to this new... something, but with the way that ino caught himself laughing a little too hard at your mildly funny jokes, he had a feeling that it would turn into something much more.

so when he boots up his pc the next day, it's not much surprise to him that there's some giddy emotion that he feels when he says a message from you

'wanna play? had a lot of fun last night w u :D'

he couldn't type out a response fast enough to contain his excitement.

⋆˚࿔ jjk masterlist

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ ... or, try reading hopelessly devoted to you

[gothicpaperback]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART THREE | harry castillo x you

<<< PART TWO: VALUATION ERRORS | PART FOUR: COMING SOON >>>

wc: 5,4k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film spoilers, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

taglist: @chasingthepoguelife | @tnsmara | @sarahhxx03 | @taehyungxjungkookistaekook | @bluenightmarepost | @kakiki3 | @pascal-mynightlyobsession | @immyowndefender | @dedicatedfangirl2001 | @dotyoureyez | @decadent-hag1 | @madmelz | @sarahhxx03 | @orcasoul | @papapappapapapa | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @greenwitchfromthewoods |

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART THREE| LIABILITIES

Harry insists on paying for your cab ride home when you refuse to take his town car. But with the wad of cash from the envelope he gave you, you feel too selfish to agree. 

When you get to your apartment you rush to the kitchen table, emptying the envelope of the bills, counting feverishly before sitting back in shock because he actually paid you double like he said he would. 

The credit card sits next to the envelope, your name in gold. You still can't believe it, this feels like something out of a dream. 

If something feels too good to be true, it probably is. Your mother's voice rings in your head. 

You're actually doing this. You're pretending to be the girlfriend of a guy you really don't think you really enjoy the company of. 

Yeah, dinner was good, but he was nosy asking you about what you needed the money for. You hate that he rented out the restaurant. And despite the money, you hated receiving it in an envelope like a hooker. 

Your phone rings and you see it's your mother calling. You cringe before lifting the phone to your ear. 

"Hey mom."

"Hi sugar, I'm calling to make sure you've booked work off for Christmas."

Your mother is all business, in fact you can picture her hunched over her calendar like a vulture waiting for confirmation. 

"Mom, that's months away."

"Well your little brothers are excited to see you."

"Step brothers," you mutter.

"I heard that."

"Sorry."

Miles and Noah are your step brothers aged five and eight. Your mother's midlife crisis. Her much younger boyfriends Trey’s kids. 

You thought it was a phase when she tried online dating after divorcing your father. You didn't think she and the himbo from long Island would hit it off, let alone fall in love.  What's really fucked up is that her boyfriend Trey really tries to butter you up, insisting that you're all some big happy family and not some bizarre modern family rip off. 

"I'll book it off, mom," you say quietly, "I promise."

"Okay, kisses to you. I'll email details. Night night."

You end the call, eyes on the table. You stare at the money for what feels like forever, still not quite believing what's happening. 

If something feels too good to be true, it probably is. 

This continues into the next morning when you wake to the sound of your buzzer. You groan, grabbing a robe. Shuffling to the main room from bed you slam a hand on the button, your voice thick with sleep. 

"Yeah?"

A man's voice comes through, staticy and with a thick Bronx accent. 

"Delivery for apartment 7G?"

"I'm not expecting a delivery."

There's a pause, a shuffle and then the man's voice again. 

"Says here it's from an H. Castillo?"

It better not be more flowers.  The ghost orchids are creepy, sitting on your coffee table making the place feel like a funeral home. 

"Come on up."

You answer the door to a burly balding man, smiling politely as you sign for your package. The boxes he hands you are glossy black, tied with a deep green bow. The name is stitched into the ribbon, foreign and nothing you've heard before. 

You move back into the kitchen, placing the box on the table and making yourself some coffee. As it brews you Google the name and the search leads you to the website of a haute courier designer. Dresses and gowns stare back at you on sleek models, sumptuous fabric and ornate designs. 

Coffee forgotten, you tug the ribbon, opening the box. Inside lays a card over tissue paper with the stores name on it and a handwritten note. 

Please wear tonight. - H

Damn, he must be really nervous about you meeting his parents. You don't really blame him, he's really throwing you, sink or swim. 

You know you have to keep it up though. Whatever curve balls come your way, you won't be distracted from your goal. Because that money is going to help your dad in a huge way, which in turn helps you. 

You open the tissue paper, amazed at the scent of jasmine and orange that emits in the process. 

You're not exactly surprised to see a dress inside, but you are surprised at how beautiful it is.

You slide out of your pajamas and pull the dress on.

It's a sleek off the shoulder black cocktail dress that emphasizes your best physical features. It fits you like a glove. 

"How the...." You mutter to yourself, looking from all angles into the bathroom mirror. "How the hell did he know?"

You open the second now, equally shocked when you see new heels. You’re not a fashion hound, you dress modestly. But you know that red soles mean Christian Loubiton. They too are a perfect fit. 

Inside the shoe box is another small velvet box. You reach inside, surprised. You snap it open, eyes wide. 

"Wow."

A pair of ruby earrings twinkle back at you nestled in the black velvet. He's already paying you and now he's buying your outfits too? Your heart is starting to beat unsteadily. Is it too late to back out? This feels overwhelming, too much all at once. 

You compose a text to Harry quickly, heart beating rapidly. You attach a photo of the earrings, dress and shoes. 

These are on loan I assume? Nope. All yours to enjoy. The car will be to pick you up at six. - H

Harry can't remember the last time he was really nervous. That sweaty palm, headache kind of anxious. But that's how it is as he sits in the back of the town car, hand tapping against his kneecap. 

What if you've changed your mind? What if this is all too overwhelming? What was he thinking having this as your first public event? 

"Fuck."

He hates this cloying feeling, like he's breathing through dirt. 

He decides to distract himself, pulling up his email and answering a few work related questions. He usually tries to keep his personal time to himself, but he needs to make his brain stop going into hyper drive. 

He notices an alert from earlier in the day, a charge to the credit card he gave you. Curious he taps the statement, reading and then smirking. 

You bought a popcorn maker. 

All the things in the world you could have bought with that credit card he gave you and you bought a $32 popcorn maker?

"Strange woman,' he murmurs to himself, amused. He's still looking at it when a text from you comes through. 

Having trouble walking in these. Promise I'm coming just have to walk slow. 

Harry watches as you exit onto the sidewalk, a little wobbly in your heels. 

But Harry isn't looking at the heels; he's looking at how your breasts fill out the dress, the curves that he hasn't yet seen on display until this moment, the softness of your skin and the hair that fans out over your shoulders. 

He didn't send a hair and makeup team to see you for fear that you would panic or be overwhelmed. He's relieved to see you have a good eye, your. You twist your head, looking back to see if you locked the lobby door and Harry sees the ruby earrings you wear glint in the setting sun. 

You wore what he asked. You're really trying. This can work. 

He exits the car, smiling at you as you approach. He extends his arm, looking at your shoes. 

"Are they uncomfortable?"

"No, they're amazing," you gush as you grab onto his bicep, a little desperate. "It's just I haven't worn heels in so long." 

Harry chuckles as he leads you to the car, opening the door for you. You grip his hand, easing yourself. When you're settled he surprises you by bending down and lifting your hand to his mouth. He kisses your knuckles lightly and you hold in a grimace. 

"We don't really need to do that, do we? It's just us."

Harry goes pink at the back of his neck before nodding; dropping your hand like it's on fire. That familiar feeling is back, the same one he felt when he first met you: rejection. 

He closes the door before going to the other side. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This is why be picked you, no chance of real romantic entanglement But do you have to make it so hard? 

He slides in next to you and the car takes off for his parents. He glances at you from the corner of his eyes. 

"We'll be there in about thirty minutes." 

With that he goes back to his phone, answering work emails with a scowl on his face. 

You weren't lying, you haven't worn heels in years. Between Jarrod and working in the gallery you've always just worn sensible, comfortable shoes. You can't deny that you feel sexy in these ones though. 

You glance at Harry's profile, taking in his strong nose, full lips and dark, dark eyes. He’s objectively attractive.

"I'm surprised you're single."

He isn't expecting that. "What?"

"I mean, you're rich, handsome, intelligent," you say without affection for any of the descriptors, "and I know what you say about love, but surely there was someone."

Harry who always has an extremely warm countenance suddenly turns stoic, the warmth from his eyes seeping out the longer he looks at you. The warmth from his eyes seeping out the longer he looks at you 

"No. No one." 

The tension grows so taut you feel like it could snap any moment. You try to change his subject, fingers twisting in your lap anxiously. 

"So this is all because your mom wants you to marry, right?"

He seems to be happier with this change in topic, leaning back against his seat. 

"She's really just saying what her mother said to her and her mother before that." He lifts a shoulder. 

"Don't you have a married brother?"

"Yes, but I'm the eldest. She feels it reflects poorly on us that the male head of the family is single. She's worried it will affect the company shares, blah blah blah."

"Does your mom have a lot of say in your life?"

"Ever since my father died, I find I value her opinion even more," he says as he nods after a moment of thought. "Family means a lot to me." 

"I get that."'

Harry pauses. "You never really told me much about yours. I know you said your mother is on long Island with her new husband and family and your dad lives in Jersey, but that's about it." 

"That's honestly all there is," you lie. 

Harry sees that flicker of unease go across your features. You're lying but he can't figure out why. 

But it doesn't matter because the car is climbing the large driveway of a massive estate and your eyes are bulging out of your head. 

"Holy shit."

The hum of Harry's town car is a soft contrast to the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The gates swing open, wrought‑iron filigree shining in the late afternoon light, and suddenly you feel under dressed, under educated, under everything. 

Growing up with all of this luxury Harry isn't really phased when he sees it. He forgets that the sprawling acres of land the well manicure shrubs and trees, and these state itself is rather breathtaking. 

He looks at it with new eyes surmising that in fact it is rather impressive.

The estate unfolds before you in a dramatic slow reveal, a sprawling mansion capped with slate roofs, pale stone walls bleached by time. Boxwood hedges carve the lawn into geometric precision. Every blade of grass is trimmed, every pathway edged with gravel so fine it resembles sugar crystals.

You sense the expectation of protocol as soon as you swing your legs out the door, taking Harry's proffered hand, walking alongside him on unsteady legs. 

Harry doesn't even knock, simply pushes the large doors open, indicating you should step forward before him. 

Inside, the foyer is grand beyond expectation. The ceilings are vaulted like a cathedral’s, with crystal chandeliers dripping light like frozen waterfalls. Marble floors reflect your shoes back at you, polished so impeccably that the effect is almost disorienting. 

You hear voices at the of the hall and you grip the crook of Harry's arm, nodding as you pass a man wearing a suit and a name tag. CLYDE.  Harry greets him with a soft nod and smile, allowing him to take your coat.

When the two of you enter into the sitting room Harry feels you tense up against him. So many sets of eyes are turned your way, the room previously loud is now silent. 

His brother and sister in law, Mason and Eleanor, sit near one of the large windows. Eleanor with her hair in a sophisticated twist and Mason with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. They give nervous smiles your way, knowing firsthand the scrutiny you must be under. 

A woman with dark curls and a full mouth stands up, her dark eyes playful. She's clearly Harry's mom. 

"This must be the girlfriend we've heard so much about," she says with a squeal. She runs over to you as fast as she can, throwing her arms around you tightly and hugging. "I'm so glad to meet you officially! "

You're a bit taken aback by this. You expected a frosty reception and pantsuits. Instead she dresses in a silk blouse and expensive looking skirt. The gems at her neck are undoubtedly real as are the heavy ones that rest on her earlobe. And that's not to mention the giant rock she wears on her left hand. 

You surprise Harry by welcoming the embrace with a light laugh, squeezing her back. 

"It's so nice to meet you Mrs. Castillo."

"No no no," she says with a dramatic shake of her head, "I am Mona." 

The man that resembles a much older Mason steps forth, with a strong jaw and deep set eyes.  He's dressed similarly to Harry, expensive looking trousers and a neatly pressed sweater. The gold Rolex he watches glints in the low light. 

"This is Adrian," Mona says. "The boy’s Uncle."

But his eyes hold that warmth that you've seen in Harry countless times. The kind of eyes that communicate trust. It's a family trait you surmise. 

"A pleasure," he says in a thick accent, taking your hand and pressing a light kiss to your knuckles. Oh, so that's where Harry gets it from. 

Mason and Eleanor come over, extending their welcome and their handshake.  

"Nice to finally meet you," Mason says. 

"Harry says such lovely things," Eleanor adds, almost as if the two of them have rehearsed this. 

Eleanor is dressed impeccably, her dress tighter than yours, a pale peach color. Her updo is sophisticated. She too wears a large diamond on her left hand. 

You continue to grip onto Harry. Because despite your dual preparation you suddenly feel very exposed. Adrian passes you a martini with an onion instead of an olive and you hope it will take the edge off. 

"Ada is going to be thrilled she gets to meet you," Mona adds from behind Mason as you take a ginger sip. You can sense the shift in the room immediately. Harry's grin drops, taking a sharp breath in. 

"Ada is here?" 

Mona's smile goes strained, Eleanor and Mason flinching. Even Adrian looks uneasy over his wine glass. 

"Yes," Adrian says quietly. "Your grandmother arrived quite unexpectedly this afternoon." 

"Wonderful." Harry gives a stiff smile your way. "I can't wait for you to meet her." 

Harry's fingers lace with yours, tightening. He is not excited. 

"If you excuse us, I'm going to show her around before dinner starts," Harry says trying to affect a casual air. 

"Alright Harrison, darling," Mona says pressing a kiss to his cheek. "But please don't be too long."

"Of course, Mother." 

You almost yelp, that's how hard Harry tugs you after him down the hallway. As soon as the two of you round the corner you glance over at an anxious looking Harry. 

"Who the hell is Harrison?"

Harry gives you a side eye. "Me." 

"What?"

"Harrison Castillo. That's my name."

You blink. 

"I thought your name was Harry."

"That's what I go by."

"Why would you do that?" You ask, wrinkling your nose. "Harry is such a goofy name." 

"Better than everyone calling me Indiana Jones and making Air Force One jokes." He grips your hand in his, tugging you after him. "C'mon, I'll show you around." 

You allow yourself to be dragged through the hallway, your eyes trying to take in everything that you see. Art pieces that you've only read about lining their walls and you wonder if it's clever, forgery or if in fact they truly do own a priceless Mondrian. 

"That's the music room," Harry tells you quickly guiding you. "The second guest room, the gallery..." 

He just wants to get you alone somewhere, to regroup, he doesn't actually want to show off his wealth like this. He knows you aren't impressed by it. But he has to give the impression of a tour. You press a hand against the wall’s wood panelling which is smooth, cool, and untouched by fingerprints.

"And this," Harry says urging you gently forward into a dimly lit space, "is my father's old office." 

He sweeps you into a room full of mahogany and the faint remnants of cigar smoke. 

Unlike the rest of the house this space feels lived in, the walls cramped with the art pieces, mostly landscapes, all in beautiful frames. You see a replica of  Orpheus and Eurydice by Vecelli, clearly the favourite, hung proudly in the centre. 

A large leather chair sits before an impressive looking wooden desk and, you collapse into it, watching as the until now unflappable Harry begins to pace in front of you, dragging a thumb along his lower lip in thought.

"Harry what the hell is going on?" 

Harry makes a show pressing-down motion, urging quiet. 

Harry glances over his shoulder, ensuring that the door is still closed and the two of you are still alone. He turns back his voice so low only you can hear. 

"I didn't expect my grandmother Ada to be here," Harry whispers. "She was supposed to be in Europe until the spring." 

"So?" You ask, legs crossed, eyes wide. 

"My grandmother is shrewd. She always has been and if I'd known she was coming tonight we could have been better prepared." 

You stand, concerned that Harry looks so worried. What's the worst that could happen with a little old lady? 

"I remember all the stuff you told me about you and your family," you insist, coming to stand opposite him. "And you know my stuff, right?"

"Right."

"So? Let's go and get this dinner over with," you say, patting his shoulder and adding a sarcastic, "Harrison, darling." 

The dinner table stretches out like a runway, set with more forks than you know what to do with and enough silver to blind you under the chandelier light. The food is served in courses by quiet men and women, naturally. First, a wild mushroom consommé so clear and delicate you’re scared to breathe near it. 

Harry's hand is wandering, forearm resting on the back of the chair. His fingers trail over your upper arm gently in a show of familiarity. You force yourself not to cringe at the unexpected contact. 

Mona and Adrian are telling the family about their recent trip to the vineyard. You assume Martha's? 

"You should come with us next summer," Mona says shooting you a warm smile from one end of the table. 

"That sounds lovely," you grin, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to Martha's vineyard. 

A salad so precisely plated it with paper-thin radishes arrives before you as if from thin air.  By the time the salad course is almost complete you're feeling more confident. So far you've navigated the whole 'How did you two meet thing' with the background information Harry worked on. 

"Isn't Adore wonderful?" Eleanor sighs from across the table at you. She squeezes Mason's hand, giving him a loving look. "Without it I never would have met the love of my life." 

"It's so great," you agree, quickly taking a bite of salad to cut off any opportunity for her to ask a follow-up question. 

Harry sits beside you, impressed with how things are going so far. He knew you were capable, but worried how you're acting would be. Turns out you're a natural. 

"Well you must be something special to have this guy bringing you home," Mason says, cheeks flush from the wine. "He never brings women here." 

"Mason," Harry warns lightly. 

"I'm serious," Mason says with a laugh. "Even when he was talking about being engaged to Lucy, he never actually-"

"That's enough, Mason," Adrian says sharply. It’s clear that without their father, Adrian is the closest thing they have to a father figure. Mason closes his mouth with an almost comedic speed. Eleanor puts a hand on his back, rubbing small circles there. 

"Sorry, Har," Mason mumbles, eyes averted to his plate.

You glance over at Harry, noting the flush that is creeping up the back of his neck, curling over the tips of his ears. You want to laugh at this before catching yourself. 

Shit. Should you act jealous? That's what a girlfriend would do, right? 

"You were engaged to Lucy? Lucy from Adore?" 

You give your best performance, trying to look upset and angry while internally giggling. 

"No."

"Then why-"

"We can talk about it later," Harry murmurs. It sounds like the sort of thing a couple would say, right?  

"Well I had my fair share of dates before you," you say with a dramatic sniff. "So I suppose I shouldn't be upset." You lift the back of your hand to your forehead like a dramatic stage actress. "I'm not jealous at all!"

You're delightfully surprised when Mona lets out a braying laugh and the rest of the table joins in. Mason and Eleanor exchange relieved looks before smiling genuinely over at you. Even Harry is grinning. 

You didn't think what you did was that funny, but maybe they're all just thankful you're not boring. Adrian is chuckling from beside Mona and he gives you a quick wink of approval. 

"Oh she's funny, Harrison!" Mona says with tears in her eyes. 

You don't love being talked about as if you're not in the room, but you realize when Mona shakes you a look of warmth that this is just her way. 

"Harry says that you work art restoration," Adrian says with interest. "That must be a fascinating job."

"I agree, it's the most interesting job I've ever had," you say with a smirk, "but your nephew didn't feel the same. The first day I met him he told me that my job sounded tedious." 

Giggles and a gasp from Mona of "he didn't!" go around the table. You laugh to yourself at the response. 

"It was a misunderstanding!" Harry says when he feels the admonishing from all sides. He's chuckling as well. "I was trying to find the word for intensive because you have to work with such indicate details. But I was thrown off."

"Really?" you glance at him, curiously. "Why?"

"I found you . . . Intimidating."

You're surprised when you see the flush to his cheeks. The thought that you could make a man like harry intimidated shocks you. You don't see Mona and Adrian exchanging secret grins. Or the way Eleanor and Mason are watching you intently with small little smiles on their faces. 

You go to ask Harry how you of all people could intimidate him when a faint tapping sound is heard and all eyes go to the entrance to the dining room. A tall woman with a regal countenance steps into view and like clockwork everyone stands. 

She's immaculately dressed and wears thick-framed glasses in tortoiseshell. Her hair is short, pure white and stylishly cut. She exudes power and confidence despite the cane she holds in one hand. 

"Hello grandmother," Harry says coming to step forward and press a kiss to her cheek. She accepts it with a quiet "Harrison." 

"Mother," Mona says with what sounds like false enthusiasm. "I hope your nap was restorative." 

"It would have been if not for that dreadful gardener making a ruckus," Ada says in a trembling rasp. "I couldn't sleep a wink."  Her eyes cast about the table, scanning faces until she lands on you. Her mouth puckers. "And who is this?"

The way she asks sounds accusatory, like she knows you don't belong somewhere this opulent. Like she knows you and Harry are a scam. 

"This is Harrison's girlfriend,' Mona says.

Ada makes no move to say anything pleasant. She simply scans you, she looks at the jewellery you wear, the dress that clings to you, the nervous sort of smile you're forcing as you extend your hand her way.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," you say and when she makes no move to take your hand, in a panic you do a low curtsy, fingertips holding the hem of your dress. 

Harry watches this from the corner of his eyes, sliding his hand to the small of your back and urging you to stand. 

"We don't bow,' he murmurs out the side of his mouth. 

Ada stares you down for a few moments, rheumy eyes taking their time to take in the dress, the hair, the way you stand. 

Finally, she drags her eyes to the wristwatch she wears, raising it to her face and frowning. 

"I'm glad I could make it before the main course, which is being served twenty two minutes late by my count."

"You know we like to take our time eating, Mother," Mona says with a nervous titter. "Come. Join us." 

Ada gives a heavy sigh, moving slowly to one end of the table nearest to Harry. He moves behind her, pushing her chair in as she lowers herself with a creak

Once she sits down everyone else does as well. Harry is sure to push your chair in for you as well. 

Filet mignon, blood rare, sits beside a single cloud of truffle potato purée. There’s roasted asparagus laid out in a perfect line, and some kind of beet reduction making abstract art across your plate. It reminds you of a Jackson Pollock. 

The cheery mood from before is gone, everything feels strained. You can only assume it's due to the woman at the end of the table watching everyone like a hawk. 

Harry thinks his stomach is going to squeeze shut with the anxiety he's feeling right now. If he'd known Ada would be here he would have prepped you differently. She's... Blunt. The kind of woman born to work and motivate, but not to love. 

It's strange because her daughter is so warm and kind. You wonder if her personality was part rebellion. 

Harry glances your way, relieved to see you eating quietly, body poised but not stiff. And he realizes that he likes having someone here, that he feels less alone at this dinner with Ada's looming presence. 

You chew carefully. Elegantly. Harry’s grandmother is watching you. She's quiet, her eyes narrowed. She doesn't ask your name, she doesn't even attempt to talk to you. She just stares. 

In an effort not to throw up from anxiety you glance at Harry's plate, noticing the absence of asparagus. Instead he just has streamed carrots. 

"Aren't you having any asparagus?"

The table goes quiet, eyes on you again.

"She's kidding," Harry says with a forced laugh. "She knows I'm allergic." 

The table breaks into light laughter that you join in on, feeling Ada's stare on you growing more intense.  

I need to fix this. I need to say something.

Your mind grasps for proverbial straws, and you fall back on the only topic you know with confidence. 

"I meant to say earlier that your home is beautiful," you tell Mona. "I especially love the Vecellio I saw on the far wall in the office. It was one of the first paintings I fell in love with in grad school." 

Mona looks delighted by this, but she doesn't even get a chance to answer you before Ada's voice cuts through the room like a shot, startling you. 

"I never understood why Adrian would cheapen his office like that by having some cheap reproduction."

You glance Ada's way, brow raised. You don't understand her vitriol. She levels a sharp look your way. 

"We could afford the original."

Oh, now you see. Despite her age Ada still lives in the mentality that money has to be loud. 

"But then you'd be depriving the world a chance to see his work up close. To see his paint strokes, to feel him in the canvas." 

"Nonsense," Ada says with a scoff. "You can't feel anything from old paint on paper."

"I dis-" you are about to continue when you feel Harry's large hand snake down to your kneecap, squeezing tightly. His meaning is clear: stop. 

You go back to your dinner, stuffing chicken into your down turned mouth, reminding yourself that you're making money just being here. 

Dessert is a deconstructed millle-feuille with spun sugar. Unlike only an hour before with everyone chatting amiably, dessert is taken in silence with Ada watching everyone like some terrifying gargoyle at the head of the table. 

Her eyes have moved to Eleanor and Mason, scanning them both with what looks like a critical eye. Selfishly you're thankful that gaze isn't turned on you anymore. 

"I meant to ask earlier, did I miss the big news?" Ada says with a long sip of wine. 

"The big news?" Mona looks confused over at Adrian who shrugs. Ada glances up from her meal with a look of disdain. 

"Well, Eleanor is clearly pregnant," Ada says motioning to the startled young woman. 

Harry feels his entire body tighten as he realizes what's about to happen.

No. Fuck. Not tonight. 

"What?" Mona's brows scrunch, wine glass halfway to her lips. She looks at Mason and Eleanor's expressions. "Is this true?" 

"Uh, well," Mason says, looking from face to face, his chest expanding as his breathing elevates. He takes Eleanor's hand in his giving her a gentle smile before glancing back around at the family. 

"Yeah. We're having a baby."

Mona jumps up from her seat, racing to give her son and Daughter-In-Law tight hugs. Harry stands up crossing to shake Mason's hand pulling him into a hug with a "congratulations little brother."

"Your father would be so proud," Mona says with tears in her eyes. "I can't believe I'm going to be a grandmother."

You grin across the table, telling them that you're so happy for them. And you are, but it feels weird to join in on this frivolity. You barely even know any of them. But you stand, shaking their hands and smiling. 

"It's a beautiful thing when a child steps up into maturity," Ada says, her face still stoic.  She hasn’t even bothered to stand.

The comment could be innocuous, but Harry knows better. He can see the pointed way she mentions it. The meaning under the light observation.

"And just think, you'll be an uncle," you say from beside him, trying to lighten the mood. You give Eleanor and Mason a tight laugh. "Just don't let him babysit, something tells me-"

"Look Harrison," Ada says, interrupting you with a mouthful of wine, motioning to Mason. "This is what it looks like to grow up."

You tense at the venom in her words. The bright, beautiful moment of earlier is popped, like a pink bubble hitting a thorn. 

Harry has come to stand next to you. You can feel the warmth of his body at your side and instinctively you go to take his hand. He allows it, feeling your gentle squeeze around his fingers. He's quiet, his breathing slow and steady. 

"Your younger brother is married and expecting," Ada continues. "He's stepped up."

Adrian is trying to cut in and say something but Ada is on a roll. 

"Honestly, Harrison, when will you stop this casual dating business and accept your responsibility as head of this household?"

Harry feels his chest growing tighter, the anger and humiliation potent cocktail. Something in him snaps. 

"For your information it's not casual," Harry says, forcing a pleasant smile her way. You feel his arm go around your waist, tugging you to his side and you look up just in time to shoot the room a wide smile. 

"We're engaged." 

authors note: i really appreciate all of the comments that have been left. i'm really enoying writing this story as it takes me back to the old rom-com days. xx

💋💋💋💋

i got the line dividers from @saradika-graphics

[trippinsorrows]

witness

authors note: this is pretty heavy, but it's necessary background and context for the next short i have finished and will post at some point.

again, minimal, limited tags, cause i've been posting way too much.

this one is also in roman’s pov.

masterlist

words: 2k

warnings: angst

In the five years that my children have been alive, I’ve had less than a year of time spent with them. Majority of that time being when they were still babies, far too young to remember anything.

To remember me.

But, regardless of that limited time spent with them then, the two weeks spent now have provided a lot. A lot of memories. A lot of one on one. A lot of bonding. I’ve “known” my kids now for only two weeks, an act of unspeakable violence brining us together but creating some of the fondest, easiest experiences I’ve had in life. Him. Her. Them. Us. It’s been….nice. An escape, to say that least. But, it’s through that time spent with them, that I’ve learned, to a certain extent how to read them.

It’s allowed me to pick up on when something is right and when something is off.

And, something is definitely off with Kaiden.

I’ve noticed it especially over the past two days. So has Solana, but it’s not like it’s something that fully baffles us, either. With what happened, what he’s been through, what they’ve both been through, how could they not be affected in some sort of capacity?

Regardless, there’s something pressing, heavy, and unspoken that settles in any interaction with Kaiden these past couple days. Something present and noticeable, wedged behind the smiles and laughter that we can evoke out of him. That Fetu and Ava can extract.

Regardless, it’s still there.

“Can you try?” Solana asks, leaning back against the counter, ready to wash the dishes used from the dinner we worked together, twins included, to prepare.

I can see it. The weight his unspoken weight has on her. I also know that she’s tried to talk with him but has mostly hit a dead wall.

Desperate. She seems desperate.

“Yeah,” I agree. Her small smile slightly comforting as she mumbles a “thank you” and moves to finish cleaning the kitchen. My gaze remains on her though, something that’s been lingering and pressing, pulling, gnawing at me ever since we landed. A discussion that, on some level, I think she also knows needs to be had. “Sola—”

“Shut up!”

“No!”

The voices of both the twins carrying from where they are upstairs is enough to have both myself and Solana already mid step on the staircase, heading directly towards their rooms.

“Take it back!”

“No! It’s true!”

Kaiden’s room is where we find them, the twins standing in front of the bed on opposite sides, Kaydence sniffling and holding onto her teddy bear. Kaiden is in front of her, his small hand formed into a tiny fist, a scowl on his face.

My scowl.

“Hey hey hey,” I move in between them, focused more on Kaiden and his clearly being angered by something, while Solana crouches down to tend to Kaydence. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you guys yelling at each other?” Solana questions, looking between the two of them. The expression on her face is all I need to see to know that this is out of character for them. The twins don’t argue.

Ever.

“He’s saying bad things, mommy,” Kaydence hiccups.

“No, I’m not,” Kaiden defends vehemently. I move to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching to turn him towards me only for him to lash out once more. “Daddy did it!”

“Don’t say that!” Kaydence shouts back. “No, he didn’t!”

“Yes, he did!”

“That’s enough,” my voice cuts through, my interest—Solana’s as well—more than piqued. “What are you guys talking about?” I have to focus on that versus the fact that something deep within me rages at hearing them refer to him as anything at all, let alone daddy. He’s not. Never was.

Never will be again.

It’s Kaydence, however, turning to Solana, tears streaming down her face and what leaves her mouth next that changes it all. “Mommy, Kaiden says daddy’s the one who hurt you.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “But, he didn’t, right?" She shakes her head. "Daddy would never hurt you.”

“He did!” Kaiden snaps, but I see it. See what’s boiling beneath the surface. See the unshed tears that sit ready and needing though reluctant to fall. “He said—he said he was gonna kill her!”

“No!” Kaydence cries.

“Oh my God,” Solana gasps, hand over her mouth. It’s a heavy situation on all sides. Kaydence’s grief. Kaiden’s anger. Solana’s distress. It’s all palpable and consuming, filling the room, dancing up all of us in one way or another.

A realization that clearly both of us understand and realize has to be the cause for all of this. Kaiden saw what happened that night.

He saw that son of a bitch try to kill his mother.

Try to kill Solana.

My Solana.

“Mommy?” Kaydence heartbroken voice pulls us both from the heaviest fucking realization, reminding us that the time for shock and everything else can wait. The kids can’t. 

I honestly have no fucking clue how Solana should respond, if she should respond, or any of it. This is all new to me, but this especially is unfamiliar territory. I can navigate and finalize deals with anyone, handle myself with the best of the best, remain the last man standing regardless of who my opponent is. But, this? This….I’m at a loss.

I don’t even know where the fuck to begin.

“Y—Yes.” Despite my being at a complete loss, there’s still shock that surges through me at her most unexpected answer. I didn’t know what I expected Solana to say, but my reaction sure as hell confirms that it wasn’t that. “Yes, baby, your dad—he—”

Kaydence’s expression crumbles, her lower lip trembling, “no.”

“Baby—Kaydence!” Solana calls after her as she turns on her heel and runs out the room. Naturally, I stand and start to follow her when quiet sniffling below yanks me to a completely different task. Solana looks over her shoulder, clearly hearing it too. Her shoulders drop. “Kaiden….”

“Go,” I encourage. “I’ve got him.”

She needs to handle Kaydence. Solana looks torn but does as such, offering one last sympathetic look to Kaiden before heading out of the room to find our daughter.

Left alone with just the two of us, I don’t waste any time kneeling in front of him, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to help him, to support him, to make him feel better. Whatever he needs, I’ll fucking do.

For any of them.

“Hey buddy, talk to me.” He keeps his gaze down on the ground, clearly trying to contain his emotions. I fucking hate that shit. Not even involved in his life beyond the infant years, and somehow, someway, he got that repressing emotions shit. He got that shit from me.

My hands move to his shoulders, light, gentle, comforting squeezes. “Kaid—”

“I didn’t help her.”

The frown that’s been on my face since the minute Solana and I heard the twins arguing deepens. “What?” He doesn’t say anything, thus my gentle probing, “buddy, what do you me—”

“He was hurting mommy.” My stomach tightens. If I didn’t understand what he was saying before, I most definitely understand now. “I—I saw him, but I—I was scared, and—and —” He sniffles, the emotions clearly becoming too much for such a young child. As they would for and with anyone in his situation. “I ran to my room.” Jesus. “I didn't—I didn’t help her.”

“Kaiden—” It’s when he finally allows himself to do it. To feel. The tears tumbling out. It’s the same second I gather him in my arms, holding him, letting him just be.

“Kaiden, listen to me.” I haven’t the slightest fucking clue where it comes from. How I go from feeling completely lost and out of my element, to the words, much like his cries of sorrow, cascading out almost naturally. Like comforting him comes second nature.

Comforting my son.

“You did nothing wrong.” And the fact that he thinks he did, thinks that he somehow failed Solana by not “doing anything” fucking guts me to my goddamn core. “You went and stayed safe, and that’s exactly what your mom would have wanted you to do.”

Because there's no doubt in my mind Solana would have taken that bastard beating her 10x worse than he did if it meant Kaiden staying far away and remaining safe. God forbid he did try to "help" Sola that night.....

I can't even think about what that outcome would have looked like.

“But, he hurt her really bad,” he continues to cry, his fingers grasping at my shirt.

“I know he did.” And, I’m going to make that son of a bitch suffer 100x worse what he did to Sola. I wish I could tell him that part of it. But, I can’t. There’s only bits and pieces I can share, one in particular the thing he’s probably looking for the most. A promise. A promise of safety. “But, I promise you, he will never hurt her again.”

Nor you or your sister.

I have to quickly push that away, the memory of Solana sobbing into my chest as she told me what Cody said. His promise. His threats. Not only to kill her but them as well.

I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced such difficulty as I felt in that moment. I wanted to rip him apart with my bare fucking hands.

Still do.

Will.

Kaiden calms down just enough, pulling back as I wipe away his tears. “But—why—why did he hurt her?” He shakes his head, innocent confusion abundant. “Mommy’s the best mommy ever.”

She is. The best, period.

“I don’t know, buddy.” I hate lying to him. Lying, despite the irony of how he even came to exist, is that I hate lying in general. It’s never really been my thing. I’ve never had many reasons in my life to do so. Never had to.

Not until her.

But, I can’t. I can’t tell him the truth, because the truth is far too complicated, too heavy, too muddy for such a young child. He can’t and shouldn’t be saddled with that. Not with what he’s already been through. That bitch beat the shit out of Solana, her injuries something that almost caused her miscarriage. To lose our baby.

I can’t imagine seeing any of that in person, let alone a young child.

I hate that he’s been carrying this the past two weeks. He doesn’t deserve that.

None of them did.

“I hate him.”

Three words that have never felt so relatable. So true.

But, it’s not as simple as that. Even with my limited knowledge of children, even I know that Kaiden’s words come from a place of hurt, anger, and confusion. Perhaps some part of him does hate Rhodes and understandably so.

However, the fact of the matter remains that the bitch is still the man Kaiden—and Kaydence—have grown up knowing and calling daddy. In his eyes, that’s still his father. Someone who, prior to this, he loved wholeheartedly.

I have to ignore the aching bitterness that fills me at such a thought. This isn’t about me. It’s about my son.

My son.

“I know.” It’s all I can say. No agreement or disagreement. I don’t want my personal feelings to influence Kaiden. Again, I recognize this is a layered situation that calls for a tremendous amount of caution, and I won’t do anything to risk further traumatizing him.

Any of them.

Which is why this conversation has only solidified a decision I made as I held Solana’s hand while Michaels and his team worked to treat her injuries.

That that was the last time Cody Rhodes would ever be in the same vicinity as my Solana and my children. Consequences be damned. Gotham could burn to the fucking ground in the war that could ensue once this gets out. I don’t fucking care. I don’t care who has to die, who I have to kill. I don’t even fucking care if it costs me both or either title of Capo or Tribal Chief. I don’t care. None of that shit matters to me anymore. The only thing that matters is keeping them all safe, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Starting with killing Cody Rhodes.

He might have been their “father” before, but he never will be ever again.

And that’s a fucking promise.

[griseldafandom21]

Yeah, the problem OP is describing is fandomwide. It's so prevalent that Ao3 has character tags specifically for JoJo's versions of the Links and Zeldas, and people use them in their non-links-meet fics as if the nicknames are canon.

It's so prevalent, I haven't worked up any motivation to draw and share any Link art, outside of when I drew my oc!Link last year.

I don't read fic or scroll Zelda art as often as I did, because most stuff is LU and BotW/TotK.

I know most people can't afford Nintendo switch online, or find/afford retro consoles to play the other games, but like, there's walkthroughs on YouTube. I've only personally played Zelda 1, ALTTP, Twilight Princess, AOC and Skyward Sword, but I've experienced BotW/TotK, Hyrule Warriors, Majora's Mask, OOT, Wind Waker and ALBW through walkthroughs. If I can do it, none of y'all have an excuse, especially if you spend any significant portion of your day scrolling YouTube anyway. Hop off the bandwagon for a bit and experience some canon Zelda.

As I was writing this post, I ended up ranting. I'm not going to delete the rant since I really need to get it out, but I'm putting it under the cut.

By the way, even though I've been oversaturated with Linked Universe content, I don't resent LU the way I usually loathe and resent other things I'm oversaturated with. What are those other things? Ketchup, cheese and BotW/TotK. I can only have those things in small doses now, because the oversaturation caused me to realize that those things aren't that good.

Everyone is obsessed with the Champions and Sages of BotW/TotK, but freaking Link is the only character with any personality, the only one who enters the third dimension at any point, and he got the amnesiac trope! I could name every. Single. Anime trope each character in BotW/TotK embodies. Why? Because there was no nuance layered onto these characters. They are a trope and that's all. The story of BotW/TotK doesn't tug any heartstrings, nor do anything particularly ambitious or memorable, beyond sticking in my mind as more lackluster than the plotlines of Zelda 1 and 2 without game manuals.

Then there's the fact that Hyrule Warriors is a better Zelda game than BotW/TotK, and it's a hack and slash game.

BotW/TotK is an open world videogame in which aspects of The Legend Of Zelda show up in as cameos.

At least Linked Universe (the comic by JoJo, not the LU fics y'all churn out like Disney pumping out mcu movies) is written with love and appreciation for what came before. That's why I still like LU, but only really interact with TotK through its soundtrack.

For crying put loud, LU even acts like the timeline matters! Unlike BotW/TotK, which are too cool (trash) for that!

LU has depth and awesome visuals. BotW/TotK think they they can survive off visuals alone.

BITING. "Well in Linked Universe" "Well in the LU fandom" Shut up! Stop! Its a *fan comic*. Its a Good fancomic, but its not canon and its not mine either! Get off me! Legend of zelda is almost 40 years old and has so much stuff please just LOOK at it! Im Tired!

[tojisteddy]

hi! i wrote the 141 fic and i just wanted to address this with as much grace as possible. I am half Black.

I didn't include Gaz in my fic because I don’t know him, that is LITERALLY it. My entire exposure to COD comes from Tumblr. I genuinely had NO FUCKING IDEA Gaz was part of 141. I thought he was like König or Keegan, who pop up in other parts of the fandom.

I KNEW THE OTHER THREE WERE A PART OF IT FROM CLIPS ONLINE (IE. GHOAP INTERACTIONS) AND OTHER TUMBLR FICS.

To accuse ME (black woman) of racism for that is not only unfair, it's harmful. your supporters have been bullying the fuck out of me and i've had to delete anon submissions and block people.

i'm not going to include someone just for the sake of optics, esp if I can't write them well. there are tons of other gaz writers. was i wrong in tagging my post 141 men? sure! did i know gaz was in 141? no. i know nothing about him. i would not do him any justice.

in the nicest way possible, i can write who i write. my blog is self indulgent and i write who i know best. gaz is SUPER HOT, yes, BUT i wasn't particularly inspired to write him in this particular scenario. just as i wouldn't write someone like bruce banner from the avengers in an "avengers men with a fussy wife" fic bc idk anything about him. i dont think people would get on my case if i did that, if it makes sense?

and i would love to learn more about gaz, but i'm not obligated to write about him. getting on your blog to spread a false narrative to your followers is kind of unkind, especially due to your big following. but i just wanted you to know i'm not some white girl with an agenda.

hope that cleared everything up! :) xx

I wanna say first and foremost, my intention was not to send people to spread hate, bully or maliciously attack you and in no way do I condone that. Especially since I myself am a fully black women. That’s my fault in every way and I should’ve been more careful with my wording and should watch myself because of my following moving forward. Im sorry.

Secondly, I do understand only knowing cod characters via fics and edits on this app/tiktok and it’s not anyone’s job to have to look everyone up when you get interested in one singular character. You also don’t have the obligation to write every character known to man in every drabble/fic. That’s fine.

The conversation to be had though would be about exclusion and micro aggressions.

I’m not expecting you to know the ins and out of cod fandom especially when I see you do write for different fandoms (as do I). But exclusion towards Gaz on this app and in edits and the like, is a major issue in the fandom because of his race. And it’s probably a reason you didn’t know Gaz was apart of the 141. This is something that happens to many characters that look like you and me (black people).

And yes, I see (and again I apologize) that excluding Gaz was not your habitual intention. And sure, not all characters fit a certain scenarios.

But you not realizing Gaz was apart of the 141 was a micro aggression in itself, that’s what micro aggressions are.

The unconscious actions. 

The unconsciousness of excluding ppl who look like you and me just because of our skin color, facial structure and builds, the constant need to make black ppl look like aggressors even we don’t do anything wrong, being “scared” of black ppl having “too much” fun.

And those who are white, those are POC and those who are even half black, tend to do it a lot. Same thing with black men and colorism and how it’s ingrained in society’s culture. It’s done Unconsciously. (Not all the time tho) And I’m definitely sure for the white/poc ppl who follow me, it flew over their heads. They just see racism and that’s surface level. Yes, maybe that’s on me for not explaining it further. But that’s something that me and you have to live with till the day we die. And you should understand that.

Lastly, I want to reiterate, I know you did not mean it. I know you don’t have to write for Gaz if you don’t want to. I know Gaz doesn’t fit for some scenarios, same way that Soap doesn’t or Price doesn’t.

But I am saying to watch your actions towards ppl who look like you and me because they pan out at the end of the day.

[buckets-and-trees]

Imagine: villain (masked/hidden) choose one the city or your lover (y/n).

Hero leaves to save the city and y/n exposes themselves saying “you were right” to the villain (Bucky) if possible maybe a little angst abandonment and seeking comfort via buckyxreader with some smut if you have the time 👉👈 if you do thank you and please tag me I love your writing and I love saving to reread!

Take My Hand

Characters/Pairings: MMC x curvy Millennial female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 13k Summary: You're brought into a plot that you never asked for, caught between two men, former best friends.

Content/Warnings: kidnapping; drugging; angst; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, anal fingering

Notes: This was a the last piece leftover from the little request fest I threw when I hit 300 followers. This week I've just hit 3500. I've always had an idea of wanting to tell a story with this prompt featuring a post-Thunderbolts Bucky, and as time wore on and we got closer to the movie ACTUALLY coming out, it seemed better to wait and see what would happen. It only gave more for me to work into my original idea, and I'm really pleased with how it turned out now. I sketched out most of the outline and quite a bit of dialogue back in spring/summer of 2023, and the majority of that is still here, including the fic title.

Additional Note: Trotting this out for week WEEK FOUR of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - it's free week, but I did use Anal Play and Aftercare here.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The taste in your mouth is wet coins.

For a long, soft moment, you assume you must have rolled off your own bed and onto the floor, but the linoleum—if it is linoleum—is too cold and too smooth, and the air had that sterile, metallic nip associated with hospital waiting rooms and broken lightbulbs.

And why would you have rolled off your bed onto the floor? You weren’t in bed the last moment you remember, and you wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your clothes.

No, the last thing you remember was softly closing your front door behind you, humming to yourself as you flicked the lock closed, and then a sudden sting to your neck.

There’s a sting in your eyes now because you realize the awful truth.

The worst case scenario you and your boyfriend had only ever spoken about once because it was a viable possibility, a hazard of dating him: you’d been kidnapped.

You sit up, gracelessly, and your teeth chatter. You let yourself feel the terror, but only for a heartbeat—your brain rings with it, a tuning fork of dread, and you clamp it down, hard, into the pit of your stomach where it radiates. Not now. You need to think.

You take inventory: arms and legs both work, hands still attached, no obvious wounds besides the soreness blooming at your neck like a thumbprint on a peach. You press the tender spot and wince.

The room is not what you would have imagined for a kidnapping. It’s wintry and lit too brightly. You’re inside a small cube, walling you off with thick, aquarium-grade panels of glass. The encasement is large enough for you to reasonably pace back and forth, but there’s no furniture, no cot or even a pillow or a bowl of water. Whoever has taken you must not plan on keeping you here long, and that could be either very good or very bad for you.

Beyond the glass, the room is cathedral-big, with a single wall of windows running from floor to ceiling. Daylight pours in, and by your best guess it’s afternoon sunlight. Probably the same afternoon you were taken as you’re not hungry or thirsty.

Scratch that.

You are thirsty, but not uncomfortably so.

You swab your tongue around your gums, tasting metal and something else—something faint and sharp, like ozone during a summer thunderstorm. There is no handle or aperture on your side of the glass, only a seamless plane, and you get the sense that were you to pound your fists on it, it would barely quiver. Still, you raise your hand and press your palm to the surface, feeling its chill seep into your bones.

Nothing. No movement, no sign of life in the luminous cathedral beyond.

It isn’t fear that keeps you quiet, exactly. You simply know, with a fundamental certainty, that if you were to scream or shout, no one would come. You’re a captive sentenced to solitude until someone deigns to antagonize or rescue you.

The silence is not total. There is a white noise, a faint thrum—ventilation, perhaps, or some slow machine grinding in the bowels of the building. If it is a building. You aren’t sure what else it could be, but it feels crucial not to assume.

You check yourself for tracking bugs, but you’re still clothed: a hoodie, jeans, your comfortable sneakers. You didn’t dress for comfort in case of kidnap, but at least that went well for you with what the universe apparently had in store for you today. You have your watch - an old piece from your grandmother, no smart capabilities there, which is probably why it’s still on your wrist. No phone, of course, and your pockets are nearly empty. Lint in one and - thoughtfully for whoever this villain and their cronies are - your lip balm in the other.

At least you won’t have chapped lips.

You pace the perimeter, mapping the enclosure with your steps. Six and a half paces by five, three full circuits before your limbs stop feeling groggy and your brain thundering with each heartbeat.

After the third circuit, you crouch, and then sink down to the ground, pressing your back up against the glass, facing forward to the wall of windows. Unfortunately you’re not even close enough to the windows to catch any of the sunlight - would’ve been nice to be able to bathe in it sleepily like a housecat.

You count your breaths. By forty-two, you’re over it. You slide down the glass a little further, legs splayed. You rest your head against the glass panel and close your eyes, just for the luxury of not seeing where you are.

You are almost comfortable, almost numbed into resignation, when the silence is broken by a blunt, echoing clank.

You shift on instinct, drawing your knees up to crouch defensively, ready to propel yourself in either direction or attack if needed, though there isn’t much direction to go.

There’s a second clank, sharper. A shadow falls across the threshold, and then a white panel in the wall slides away like a bank vault, soundless, on hidden rails. The cold is sharper now, and you catch the smell of winter through the climate-controlled sterility: iron, gun oil, something so clean it’s almost dangerous.

A figure enters, and your surge of adrenaline is strong and immediate, tinged with hope, and your heart soars. This is not your captor, not a faceless goon or a hissing cackler like you’d half-expected. This is someone you know.

Bucky Barnes.

It’s not your boyfriend, but one of his old trusty allies, though it’s been a long time since he and Sam have worked together or even seen each other.

He is broader than you remember, hair falling in dark, soft waves around his face. He’s not in tactical gear, instead wearing a charcoal suit that fits him too well, like he used to when he was a senator. That’s when you’d first met him.

His eyes are the pale blue of a glacier's heart, flat and expressionless, and for a moment you think maybe this isn't Bucky. Maybe it's the other him, the one people used to fear - the old Winter Soldier, not the one who was part of the New Avengers, not the one who had worked with Sam, not the one they called the White Wolf.

He stands behind the glass, and you realize the panel has remained opened in the outer chamber, but not for you. It's for him. Your throat closes, choking on his name.

"Bucky?" you croak, and then wish you hadn't. The sound is needy, broken. You weren't going to be that person—someone who begged at the first sight of a familiar face.

He looks at you, head tilting very slightly, as if he's listening to music only he can hear.

“Are you hurt?” His voice sounds normal, maybe a little raspier than you remember, but still warm enough to seep through the wall and thaw your panic a degree. You shake your head. The glass does nothing to blur your expression, so you let it hang open, let him see everything you’re feeling, the fear and the hope braided together into something that tastes as bitter as old coffee.

Bucky studies you with that same tilted curiosity, the kind that makes you feel like he’s already taken you apart in his mind and knows exactly how you’re put together.

You edge forward, still on your knees. “Where’s Sam?” you ask, and the moment you say it, the question feels both necessary and perilous.

Bucky glances at the panel behind him, lips pressed together as if considering whether to share the answer or let it fester.

He glances over his shoulder. You realize then he’s not alone in the cathedral beyond. Two figures—faceless in sleek black, like chess pieces—stand sentinel behind him. They don’t move, don’t even appear to breathe, and a cold animal part of your brain registers that they don’t need to. They’re just there to watch.

He steps closer, so close his breath briefly fogs a patch of the glass between you. “He’s busy, but he’s on his way.”

Coolness spreads through your veins.

Bucky’s eyes flick to the corners of the cube, where cameras you hadn’t noticed are now winking alive, the power inlet’s red dots glaring. You’re being recorded—filmed, archived, maybe studied—and the revelation lands with a dull, resonant thud. You try not to show your panic on your face, but your body betrays you: fingers curl, jaw tenses, pupils go wide.

He is not here for a rescue. You know it before you know you know it.

"Why am I here, Bucky?" Your question comes out too steady. You want to throw something at him—your shoe, your voice, your fear—but there’s not enough space in this box for anger, only the condensation of every instinct you have, crowding in, begging you to understand.

“The safest place for you right now is here.” He says it quietly, like he’s apologizing, but the immediacy of it, the lack of debate, has your mind racing, his words in no way soothing.

“Bucky,” you say, “let me out.”

He shakes his head, almost fondly. “I can’t. Not yet.”

You stand, legs trembling, and you press both hands to the glass when you say, “Please. Whatever this is, don’t do this.”

You expect him to sigh or look away, but instead Bucky studies you with that lethal patience you’ve seen before, the one that made you want to work for his congressional campaign when you first met him, the one that made him a shrewd negotiator in the House of Representatives. He waits so long you want to scream, but then he raises his hand—slow, deliberate—and presses it to the glass, palm-to-palm with yours. Despite physics, you almost feel the pressure, the almost-heat leaking across the boundary.

"It’s already done," he says.

You stare at him, a thousand implications creasing into your mind, none of them good. "What have you done?" you whisper, because you know it’s not only about the kidnapping, not really.

Bucky’s jaw flexes, and, again, he doesn’t speak right away. His fingers splay, as if wanting to catch yours on the other side, and then curl into a fist, knuckles whitening against the cold.

“Technically speaking, I haven’t done anything yet,” he says. A smile, thin and wintry, crosses his lips. “But I did send a message.” He says it with the offhand air of someone admitting to forgetting to water their plants.

Your brain scrambles. “A message to who? Sam?”

He shakes his head, though not in the way someone would if they were lying. “To enough people at the top - Sam, Valentina, government officials.”

He waits for you to catch up. Sam hadn’t been able to tell you about the message he’d received - common when he got called away to do Captain America work - but he’d looked more concerned than usual.

You watch Bucky’s face for hints, for the shadow of an old self or a new one. Bucky, who once avoided all but necessity, has always been the kind of person who made statements with action, not words. But this—this was theater.

He leans a shoulder against the glass, as if the two of you are just tired of standing at a long party, finding a quiet spot together. “Do you want to know what it said?”

You don’t.

But you nod, because not-knowing is the same as being powerless, and you can’t bear the cold feeling of helplessness.

He cocks his head, almost gently. “It said that unless certain demands were met, a biotoxin would be released at the heart of Manhattan. Three hours for it to spread across the borough. After that, containment would be impossible. The message detailed three drop points for the ransom, and a protocol for negotiation.” He says it without bravado, a recitation of fact, as if he’s reading it from cue cards in his head.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a dry, shuddering guffaw. “That’s—cartoon villain stuff, Bucky.”

He shrugs, as if that’s the point.

You rub your hands over your face, and for a moment you are tempted to laugh harder, because this is what Sam always used to joke about: that Bucky operated on logic so clean it seemed mad, his thinking a locked-room puzzle with only one solution.

“Why?”

“No one was listening to anything else anymore.”

You swallow, but your mouth is dry again. “You could’ve called Sam.”

Bucky’s eyes flicker, and for a second you see the old pain underneath, a wince almost too quick to mark. But in its wake is an emotionless frown. “You know I couldn’t.”

Your chest hollows at the words because you know he’s right. He and Sam haven’t spoken for months, and the last time they did, it went poorly.

Bucky is watching you with a steady, unblinking intensity. You get the unsettling sense he’s rehearsed this conversation in his head, every line and gesture.

“Sam has forty-seven minutes to show up here and deliver the payment,” Bucky continues.

“Does Sam know it’s you?” you ask.

He considers the question, lets his eyes drag up and down the box, your body, your face. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“And what then?” You press. “He comes, you do your villain monologue, and what, he hands over cash and saves the day?”

“Untraceable cryptocurrency. And it’s not money I’m after.”

Bucky stands there, his blue eyes eating the distance between you. There’s a hush like reverence, like the building itself is holding its breath. Both of you are silent, and for a moment the glass between you softens, your memories of him rewinding to that first campaign event in the corridor of the Natural Hisory Museum, when he’d looked at you so long and so full of yearning, but you’d just started working his PR team days before, and neither one of you had wanted to cross professional boundaries. You’d met Sam later that night.

But that look… He’s looking at you like that now, older and sadder, but somehow more intent.

He presses his forehead to the glass, and it seems less like a threat and more like a confession. "You know," he says, voice low, "I still think about the night I introduced you to Sam. I wanted to kiss you then. Think I should’ve. Instead, I decided it would be less complicated to let my best friend take a chance with you instead. I knew you’d be good for each other."

The ache in your chest shifts, nostalgia and fear suddenly indistinguishable. You stare at the space between you and try not to let it show, the old hunger, the regret.

But there’s anger there now, too.

"You don’t get to say things like that," you respond.

“You can’t stop me.”

You want to spit or hiss or stomp at him, say something sharp and scathing, but your own feelings are scattered and skittering as you try to make sense of this situation.

“Don’t try and say you did this all for me,” you finally manage, and you almost sound angry.

And you are. But you’re also tangled by a feeling you’d buried years ago when you committed to Sam, convinced yourself that your short stint of longing for Bucky was little more than a whim. But it is still there, uncovered from a place you forgot existed, reverberating in your bones, making you ache.

Something in his face flickers, another microexpression so brief you almost miss it. He leans back from the glass, folding his arms, the suit tightening across his chest. “I won’t lie to you. This isn’t all for you, and it isn’t all for Sam.” His voice turns quiet, almost uncertain. “But if I didn’t want you, I would have done this without you. You weren’t necessary for the plan, but you’re certainly worth it.” He lets the words hang between you, sees the way they knot your throat. “So don’t doubt how much I want you.”

That admission robs you of the breath from your lungs. You only realize your jaw has dropped when he smirks.

“Now,” Bucky resumes, beginning to pace casually in front of you. You know it’s a move to momentarily lower the stakes given everything he’s just said. “Once Sam gets here, I’m going to offer him a choice: save you or save the city.”

“He’s going to pick the city,” you respond automatically.

“Oh, we both know that’s not even a question for our dutiful Captain America, but I want you to observe and assess how long it takes him to make the decision.”

Your brow furrows.

“He will disappoint you,” Bucky says.

“Bucky, don’t say that. Don’t be cruel.”

His eyes flick back to yours, and for a second they’re raw, not glacial at all, but blue as bruises. “I’m not trying to be cruel. I want you to see the world as it is. As I do now.” He pauses. “You once said only the honest stuff matters. Remember?”

You do remember. On the rooftop of a hotel in D.C., debating a speech draft, Bucky had said honesty was the only way to cut through the noise. You’d laughed—knowing how honesty had almost destroyed him once—and now you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d listened more closely.

He presses his hand to the glass again, his whole body vibrating with something that looks like need and restraint, and maybe a dash of childish hope.

You want to hate him, but you can’t. Maybe you could if it were anyone else, if the person threatening your life and Sam’s career and the largest city in the country, hadn’t seeped into your heart so long ago.

And why was that romantic ripple resurfacing now when you’d been so content to have him platonically exist in your life?

You had been content with Sam.

You still were.

You look away, throat raw.

"And if Sam doesn't come for me?"

Bucky’s laugh is soft, brief, and not as cruel as a villain’s should be. "He will.”

And he does.

Same bursts onto the scene when there are only twenty-seven minutes left to save the city.

“All of this was you? All along?” Sam thunders at Bucky.

He still has a hand on the glass, having rushed to you the second he saw you were part of this messy situation, too, but his full attention was now on the other man.

Apparently your kidnapping is something Sam hadn’t discovered until this moment. Which made sense. He’d left your apartment to take care of the world, and it was still the same day. He hadn’t even had time to reasonably have figured out you’d gone missing.

“That explains why this whole area is a dead zone for Red Wing,” Sam adds.

Bucky’s only response: a shrug.

He oozes such nonchalance you know it’s boiling Sam’s blood more than almost anything else.

“Come on, man, this isn’t you,” Sam insists.

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “Except clearly it is. And isn’t it inevitable? Just going back to my roots, right? Like everyone said about me and the rest of the New Avengers. Only a matter of time until we reverted to our nefarious settings.”

Sam’s jaw tenses. “That’s not what I said. I never said that about you.” Sam’s voice is tight, incredulous but not, you realize, surprised. “You think I ever saw you that way? After everything?”

“No?” Bucky’s lips tick up at the corners. “Could’ve fooled me. You remember the last time we talked, right? The argument over who had claim to the team, the name, the whole damn legacy? You know I never wanted any of that. Valentina made sure my face was on the front page for her own benefit, not mine. That was her power move, not mine.”

Sam’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You let her.”

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides; the metal fingers twitch and sing against each other. “I let her because I knew where the real threats were. I thought I could steer if I had one hand on the wheel, if I knew what was coming, turns out I was wrong. You want to talk about legacies, Sam? You got to choose yours. All I ever got was a list of people to kill that just keeps getting longer.”

You can see the hurt behind Bucky’s words; it’s so absent of melodrama that it slaps harder than any shouted accusation. Sam stands still, breathing hard through his nose, shoulders squared for a fight neither of them wants but both are already losing.

“Bucky,” Sam says softer now, “I know you think this is the only way, but there’s always another way. Give me the protocol. I’ll fix it. I promise. You can trust me. You always have.”

Bucky’s laugh is ugly and quiet. “You’ll fix it? That’s the problem. Nobody wants it fixed, Sam. The world is addicted to the circus.”

Sam stands very straight. His fist on the glass trembles, a visible effort not to lose his composure. “This isn’t justice. You don’t fix the world by threatening to destroy it.”

“Don’t I? The only thing anyone listens to anymore is a gun to the head. Or in this case a virus to the water supply.”

Bucky draws in a long, deliberate breath, scanning the cathedral-sized chamber as if taking the measure of human history. It’s another theatrical move. You can see so plainly now that Bucky’s pushing Sam’s buttons on purpose. "Now," he says, letting his hands drop to his sides, "I assume you came ready to make the drop. It's a big ask, I know. One point eight billion is a lot of zeros, even for Uncle Sam."

Sam doesn't flinch. "The money’s ready, untraceable transfer, just like you wanted." He threw a pointed look at the two sentinels waiting beyond Bucky, then back to him. "Now drop the coordinates and the codes. Let the authorities handle the rest. Hell, let me handle it if you want."

They exchange small drives - tossing them at the same time to each other from across the short distance. Sam is already pressing the one he caught to the technology face on the panel in the forearm of his suit, and you can see Bucky uploading his funds to a small device in his hand.

“We good now?” Sam asks.

Bucky looks up, one eyebrow raised. "You think I’d make it that simple? After all the theatrics so far? You’re still thinking in terms of clean beginnings and endings. But that’s not how any of this will work,” Bucky deadpans. “Obviously I’ve brought our guest of honor for a reason,” he shifts the focus back to you.

Sam’s eyes flick past Bucky to you, searching for some sign. You give him a small nod, as if to say: I’m okay, keep going, don’t let him win.

But what would winning mean here? What would losing?

Sam’s jaw tics. “You’re not going to do this. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.”

“There’s always a choice, Sam. That’s what you used to say.” Bucky looks, for a moment, almost apologetic. “The system at the deployment site—the only way to access the control terminal is with a biometric confirmation. Yours, Sam. No one else on earth, not even me, could get past it once it’s locked. You’re the linchpin.”

You don’t see the move, not even the flicker of Bucky’s hand—there’s only a flick of light, an infinitesimal click, then a cold bite in your neck. Your hand slaps toward it by reflex; your fingers close over a dart, needle still vibrating where it breached skin. At first, you think it’s a threat, an empty goad to make Sam act, but then your chest constricts, heart stuttering, then galloping so fast you can’t count the beats. Your vision pulses, the color and contrast cranked up to a sickly, menacing degree.

Sam shouts your name. He pounds the glass, rips the shield off his back and tries to breach it with a throw of the titanium to no avail.

So it’s more than mere glass.

Unable to penetrate the clear walls of your cage, Sam round on Bucky. “So you’re going to make me decide. Save the city, or save her.”

“That’s the game.” Bucky finally lets his eyes rest on you again, and the sadness in them isn’t performative, though everything else about this situation is. “If you’re fast enough, maybe you could do both, but is that a gamble you’re willing to take?”

“Damn you, Bucky Barnes!”

Bucky shrugs again. “We can talk it out, if it will make you feel better.”

Bucky rotates his wrist, metal joints clicking. When he continues, his voice is matter-of-fact. “You go for the city right now, you have time to stop this, a win for sure, maybe have time to come back and save her.”

Bucky then nods toward your glass enclosure.

"If you choose her over the city, you can probably get her to a medical professional quickly enough that they can sort her out. You’ll probably miss the window to prevent contamination though. But there will likely be enough time for them to synthesize an antidote. I made sure to use something new. Not in the wild yet. They’ll quarantine and triage, and–”

“Stop, Buck!” Sam cuts him off.

Then your boyfriend turns to you, and his face is soft, the expression broken, pain in his eyes. Sam’s voice is rough as gravel, but clear: “I can’t make a sacrifice like that. Not ever.”

The words hang in the air, immense and echoing. Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the faintest tremor in the way he sets his jaw—more evidence than any confession that he’d always known what Sam would say.

Sam presses his hand to the glass, and you meet it with your visibly trembling hand. But the gesture seems to pain him as if there wasn’t a barrier between you. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s for you, not for Bucky or the world. “I have to.” The words come thick, strangled.

You want to say something clever, something reassuring, but the only thing that escapes in the clenched space of your chest is, “I know.” It escapes in a whisper; your lips barely shape the words.

You let yourself cry, and Sam watches, helpless, his own eyes shining with the effort of keeping himself together. You knew he would choose the city, he had to, but you wish he had shown even a moment of hesitation. Half a moment.

Then Sam turns back to face Bucky. “You won’t get away with this.”

Bucky’s mouth tugs to one side, almost a smirk, but more like something cracked and resisting the urge to bleed out. “Of course I will,” he says. “That’s the game, right? The dangerous former fist of Hydra goes berserk, but only in a way the right people see. If you pull this off, it all stays classified. Just another day of nothing in the files.” He looks at Sam. “You think anyone in charge wants the world to know this was me? This is a PR nightmare the government can’t risk right now.”

The simplicity of it is breathtaking. The threat never even had to be real—only real enough to get everyone moving the way Bucky wants. Only real enough to get the money and to get Sam to choose.

“Don’t think you can just disappear,” Sam says, voice low but iron-strong. “I’ll find you, Bucky.”

There’s the tiniest shimmer of mischief, or perhaps relief, in the crow’s feet at Bucky’s eyes.

“Will you, though?” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle, as if he’s breaking the news of a death to a child. “For decades I was Hydra’s untraceable and lethal assassin. For two years you couldn’t find me, and you were working with Steve who knew me better than anyone, and I was living off next to nothing. Now I have nearly two billion in untraceable cash, I have my mind back, and I know the ins and outs of the modern world. You won’t see me unless I want to be seen.”

Your heart claws at your ribs. The glass magnifies every sound—Sam’s breathing, Bucky’s measured steps, the pulse in your eardrums. You taste blood where you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek.

Sam’s lips curl in a snarl. “You’re not the only one who’s learned a few tricks.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “But you’re still too honest to win.”

“How could you do this to me? To Steve?”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. His eyes flick to you for the briefest of moments, and then he says, “You didn’t want me to run out the clock discussing the moral dilemma of saving the city or your girl, but now you want to go over me, you, and Steve? Steve who’s removed himself from the narrative?”

Sam roars in frustration, then turns to look at you again. “I’ll come back for you, I swear,” then races across the floor and leaps off the balcony, off to save the city.

It is, you admit, one hell of an exit.

You can see him—Sam, bright and audacious in the Captain America suit, wings extending like an exclamation mark, darting through the skyline beyond the tall windows. He is smaller, fleeting, a fleck of blue and silver against the impossible glass of the city.

But Bucky doesn’t watch him go. He is watching you.

You slide down the glass, and try to breathe through the chemical tangle in your system. It feels as though the world is going to start sliding off its rails soon; you feel it in the way your pulse speeds and slows, in the clotted shimmer at the edges of your vision. The dart, the toxin, was probably designed for maximum drama, but you don’t know what else it could do.

A low, hydraulic moan startles you from your trance. The glass panels around you shiver, then begin to disappear, sinking in perfect unison into the floor. You scramble to your feet, knees threatening to buckle, and stare at the sudden borderlessness of the room. For a heartbeat, you’re suspended—no cage, no line in the sand, nothing to keep you from collapsing right there.

Bucky advances, quick but cautious, hands visible and open. His silhouette blots out the cathedral lights, broad as a thunderhead. He stops exactly an arm’s length from you, looking at your face as though searching for a misplaced detail.

“Careful,” he warns, voice a scratchy hush. “You’re on a comedown, and it’s a big one.”

You try to say something, but your tongue is a fat, electric slug in your mouth. The cold coins taste returns, sharper than before. “What did you do to me?” you ask.

He crouches cautiously next to you, balancing on the balls of his feet.

“There’s a lot of adrenaline in your system,” Bucky murmurs. “Far more than is natural. It’s spiked everything in your system. As it crashes, you’ll be sluggish, maybe some chills or confusion, but you’ll be okay. I promise.”

You want to believe him. You do, but given what he’s just orchestrated, you’re naturally reluctant.

“What now?” you ask. You’re not even sure who you’re asking: him, the universe, yourself.

Bucky shrugs, all gentle fatalism, and then reaches out—slowly, like you’re a trembling bird that might fling itself into a window if startled—and helps haul you upright. He adjusts his grip to keep you steady, lets you take more of your own weight as you find it.

He leads you out of the big white, windowed theater and down a corridor to an elevator.

A pang needles your heart: he is good at this. At triage, at rescue, at caretaking. At the thousand tiny, invisible gestures that make a person feel seen. Always has been. You hate that you’re grateful for it, just as you hate that you remember the long-ago night of his campaign, that secret gravitational pull between you, the unspoken thing you both stamped down with the solemnity of professionalism.

You don’t want to face where that train of thought leads.

“You made Sam pick. I don’t know if he’ll forgive that.” You try to sound hard-edged, but the words slide out syrupy and damp.

“He doesn’t have to.” Bucky’s voice is almost gentle. “He just has to live with it.”

The elevator dings, and the two of you step in. He punches the top floor.

“And you were right.”

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

And because there’s no reason to hold back, you add, “You didn’t have to twist the knife at the end by pointing out what he was and was not willing to discuss.”

Bucky sighs and drops his head. “No. I didn’t. It was an extra cut of cruelty.” Then he looks up, meets your eyes. “I’m sorry for that.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the sort of opulent space that’s either a billionaire’s penthouse lounge or the bridge of a spaceship. You instantly recognize the place, even though you’ve only seen it on screens and in the background of photos: the inner sanctum of Avengers Tower.

Of course. It had to be here. Not a new base, not a black site, not some abandoned eco-bunker in Upstate New York. No, Bucky brought you to the one place that was once the center of the universe for people like him and Sam and all the rest. Even after Tony’s death, after the rebranding and the PR dust-ups and the slow, embarrassing dissolution of the first lineup, the building stood. It was a symbol, indelible and too expensive to demolish, even when all the heroes left in it were ghosts.

Bucky leads you to the counter of what appears to be a bar and helps you into one of the stools there.

The New Avengers had evidently converted it to a cooking area, as well, as you watch Bucky begin to pull out some food and pull together a plate for you.

You watch him, scrutinize him, and you’re sure he knows that’s what you’re doing. He merely endures it, allows it. You assume he knows he owes you that much.

He finally slides the plate in front of you along with a glass of water. “Eat. It’ll help stabilize you more quickly.”

You take a bite out of one of the strawberries on the plate, chew, swallow, then you ask, “There’s no biotoxin, is there?”

Bucky lifts his gaze from where he’s preparing a sandwich for himself. “No. It’s a placebo.”

You pop another strawberry into your mouth and let the silence be the answer for a moment. The water tastes sweeter now, the iron leaching away, leaving only cold relief behind. No biotoxin. Sam would save the world, the money will be untraceable, and Bucky—well, Bucky would get away, wouldn’t he? Or almost.

"So why all this?" you ask, and your voice is steady again. "If it was just about the money, you could’ve found a less theatrical way."

Bucky tilts his head, slicing his sandwich with surgical precision. "I needed to prove a point," he says, not quite looking at you. "To Sam, to Valentina, to whoever is watching the tapes. To myself, maybe. That I can still do the impossible. That I have a choice. Not just a finger on the trigger but a plan. The kind that changes things. To make it clear that I’m done playing their games."

He smiles, half-lopsided, and lets his long exhale fill the empty space between you.

“I could have done it,” he says, and for the first time he sounds almost frightened by the idea. “I thought about it, how easy it would be. Make them all beg, make every suit in D.C. panic. But I couldn’t.” His eyes dart up, meet yours. “I couldn’t risk you.”

You look down at your hands, which are barely shaking now, and rub your thumb into the tender crook of your elbow where the dart had hit. There’s no swelling, no mark, just the memory of panic and the aftertaste of adrenaline. No biotoxin, no threat to a city’s population that could endanger the world, just a glass of water and a plate of fruit in a room of too many old ghosts.

You finish the strawberries, then some of the grapes. It’s not enough sugar to counter the crash, but it brings clarity. The clarity is not comforting.

“Are you going to disappear now?” you ask.

Bucky wipes bread crumbs from his fingers. “Very soon. I wanted to see you safe, first.” He hesitates, leans his weight onto the heel of his hand, like he’s about to confess something with weight.

You push him in the direction you hope he’s going. “Why did you bring me into this? Did you really need to prove Sam’s more Boy Scout than boyfriend? That he’d sacrifice me for millions, for the greater good?”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “You knew he would. And so did I.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid a grape off the stem, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, as if the answer might be contained somewhere in the slick green skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost mild, but there was a sandpaper edge under the calm.

“There’s something different about him. Over the years since he took up the shield, since he started making the world’s problems his own, he’s…” Bucky let the grape fall, steadied his hands on the counter, “He’s not letting anyone in anymore. Not even you. You can feel it, right?”

You wanted to protest, to say Sam was just tired, just carrying the weight of a world that had never belonged to him, a world that had only ever demanded and doubted. That he came home to you at night, sometimes wordless and aching, sometimes with a wild, generous joy that made all the distance worth it. But you did feel it.

The last few months had been like living with a shadow, the two of you orbiting each other in careful ellipses, sharing space but not gravity. You’d told yourself it was just the stress, that this phase would pass. But how long would you have to keep saying that?

You shrugged, unsure if the gesture was defensive or conciliatory. “He’s got a lot riding on him. They all do. It’s not like anybody’s waiting to see if Captain America screws up, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he’s losing too much of himself to the machine.”

You finish the food, drink all the water. Already, the fine tremor in your hands is dying down, and your vision is as sharp as it’s been in months.

“You said you didn’t have to involve me, but you did anyway. Why?”

Bucky comes around the counter to stand next to you before he answers.

“Take my hand,” he says, extending his flesh hand to you.

You study his face for another moment before hesitantly placing your hand in his. He pulls you gently from the stool, bringing you close to his chest, and you can’t help but cave into the comfort he’s offering on a platter in his arms. This is the closeness you wondered about years ago. And it feels even better than you thought it could.

His flesh hand encloses yours, and his metal arm wraps around your back, comforting, solid, while he maintains eye contact with you. Then he leans in and presses a kiss fervently to your forehead. “He wanted the idea of you, I want you.”

Those words steal the breath from your lungs, and you pull back. He allows it but does reach up to wipe more tears from your face.

“Now, he’ll come back for you,” Bucky says. “I’ll leave you here if you want to wait for him. Or…”

Bucky leans forward, slowly, but deliberately, eyes locked with yours, and there is no question that he will kiss you if you let him.

In those brief seconds, your chest swells and aches. It’s a yearning.

“Or you can come with me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You don’t remember who moves first, or if movement is even required—maybe it’s just the inexorable collapse of distance, of vacuum, of more than two years spent circling each other and pretending not to. Your mouth meets his in a kiss so light you might have missed it, a flutter of wings against glass, if not for the way he shudders and tightens his hold on you, molding your body into his with that impossible, titanium certainty.

You gasp, and he swallows it, and the taste of him is nothing like coins or blood or the clinical tang of adrenaline: it’s salt and memory, an old wound newly raw. His lips tremble with restraint, with the effort of holding back the full weight of want, and you feel it in the rigid line of his jaw and the knotted fist of his hand at the small of your back.

The first kiss is a question, but the second is an answer: you press closer, and the kiss goes from uncertain to dangerous, from a secret to a promise.

It would be easy to hate him, even now, for what he’s done, for turning to a villain’s playbook. But what you really feel, what you can’t help feeling, is the way your own hands seek out Bucky’s chest, feel the frantic pulse of him beneath the shirt, the way his heart seems to leap at every slight contact. You break only when your lungs demand it, and even then, you stay close enough that your noses touch, breath shared and erratic.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. You mean the whole thing: kissing Bucky, wanting Bucky, forgiving him, forgiving yourself the old feeling of being seen, truly seen, by someone who never really belonged to you in the first place.

He laughs, low and weary. “That’s why you should.”

Time feels syrup-slow and amplified, and the aftershocks of adrenaline jitter along your bones. You want to lay your head against Bucky’s chest and let everything else go glassy and indistinct, but this moment can’t last forever.

You have to make a choice.

As if to underscore that fact, the moment breaks with the sound of rotors thumping through the silent glass like a racing pulse. A black helicopter, all stealth and menace, settles on the old landing pad just outside the window. You watch its slow, predatory descent, and only then do you realize how little time is left for indecision.

You turn your face back to Bucky. "Where would we even go?" The bitterness in your voice is half challenge, half invitation. A plea for a story you could believe in.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t offer you a fantasy. "Doesn’t matter," he says. "With this much money, the right lies, and the right hands pulling the strings, you don’t have to vanish, we will just slide out of frame. Show up somewhere else, different name, different haircut, but us together. You just have to decide if you want to build that new life with me or not.”

He says it like a vow, not a seduction. You almost laugh at how simple he makes it sound. As if all the laws and all the wounds and all the history between the three of you could be severed with a haircut and a fake passport.

You want to slap him. You want to scream at him for making it sound so simple, so transactional, like trading one set of coordinates for another. But isn’t that the whole truth of it? Bucky Barnes had spent his adult years being a ghost wearing a name, a myth forced into the flesh, until the only thing that made sense was reinvention. If you followed, you’d never be more than a co-conspirator in your own vanishing act, but there’s a wild logic to it. There’s even a certain beauty.

It occurs to you, sharply, that you should stay—wait for Sam, let yourself be rescued, let him cry and rage and know that in the end he did what was right. You could handle the heartbreak, or at least pretend you could, because that’s what people like you do. The noise would settle, the scandal would pass, and maybe you’d even find your way back together, though at that moment the possibility seems to diminish more and more.

The real truth is: you don't know what will make you happy, or safe, or sane. You only know that for too long you've been waiting for more, even though you didn’t know it until Bucky pulled the wool from your eyes today.

“Let’s do it,” you say, before you can overthink the words or slip into complacent cowardice disguised as duty. “Let’s go.”

The look on Bucky’s face is less vindicated than startled, as if he hadn’t really thought you’d say yes. He doesn’t whoop or smile. He just takes a breath—deep, rib-rattling—and then his hand closes tight around yours, leading you out to the helicopter.

The pilot is a nobody, faceless behind reflective glass, but you know the kind of men who’d be waiting in the belly of a craft like that—mercenaries who could blend in at the Four Seasons or a funeral, featureless as mannequins until the masks came off.

You duck into the cabin. Bucky keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you with a care that feels out of time, out of place, as if this is not a high-speed escape but a date at the theater or a gallery opening. The interior is tight and dark: Kevlar seats, two jump seats with harnesses, a battered first-aid kit stashed in the mesh netting by the door.

He straps you in, efficient but gentle, and without warning the engine screams to life and the city falls away beneath you. The pilot takes you southeast, past the relit towers and the stitched-together parks, past the city’s neat wounds and its ugly repairs.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You’re not sure you want to know. Since you’re all in, you don’t need to know. There is something exhilarating about that, the permission you have given yourself to not care for the first time in … maybe ever.

The chopper banks east, the city’s sprawl dissolving into ribbons of freeway and then the sparse, snow-blotched fields of Long Island. When you spot the airstrip you’re almost disappointed by its ordinariness—just a pair of runways, a wind-wracked row of hangars. The chopper touches down so softly you barely feel it, but Bucky is already unclipping your harness, moving you out with a minimal set of gestures.

He guides you across the tarmac, his grip on your hand steady as he leads you to a small, sleek, white jet. A thinly mustached pilot nods to Bucky as he shepherds you up the stairs. The jet’s interior is cloaked in tasteful leather and woodgrain, the sort of hush money aesthetic that comes with bespoke crimes. Bucky deposits you onto a wide seat and follows with a duffle bag you only now notice slung beneath his arm.

Bucky stows the bag in an overhead bin, then returns to you, sliding into the seat across the aisle. His eyes flick to the window, scanning the tarmac for threats, but his left hand—your hand—remains anchored between you, thumb tracing tight, distracted circles over your knuckles. The door seals with a quietly pneumatic hiss. The engines ramp up, the world narrows to the pressurized silence of the cabin, and you feel a flutter in your chest that is not entirely terror.

In the window’s glass you catch the afterimage of your own face, drained and wild-eyed, and behind it the ghost of Bucky’s reflection—softer, maybe, than you’ve ever seen, as if the act of running is its own absolution.

You’re so tired. You let your head tip sideways, resting against his shoulder—not as surrender, but as a declaration: you are here, you are staying, you are more than the sum of your panic and your decisions good or bad.

Bucky turns to you, the crumple in his brow arranging itself into a question, one palm rising to hover along your jaw. “Hey,” he says, a hush inside a hush. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast, and then press his hand to your cheek, making sure it’s real, it’s flesh, it’s here. He holds your face, thumb slipping beneath your eye, gently searching for evidence of regret or fear or whatever else he’s ruined in you. But all you feel is the burn of anticipation in the hollow of your throat.

He leans in, slower than before, and brushes your lips with his, brief, reverent. Another. Another—each one less careful, less patient. You open for him, cup the back of his head, tangle your fingers deep in his hair, and he looses a sound like a confession; he lets the restraint drop, mouth insistent and hungry, hands finding your waist, your ribs, the sweetly bare patch where your shirt has ridden up. His breath is ragged, the rasp of stubble on your jawline making your skin prickle in a way that borders on pain, but you want that, you want more of it, and you arch into him, letting the seatbelt cut into your hip as you all but crawl onto his lap.

The jet is barely airborne when his metal hand skims under your shirt, cold electricity against the bend of your back. You gasp, half laughing, then bite his lip, tasting the salt and copper, the promise of scars. His flesh hand is at your nape, anchoring you, and you realize this is how you always wanted him to hold you—hard enough to bruise, but gentle in the moments between.

Before you can process how you went from catatonic hostage to this wild, reckless person, you’re straddling him in the narrow jet seat, breathless and laughing into his mouth, kissing him like you’re kissing a different future into existence.

You kiss until your lungs burn, and when you part, your lips are wet and swollen, and he’s looking at you like you’re the oxygen his lungs need. You can feel the restraint it takes for him to stop, even for a second.

When he speaks, it’s against your mouth, so soft and low you have to strain to catch it. “I wanted you for so long.” He nips your lower lip in punctuation, then kisses the sting away, chasing the shape of your mouth as if memorizing it.

His hands slide under your shirt, confident and unhurried, a slow drag of heat and cool along the ridge of your back and then the soft, uncertain slope of your side. He maps you like new terrain, reverent, deliberate, his palm broad and rough as river rock where it skims above your waistband. You’re conscious, absurdly, of the way your flesh yields and gathers beneath his grip, the fold at your waist, the plush seam above your jeans. You brace for the recoil—the pause, the flinch, the embarrassed withdrawal that men as fine as Bucky Barnes always seem to have in their DNA when faced with anything that doesn’t fit the platonic ideal of a lover’s body, the first time they touch you intimately—but it doesn’t come. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t even hesitate. If anything, the way his hands frame you, hold you together, suggests he’d prefer more of you, not less.

You’re all nerves and need, the pulse in your throat so present it’s almost embarrassing, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You want this. Want him. Want the mess and the wrongness and the chance to hurt and heal in ways you’ve only ever fantasized about, in the long blank nights when Sam was out saving the world and you were left with the ghost of a life you didn’t remember choosing.

You don’t remember unbuttoning your jeans, or how his hand gets under the waistband, but it’s there—skin on skin, soft and cool where the metal arm braces your spine and the flesh hand moves against your belly. He shivers when you wrap both arms around him, as if the pressure of your grasp is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

There is a hush in the jet, the kind that lets you hear your own blood roaring, lets you hear the catch in Bucky’s breath as you grind against him, slow and unashamed, letting him feel the sum of your want. He doesn’t talk, doesn’t try to fill the silence. His hands do the talking instead, every gesture translating what words never could: careful, desperate, worshipful.

The way you undress—it’s not hurried, but it’s not shy. You peel yourself out of your shirt, shivering in the cool pressurized air, but you catch nothing but hunger and awe in Bucky's gaze. It’s as if he’s been waiting in a Siberian cave since the forties to see you like this, and there is something almost holy in the way he runs the backs of his fingers over your clavicle, your breasts, the jigsaw of you that’s both familiar to yourself and entirely new. For a brief flash, you wonder how you look—are you beautiful to him in the brash daylight of the aircraft, or is it more like a study in imperfection, in odd shapes and old bruises and the vulnerable, workaday flesh of someone who’s never been anyone’s ideal for very long. But his breath catches, and his pupils blow wide, and he says your name so softly it sounds like a benediction. That’s answer enough.

The feel of him is just as you’d imagined—no, it’s more: the impossible tautness of muscle beneath cool skin, the way he holds you so precisely you never for a moment doubt your own safety. The metal arm is cold at first, its ruthlessness pressed along your ribs, but the warmth of his body as you mold to each other chases the edge away. He kisses down your neck, slow, never rushed, as if marking time on a clock only you share. When you arch into his mouth, when you let him finally cup your breast, you’re rewarded with a sound from deep in his chest—a wounded, yearning, making it clear you’re all he wants.

He doesn’t hurry. The world is burning behind you out the window, somewhere Sam is fighting for a city that will always need him, but here, inside this tiny, moving sanctuary, Bucky gives you an unhurried exhale, ritual slow, as if neither of you have ever had a single moment in your lives to spare for pleasure before now. His palm slides along your thigh, then the inside of your thigh, then waits, patient as a dog in winter, for you to open further. You do, knees bracing on either side of his.

His hand makes its way between your legs, and it’s devastating—how lightly he touches at first, just the pads of two fingers drawing lazy circles along the seam of your underwear, as if reacquainting himself with the geometry of gentleness. You are slick and shockingly warm, and when his thumb circles your clit, the jolt of pleasure is so keen you dig your hands into his shoulders, hard enough for the flesh beneath to yield. He watches your face, noting every tremor, every catch in your swallowing breath, mapping the arc of your wanting. You want him to devour you, but he worships instead, building you slow and slow and never letting you fall all the way down. Every time you shudder or gasp or roll your hips, he radiates a pride so profound it makes you want to cry.

You come with his metal hand splayed across your back and his living hand cupping you, his mouth open against your neck, whispering your name and then fragments of words: “beautiful,” “always wanted,” “don’t believe it”. You shake and quake around his fingers, a hot flood, and you laugh out loud because you can’t do anything else—your body is burning alive and Bucky Barnes is the only cooling agent in the universe.

After, he tucks you close, skin to skin, and listens to the staccato drum of your heart as if it’s telling a secret. He brushes damp hair from your temple and studies you like he’s afraid to blink, lest you vanish with the throb of the engine.

“I wanted you for so long,” he murmurs again, and you want to say, me too, but your tongue is thick and slow and all you manage is to grip his wrist, pinning him to this reality, to this moment run wild on the clock.

You slip from his lap when the urge surges past all reason—not because you do not want to be held, but because you want to see what he looks like when you take him apart. The carpet beneath your knees is soft and plush, but you are not thinking of the carpet, you are thinking of the way Bucky’s breathing shears out of him in a rush as you settle between his legs and glance up.

His pupils are blown, making the pale blue more starless sky than glacier. His lips, wet and a little bitten, are parted in shock, and there’s something so starkly boyish in his awe that you nearly laugh. Instead, you run your hands up the inside of his thighs, not missing how his legs tense and shudder under your grip.

You unbuckle his belt, and for a second you’re all thumbs, nerves having gone to static in your head, but Bucky just sits with hands open and breath held, watching you like you might ghost away if he looked elsewhere. The rough newness of the situation—doing this with him, in daylight, on a moving plane—sends a flush crawling up your body, heat prickling in your scalp. You want to be perfect for him, but you settle for real. You unfasten him, you work his jeans down enough, and he springs against his own belly, more than you’d realized, heavy and flushed, and your chest tightens with wanting.

You feel a spike of victory at the way he swells in your hand, the living pulse of him, velvet-hard and as hot as a fever.

You taste him, first with your lips pressed soft against the tip, then with the slow, savoring press of your tongue along the length, and Bucky’s head drops back, the tendons in his neck cording. He doesn’t make noise, not at first—he’s too disciplined, too careful—but when you increase the pressure, take more of him in, he grits out your name, a rattle of consonants, like he can’t bear up under it any longer. You commit to the rhythm, fast then slow, enjoying the play of pressure and the way his thighs brace in agony and pleasure under your hands. The metal one pets your hair at first, then fists in at the nape of your neck, holding you still for a second while his hips buck minutely, then he curses and releases the grip, as if reining in some inner avalanche.

You’re delighted—delirious almost—by how much you’re able to make him shake. How much you’re able to unmake the man of precision. You want to keep him at this edge forever, but you can also see how hard he’s working not to tear you apart with need. You let the rhythm go ragged for a moment, using your hands to cup him, stroke him, take him deeper. You revel in the way his restraint crumbles, in the way he murmurs pleas and fractured sweet nothings and dirty wants and promises.

He rocks his hips once, twice, then pulls back with a warning—a rough, strangled sound that you recognize as care, as wanting not to overwhelm or take—so you press your hand to his thigh and keep him still, refusing retreat. You want all of it: the taste, the heat, the salt and the proof. When he spills into your mouth, every muscle in his body shivers and the shuddering pulse of him fills you, thick and sweet and endless. You swallow, and his thighs buckle, and he drags you up, mouth to mouth, tasting himself on your tongue and growling in approval.

You expect him to collapse, to flop boneless and dazed into the seat, but instead his cock is still hard, red and slick and angry-looking in the open vee of his jeans. You look down, then up, and the expression on your face must be famished and raw, because Bucky’s answering expression is a wolf’s grin—hungry, delighted, and you’re so glad for it, so mindless with wanting, it almost hurts.

You want him inside you, want him to push every thought from your head. He licks his thumb and traces your lower lip, then presses it past your teeth, not forceful but insistent, and you suck without a second thought.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he says, but the way he says it, it sounds like he’s eager for the mutual ruin.

He coaxes you up, not with a command but a gentle tug of your wrist; you let yourself be arranged, his palms guiding your hips and then gently coaxing you up, angling your body so you're kneeling, braced on the plush seatback, spine arched, ass tilted toward him. There’s nothing clinical or hasty here; he positions you like an artist with a marble he’s spent decades yearning to carve. You feel the raw, predatory focus radiate off him, and you can’t help but turn to catch the look in his eyes—eager but almost reverent.

His cock nudges against you, then slides up the seam, gathering wetness, and for a moment he lingers, thumb stroking the base of your spine, the cool metal of his hand anchoring your shoulder. The first push is slow, deliberate, the kind of pressure that makes your whole body tense and then open for him. He fills you with an unhurried inevitability, and for a moment you can’t breathe for how big he is, how much he fills your most intimate space.

He groans at the feeling, deep and sin-worn, and the sound shoots heat up your back, makes your thighs shake. He holds you steady with both hands, one flesh and the other a cold star at your hip, and waits for you to tell him to move. Your own voice is gone to glass, so you just tip your hips, a silent plea, and he obeys, rolling into you in a series of slow, tidal thrusts that let you feel every inch.

It’s impossible to be quiet, and Bucky clearly prefers you not to be. He leans over you, his chest hot along your spine, and bites your shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but just so you know he’s there, and you cry out at the dual sensation—sharp and yielding, ache and relief. His rhythm is slow at first, but when you reach back and dig your nails into the firm cut of his thigh, he hisses and snaps his hips with a force that borders on brutal, but never spills over into cruelty. It’s want, not violence; hunger, not harm. You want every bit of it, every relentless stroke, every scrape of his teeth on your skin, the bruise of his hand as it sprawls between your shoulder blades and pins you to the world.

You have the sudden, feverish sense that Bucky wants to own every part of you, not just the places you expect to be touched, but the boundaries you never thought to keep. His hands—both of them, vibranium and flesh—roam your hips, your back, the trembling crease where thigh meets ass. When he pushes in deeper, it’s with a precision that feels engineered; he wants to draw something new from you, to find the note that will finally split you open.

You’re so wet you can hear it, the slick wet music of skin on skin. His flesh hand is anchored at your hip, fingers digging into the softness there, holding you steady as he fucks you, each thrust deliberate. But the cold of his metal hand is more curious; it traces up your spine, fans across the nape of your neck, then drops down again, palming the globe of your ass with a hunger that feels almost greedy.

He shifts, altering the angle of his thrusts so each one drags a new, devastating friction along your inner walls, and his hand, the metal one, snakes lower, cupping your mound so your clit is pressed and circled in perfect tandem to the building rhythm. The world telescopes to the points at which he touches you, and then just when you think you can’t take more, that the heat will level you into unconsciousness, his finger—cool, slick now with your own wetness—traces the forbidden line between your cheeks. A barely-there touch, a slow, teasing swirl around the tight, neglected ring, and you startle at the contact, gasping out a word that could be “fuck” or “please” or both, pulse stuttering with the shock of it.

He doesn’t force, doesn’t press, just circles, gentle and patient, letting you acclimate to the possibility, the threat. With each swirl you feel yourself open more—this hunger, this trust, this dumbfounding desire to let Bucky give you something that nobody else ever has. When he finally presses in, just the barest tip of a finger, the line between pleasure and pressure melts and you keen aloud, startled at your own reaction. He groans at the sound, his cock twitching inside you, and the next thrust is deeper, more desperate, as if he’s as ruined by you as you are by him.

There is nothing for it but to surrender. You arch into every sensation, let Bucky fill every blank in your vocabulary of want. Each time his finger moves, gentle and relentless, you feel your body respond with such wild, involuntary gratitude that you want to weep. You reach between your legs, questing for your clit, greedy for more and not caring if you break apart in his arms.

He pistons into you, relentless and sure, and somewhere in the haze you catch yourself thinking: this is what it feels like to matter to someone so much they lose their mind. Bucky coaxes every sound from you, every plea, every curse. When you clamp down around him hard enough he nearly loses his grip, you hear him choke out your name in a shattered, breaking way, and he plants his palm to the curve of your ass and drives you into the seat with a bruising finality.

You come again, and this time the sound you make is so raw you’re embarrassed, but he only groans in reply, matching you stroke for stroke, as if the louder you are, the more it means. You shake, legs threatening to go, but he holds you, refusing to let you slip through his grip. You ride out every ripple, every quaking tremor, and when you finally slump forward, breathless and wrung out, he chases your high with his own, hips jerking in a wild, arrhythmic staccato as he empties himself in you with a deep, almost haunted sound that echoes in your lungs for ages after.

He collapses over your back, breath damp against your neck, arms caging you in. For a moment, the world is nothing but the drum of his heart, the shockwave of your own afterglow, and the faintly ridiculous realization that you’re at cruising altitude over the Atlantic, sweat-soaked and boneless and impossibly, impossibly alive.

It takes a long time before you find words. It takes even longer before you can turn to look him in the eye.

“So that happened,” you say, voice soft but rooted in satiation, and the hint of a question behind it, craving his thoughts, his impressions.

Bucky is still inside you, softening, but when you laugh at your own understatement, he laughs too, the sound honest and unselfconscious and bright enough to startle you out of the receding fog. He nuzzles your hair and bites your shoulder, just once, in a gentle, feral way. “You say that like it wasn’t inevitable,” he says. “Like I haven’t been thinking about you since the first time you told me off in front of the whole comms team.”

You twist in his lap, wince a little at the sticky ache between your legs, then kiss his jaw, his pulse point, the soft curl of his ear. You want to say something perfect, something to thread all this pain and elation together, but your mind is losing the war with your body’s demands. You just want to be held, and he seems to know it, because he wraps those impossible arms all the way around you and tucks you close to his chest, bringing you into his lap.

You burrow in, cheek pressed to the racing engine of his heart, your legs folded up to your chest as a drowsy quiet settles in the cabin. The hum of the jet, the soft huff of Bucky’s breath in your hair, the double warmth and chill of his touch—it’s all a nest, a chrysalis, and you’re content to lie there for however many thousand miles it takes to put the old world behind you.

You lose track of time. The hum of the engine, the proximity of Bucky’s bare skin to yours, the way your heart replays every inch of what just happened: it all floats you through a corridor of warmth and contentment that you haven’t felt since you were young.

The world out the window is seared gold, the last of day sinking past the wing as you cruise east. At some point Bucky stands, balancing both of you as if his balance is unassailable, and fetches a blanket, a hand towel, and a glass of water from the service cabinet before returning you both to the comfortable leather seat.

You drink it down in greedy gulps while he wipes you off with practiced, delicate swipes of the towel, his touch less clinical than worshipful. He tucks the blanket around you both, creating a cocoon for the coming moments.

You pull the blanket up to your nose, tuck your chin and watch him above the rim, eyes wet and still trembling from what you’ve both done. He doesn’t try to explain it. Instead, he finds your hand beneath the blanket and holds it, thumb stroking slow circles over the pulse at your wrist.

You spend the next hour drowsing in and out, stolen moments of sleep lurching you awake with the latent fear that this is all a fever dream, that you’re actually still in the glass box in the cathedral, or floating in some post-toxin afterlife. But Bucky is always there when you surface, his arm warm across your shoulders, the scars along his shoulder catching beneath your fingers.

You and Bucky share quiet conversations during the waking moments. It’s so easy to fall into this side of intimacy with him, too, not only the physical you shared earlier.

He tells you about the safehouse you’re going to in Paris, the bank accounts, the names and legends already prepared for both of you. It sounds almost routine, except for the faint blush in his cheeks, or the sheepish smile when he admits, “I even have a cat, for appearance’s sake.” He says this with a half-smirk, daring you to mock him. Instead, you ask about the cat. Its name is Alpine; it’s white and sassy and already edging toward overweight now that she’s been rescued from the streets. Somehow, that makes the plan feel more plausible, more fit to live in and real.

When you ask about Sam—where he’d go, how long before he finds both of you—Bucky’s face softens into a sort of loving regret. “He’ll do what he’s always done: fight the good fight. Even if that means chasing after us for the next few years.” He says it not with bravado, but with the sigh of someone who’s accepted the cost of his actions.

Bucky’s thumb drew a few more circles over your hand, and you watched with the drowsy clarity of afterglow as he studied you, the long focus of a man who still had something left to say. He let you sleep for most of the flight, let you curl and sprawl across his lap and the seat, but somewhere over the dark green quilt of the Irish Sea, he angled your face up to his with a touch so gentle you almost missed the gravity behind it.

“You know,” he said, “I didn’t do any of this–bring you into it–because I thought Sam was a bad person. Not even because I thought he was a bad partner to you.” The words were slow, deliberate, like he meant them to lodge somewhere deep and stay. “I just wanted you to see the thing he never lets you see—how, in a pinch, he’ll always run toward the fire. Even if you’re the one burning.”

It was a monstrous thing to say, but Bucky didn’t hold back from the full measure of his meaning.

“He did love you,” he says. “Still does. You know that, right?”

The words land heavy and soft, an ache buried under the warmth of the blanket, the pressurized hush of the jet. You want to nod, to agree, but something in Bucky’s expression dares you to challenge that, to perhaps ask for more.

“He did,” you echo, your voice shot through with all the hurt, relief, and confusion you’d stored on a shelf in the back of your mind that you’d ignored. Because sometimes that’s just what couples do. “You don’t have to defend him. Or me.”

“He’s better in so many ways than me,” Bucky says, not so much conceding as saluting, as if the point is a living monument somewhere between you. “But he’s been Captain America so long, he’s started to believe the only way to love anyone is to protect them from everything, even himself. Maybe especially himself.”

You catch the twinge in Bucky’s voice, the jealousy and the admiration braided together so tightly you can’t tell where one leaves off and the other picks up. You tried to find the flaw in this logic, some hidden malice or manipulation, but the words rang too true. The last year with Sam had been a string of empty nights in his apartment or yours, half-eaten dinners, phone calls cut short by emergencies with names you never learned and crises that belonged to the world.

“You deserve someone who’ll always pick you. Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s not the end the story wants. And I never want you to wonder–I didn't do this because of him, I did it for me. It's the only truly villainous thing I did today.”

You open your mouth to reply, but there is something inside you, a molten sorrow or longing or both, that makes words taste foreign. For a moment, you just look at Bucky—the long, tired face of a man who’s lost nearly everything more than once, and yet still offers up his devotion, his heart, his everything.

There is a comfort in that. Not the comfort of fairy tales or sunny brunches with friends, but the comfort of an old wound that’s finally healed over, ugly and permanent, yes, but proof you survived.

You nestle in, letting Bucky wrap you tighter, and the two of you pass the last leg of the flight in an unspoken truce with your ghosts, listening only to the lull of engines and the steady, intermittent thump of his heart. A heart that you know is yours and yours alone. It’s not a magic ending. It’s a messy beginning. But it’s tangible, real, something whole that you know you can grasp and hold without hesitation.

This villain is yours, and if your full embrace of this new alternative makes you villainous, too, at least you know it’s the two of you all in, hand in hand, together.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

i really liked your post about judges of character!! its the first post i saw of yours and its super cool!! followed!

i was wondering if you were willing to expand on more characters and why they aren’t good judges of characters. i totally agree with leona being ss tier, i just wanna see you articulate more characters if possible!!

in order of desire and namely, i wanna read about ruggie, trey, ortho, floyd, malleus, cater, yuu

thank u sm!!!! your writing and analysis is a total treat to read. take care of yourself!!

[Referencing this post!]

Thank you for enjoying my stuff and welcome to the fold (flock?) ^^

You listed a lot of characters so I’ll do a rapid-fire round and try to avoid dragging this response out for super long 🙂‍↕️ In your order:

Ruggie — He pays attention to people only in so far as to see when it the best time to swoop in and ask them for stuff (unfinished foods, donatable items, etc.) or to offer his services (for a fee). I don’t think he cares to look beyond that and seek a person’s hidden character. What comes first and foremost is his own survival, which is very focused on… himself, rather than how he reads other people and their character. It simply does not matter so long as Ruggie has his needs met.

Trey — Briefly covered in the tags of my previous post. He tries his best to keep out of conflicts, but this also means he must observe a lot and knows how to keep a distance. Trey notices some things that others don’t (like how Cater doesn’t like sweets in book 1 or how Vil is tired in his Labwear vignettes), but I wouldn’t call these instances evidence of Trey being a good judge of character. The Cater thing is something Trey picked up on from always seeing Cater go for savory foods or suggesting things to cover up sweet tastes. Noticing Vil being tired feels like a skill Trey may have learned from acting like a caretaker, especially with his younger siblings and dorm members. When Trey does try to discern people’s characters, it seems to fall flat because he takes them at face value and assumes goodness on their part. For example, he mistakes Jade as someone meek and being taken advantage of in Jade’s Ceremonial Robes vignettes.

Ortho — I think Ortho would theoretically be a good judge of character, but it is complicated by him relying on drawing conclusions from algorithms and data sets he is fed. It’s true that Ortho acts more human than a typical android, but he learned how to act this way by watching movies, which are mostly inaccurate depictions of real life. I feel this would “poison” his data and lead to him processing cues incorrectly. He can accurately tell the time and read your vitals because those are objective facts and numbers—but gauging human character is much less concrete. Maybe Ortho can fine-tune his skills by observing more humans irl (especially considering his advanced learning capabilities), but right now I think he’d still be working on it.

Floyd — I think judging people’s character comes more naturally to Floyd than to Jade (as there is a recurring theme of Floyd being a genius while Jade has to put in effort to be competent). Like many things though, his proficiency shifts with his mood. I don’t see Floyd as being super observant in spite of this, as he also didn’t seem to sense something was “up” with Jamil despite arguably spending a lot more time with him in the same club.

Malleus — Malleus notoriously had difficulties understanding others, albeit this is definitely influenced by his sheltered upbringing. He missed Rollo’s weird vibes (too blinded by the thought of genuinely being invited to an event) and even describes himself as “[being] no good at divining humans’ minds”. This could be considered a cultural misalignment rather than him being a poor judge of character, but considering how he frequently uses on his own (very limited) POV as reference (which is what led to Endless Halloween Night and misunderstands with his fellow dorm leaders at meetings), this still puts Malleus in a situation where he cannot read others well because HE also doesn’t project his own emotions or true character very openly; he always has to maintain a certain air about him as a future king.

Cater — He’s great at reading the room and using social standing to get what he wants. For example, Cater knows his underclassmen will defer to seniority so he tricks Adeuce into helping him do his chores. He is also shown intervening multiple different times when the situation gets heated to get everyone to cool their heads. This means Cater is socially savvy and intuitive rather than a good judge of character. Because Cater spends so much time online and intentionally holding people at a distance, I don’t think he bothers to look deeper into them than what’s presented on the surface. For example, he’s always clout chasing (seeking pics with important and notable peers) but doesn’t make an effort to really see or judge people on a deeper level.

Yuu — Ehhhhh 🤷‍♀️ Yuu is a blank slate character for players for project themselves or sonas/OCs onto. How good or bad they are at judging others is defined by the individual. Instances like Yuu being friendly with Malleus aren’t so much of them seeing the goodness in him as it is Yuu being oblivious about who he is. We don’t really get any comments from Yuu that have insight into their peers’ characters either, only surface-level remarks and observations along the lines of, “oh, they’re being kind of rude again” or “wooow, he’s being nice for once?”. Twst leaves Yuu vague so you can fill in the gaps using your own imagination.

[simpingforcreamsoda]

Agreed with prev, throwing on a few of my own thoughts:

This feels extremely disappointing as someone who's been enjoying the celebratory phase Sonic has been in as of late. Frontiers and Shadow Gens, plus movies like Sonic 3, have entered a new refreshing mindset that Sonic being Sonic is something to be boldly proud of. Yes, this can sometimes lead to awkward, overly referential dialogue ("WITHOUT THE TIME STONES???"), but overall it's been warm and cozy to see Sonic being proud of what it is.

I was HOPING that Crossworlds would continue this trend, and be more celebratory of the franchise in its roster. Jet the Hawk returning was a great first sign, and it was not unreasonable that fans would hope for other fan favorites to return, especially those from the classic games (Fang, Mighty, etc) or the new IDW comics (Tangle, Whisper, etc). And yes, while they could at some point join, its clear that's not Sega's intention at all.

I don't have any particular issue with Miku, Joker, or Mr. Yakuza- I actually think its cute to see other Sega characters having fun with their cousin Sonic. It's similar to Link, Villager, Isabelle, and Inkling in MK8, just a small handful of gaming friends who have good synergy with the blue blur (where is that monkey in the ball tho).

But SPONGEBOB??? FUCKING AVATAR REPS??? Jesus, what a fucking shame. If you like those characters, great, so do I. But their inclusion is such a blatant devaluing of this product, none of these Nick characters are even pretending to be related to Sonic, nor are they so random that it can be laughed at as a joke. This is like if Smash Bros DLC passes included Darth Vader, Shrek, and Iron Man. It's a concession by Sega that they're embarrassed to be a Sonic racing game. They're so ashamed of having to put their beloved franchise in the spotlight to sell his game that they're drowning the pre-release with the most irrelevant, pandering, unnatural and corporate picks they can.

That's the main thing for me- I thought we were past this. I thought we were done with this idea that Sonic is cringe with the kids and needs to be supplemented and replaced. But nope, here we are, with 90% of the marketing being characters from "other not sonic things kids probably like more than sonic" because who in their right minds would play a game with SONIC in it. We need to show them Aang, then they'll buy it!

Please, for the love of god, Sega.

People. Like. Sonic.

Sonic. Is. Cool.

They've managed to make their DC crossover feel equal and celebratory of both sides, so why are they regressing into shoving Sonic into a corner? Makes me depressed.

Also that price tag is so fucking embarrassing i played that playtest and it really aint all that. Buy something else.

I have to admit that the more we see from CrossWorlds, the less enthusiastic I am about it. Mostly thanks to all the crossover DLC.

Early on, following its announcement and the public playtest, CrossWorlds was pitched as this big celebration of Sonic in kart racing form. A big roster of characters, a bunch of tracks based on locations across the series, even the return of the Babylon Rogues and Extreme Gear for Riders fans. It seemed like it was doing everything right.

And then they started announcing the crossovers.

First they announced the first few Sega guest characters who'll be added for free. And that was fine. That made sense. It's all Sega stuff, and seeing Ichiban and Miku racing against Sonic characters is funny.

And then right after that, they announced... Minecraft. Minecraft Steve will be in the Sonic racing game, along with a whole Minecraft track, as part of the season pass that's being announced months before the game is even out. It seemed very arbitrary, just doing a crossover with something super popular as a marketing stunt.

And then, as had been previously leaked, we got the SpongeBob announcement. SpongeBob and Patrick will be in the new Sonic racing game, along with a Bikini Bottom track. And like, yeah, I love those first few seasons of SpongeBob as much as the next late-gen millennial, but does that mean I think SpongeBob makes sense to include here? No. And later in the season pass we'll also be getting TMNT and Avatar crossovers, because of course we are. Nick characters are literally half of the season pass. I will admit that the turtles are a good fit for Sonic, but the rest? Come on. But please be sure to pay $90 USD to get the Digital Deluxe Edition so you can play as Aang, everyone!

The current fan favorite (Sega-developed) Sonic kart racer, All-Stars Racing Transformed, also had its fair share of random third party guest characters. I didn't mind it there. The difference to me is that the selection there was so random and asinine that it was kind of charming, and easy to ignore. Including Danica Patrick, Wreck-It Ralph, and one of the guys from the YogsCast in a Sonic racing game was so stupid that it was funny. It was also easy to ignore in a game that already had such a hodgepodge crossover roster.

But here it feels cynical. It's a generic corporate synergy move in what was pitched as purely a Sonic game. Viacom will shove SpongeBob, the turtles, and Aang into every game they can as cosmetic DLC, from Fortnite to Fall Guys to Smite and beyond. We're not getting these characters because someone at Sega thought they'd be the best fit for Sonic, but rather because Viacom owns the Sonic movies and they wanted to do cross-promotion of their Most Valuable IP with Sega. This wasn't a decision made by a creative, it was made by a boardroom. And also they had to do it on the cheap, I guess, because they couldn't pay to get Tom Kenny or Bill Fagerbakke to provide voice lines, or even get the rights to use stock clips of theirs. So SpongeBob and Patrick are just going to be mute in this racing game that places a huge emphasis on having a ton of voice lines and interactions for the Sonic cast. There's a very real chance we're just gonna see lobbies full of mute crossover characters when playing online. Sonic is simply a part of the Viacom corporate machine now, whether we like it or not. And Minecraft is here because it's the most popular game in the world and its movie just made almost a billion dollars, I guess.

It just feels like it's watering down the identity of the game so much. I like Fortnite, but I don't need every other game in the world to turn into Fortnite with all these corporate crossovers. It's fucking exhausting. I won't go as far as going "slot crisis" mode here and assume that these DLC characters have taken slots from other characters I'd rather see included, but like... If the game comes out and Tangle and Whisper aren't in it, but SpongeBob is? Sorry, but you're never going to hear the end of it from me lmao

(I know fans have already datamined an Extreme Gear for Whisper that seems to point to their inclusion, but that's not exactly a confirmation. It could literally just be the Extreme Gear thrown in as a nod to the comics and nothing else. Also now that we have all these mute crossover characters part of me worries that they wouldn't even bother casting voice actresses for them, which is half the reason why I'd be excited to see them in a game in the first place. I know it's a whole different rights situation with the Nick characters, but still, the thought is in my head.)

So yeah. I dunno. It'll probably still be decent. But these last few announcements have kind of killed the excitement for me.

At least I still have Ring Racers.

[angelltheninth]

Can you do the first Grumpy x Sunishine prompt with Kenji Sato?

That's a very good relationship dynamic. Not my absolute favorite but definitely up there.

Pairing: Kenji "Ken" Sato x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, roommates, domestic fluff, grumpy x sunshine, cheek kisses, being overworked, not actually unrequited feelings, Kenji Sato is bad at feelings

Prompt: Roommates from Opposite Vibes... One’s all color-coded calendars and 7AM smoothies. The other hasn’t done laundry in three weeks and growls before coffee. They clash. But one rainy day, the sunshine one leaves soup on the grump’s desk with a dumb little smiley note. It breaks them. - List

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Got my friend to watch this. Now she's in love with him just as much as I am.

The mismatched clothes, the strict schedule, the sleeping in, the uniforms, the countless hours you both spent taking care of Emi in shifts, during the day, at night, and yet you and Kenji didn't quite get along. You tried to get him out of his grumpy shell ever since the two of you started living together. A good few months now, you knew each other for years though, and were always opposites.

It took you both very long to get comfortable with each other, then Emi was introduced into the mix. Kenji already wasn't sleeping well despite your protests and now he was getting even less, again despite you telling him that you could take care of Emi too.

Stubborn as always he only accepted help when he was literally falling asleep on his feet. Or at his desk, as was the case this rainy night.

You looked for him in Emi's room, the training room, the living room, he was nowhere to be found. That only left his room. As you slowly opened the door you had half the mind to scold him. He was passed out at the desk, Emi sitting close to him, holding his hand.

"This is the third time this week, Kenji." You still scolded him, while whispering. Emi noticed you approaching and smiled at you, energetically waving at you. Her kaiju eyes honed in on the colorful cup of warm tea in your hand. "I made this for your dad but as usual he's overworked himself again. Maybe you should tell him to go to sleep, bet he'd listen to you." You walked over on your tiptoes, careful not to wake Ken up.

Slowly and gently you set the warm cup at his desk, and then even slower and gentler picked Emi up from the desk. She made a noise of surprise before giggling and nuzzling her head against you.

"You need some sleep too, kid. How else are you gonna grow up into a big, awesome Kaiju? Up you go, Emi." But you weren't sure where to take her. If you moved her back to her room you knew Kenji would panic about her whereabouts when he woke up.

The bed was a good option though. You started to set her down only for her small hands to cling onto your clothes and mumble things against your neck until you relented and were pulled down with her. "Me too? Are you saying I should sleep too?" Emi made a new sound and once again cuddled up against you. "Okay, okay, but just for a few minutes. I don't think Kenji would appreciate me being in his bed. Which only confirms that your dad has awful taste in women."

He was asleep so he didn't hear what you just said and honestly you were glad. Kenji didn't have to know you had a crush on him, not now not ever. You were happy like this, being his roommate, taking care of Emi with him. That was enough, you didn't dare ask for more.

The few minutes turned into an hour.

Kenji groaned as he woke up, his back was killing him from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. The rain still patted against the window, almost a storm and he sighed, somehow still tired.

He looked at the cup you left for him and frowned at how you decorated it with stickers despite it already being colorful enough. The tea was already cold. "Emi? Emi? Emi where are-" His words and worry caught in his throat when he saw Emi sleeping on top of you, her small body curled up against your chest and her hand holding your, both of you breathing at the same depth and speed.

Something about the sight froze him. "Em..." No, she looked too comfortable, and so did you. He couldn't wake you up.

Kenji wasn't the best team player, he will admit that much but he didn't hate the help you gave him either. Instead of waking you up he walked up to the bed and planted a kiss on Emi's forehead.

He paused then, thinking if he should do this or not. If you find out it could ruin the tentative relationship you have, but at the same time he couldn't hold back. Careful as to not wake you up he placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth, getting a sleepy smile in return. "Thank you, I... thank you." As he pulled back he noticed Emi blinking at him.

Kenji's cheeks flushed and he stumbled back, almost falling over.

"Shhh, that's our little secret. Okay Emi?" The baby Kaiju looked from him to you before seemingly shrugging and falling back asleep. Kenji sighed and fell back into his chair. That was close. Maybe he should try to hide his feelings better. Tired and conflicted he glanced at the cup of tea and decided to get a slip. "Blegh. Way too sweet for my taste." Yet he drank every last drop.

[wonyology]

The Years Next Door (m!reader x Babymonster's ASA) - part I

Summary: Enami Asa - one of, if not the most important person in your life - moved in next door a few years ago. You didn't know back then. It started with awkward first meeting, family dinner and dish washing duty. Looking back now, you still remember it like yesterday. When did things change between two of you? You don't know for sure - but you know that once it changed, no going back for you two.

tag(?): fluff, slice of life, first meeting, memories, soft-launch/good times before disaster strike??? (i don't know whether to end with a happy or sad ending yet) - ASA x yourself/Original Male Character

Word count: ~3.6k - i originally wanted to put out a full over 10k piece but i got too much plots in my mind to write, also i counldn't decide where to go with this story yet.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

 It was a few years ago, you don't remember exactly what day it was. The vibe, the weather of that day is still stuck with you until this day. It was in early February 2019, one of those days when the sky decided to be funny, somehow sunny but weirdly a bit rainy. The sun was still out with some light drizzles. It wasn’t that cold but the breeze made you zip up your hoodie. You usually hate this type of weather, sticky, wet- just uncomfortable enough to make you regret going out. You could've been enjoying your Man Utd football manager save, in the comfort of your own room right now (damn my team still sucks in real life). But that fateful day? Somehow… you felt different, it was relaxing, like the world was preparing to surprise you with something.

 You were on your way home after hanging out with your dummy friend group at uncle Youngcheol's PC bang, right before the start of middle school -  your newly purchased hoodie damp, fingers still smelling faintly like that public keyboard-mouse mix. A bit gross, but comforting and familiar to be honest. And those dummies, you guys are still in touch till this day - great friends those guys. A few blocks away from home, you were thinking about asking mom to make you your favourite dish for lunch, 된장찌개 (Doenjang jjigae) - her signature dish. Just the imagination of the smell got you feeling excited. Little did you know, you were just a few meters away from meeting the girl who would completely change the trajectory of your life.

 Turning the corner onto your street, there was a moving truck parked next to your house, on the right. You live in Eungam-dong - a quiet cozy neighborhood in Seoul. It was nice, full of 2,3 story ground level houses with sleek, clean and modern design. You wouldn’t say you grew up rich, the neighborhood itself is nice-nice, not rich. Houses were seperated by low brick walls, providing sufficient privacy and warmth between neighbors. Needless to say, you had a great childhood that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world, with memories along those peaceful sidewalks. 

 “Huh, someone’s moving in?” You thought, probably a new family. You didn’t give it too much thought, just wanted to get all cozy in bed and wait for lunch.  As you got closer, mom was helping a woman with some boxes her age. And dad? He looked relaxed, happily talking to someone, in Japanese. An old friend of his, maybe? Wait… dad’s Japanese is that good? You slowed down, a bit confused.

 “Oh, would you look at that? My dear son, the crown prince himself has decided to come home after evading his errands. Welcome back, my dear boy.”. Mom jokingly glared at you, one of those you-really-ditched-housework-huh? looks.

 Mom and dad never really yelled at you. And they didn’t need to. They are loved and respected by everyone in the neighborhood. Your dad, a respected doctor at a research center in Seoul, and mom, a lovely, sweet but razor-sharp stay at home wife. Mom made sure you had your favorite Legos, those retro Man Utd kits - ONLY IF you do well in school. Dad would give you some pocket money every week and would raise his eyebrows if you did something dumb, and somehow that was scarier than any other punishments. They didn’t expect you to be perfect, they wanted you to be a real, solid man who knows how to take care of himself and everyone else. They knew what you needed throughout your childhood but made sure you earned it. They managed to raise you right by being by your side. And for that, you are thankful, your parents are the reason why you turned into the man you are today. 

 “C’mon, mom. It was just a few hours, I did clean the kitchen this morning tho.” Damn, you were such a whiny teenager.

 “Just come here and help our new neighbor, kiddo”. Welp, there went your doenjang jjigae, right down the drain. And that was it, no warning, no pausing, your life was tilted off its original path.

 Also, neighbor?  Ever since you were a kid, you were not the outgoing type. Your friends would describe you as someone who is really quiet - maybe even scary to strangers due to your resting face (can’t help that, thanks mom, dad). To be fair, you weren’t cold. Never had been, just shy and a bit introverted. If people actually take time and try to get to know you, they’d find out that you’re a great guy. Okay, that sounds like you’re just glazing yourself but that’s just the truth. It wasn’t like you hating having next door neighbors either, honestly the elder couple next door had always been really sweet to you since you were a kid. You were just… say, not in the mood for meeting new people.

 You rushed to get the box from the woman next to the woman next to your mom, not without nodding and bowing a bit to greet her. She smiled a bit, giving that same warmth your mom always has with people. 

 “Put it next to the door, please. Thanks, Joonhyuk-ah”. Oh, mom told her your name already. Her Korean was good, soft - but you caught the Japanese accent right away. You turned towards the doorway, hands holding the mysterious box which had a bit of weight to it. And there they were, three people… sisters? The two tall girls were talking to each other, stopping just to look and smile politely at you. The awkward first meeting got weirder as you tried to say hi with all the Japanese you learnt from all those years watching Captain Tsubasa, Doraemon and Detective Conan (which was horrendous by the way). They were both beautiful in their own ways, but now looking back, you really got on well with them both, no problem at all. And there she was, a slightly shorter girl standing behind them, peaking out. She was out of this world, felt like an ancient Oriental goddess from those folklores in elementary school just came to life, standing right there and slapped you in the face with that beauty. You know that feeling when you meet someone for the first time and they just look so good that you couldn’t do anything but stand there like an idiot? Yeah, that kind of beauty. You couldn’t really tell what it was or how but her nose, her eyes, and her lips just go so well together, and her long hair too. She’s got her hair short now, but man, her long hair back then still got you feeling some type of way. 

 “Uhm, hi” you stuttered, box still in hands.

 “Hey, you can leave it here”. There was something so graceful, so feminine but not in a try-hard way about her gestures. The way she smiled, the way she pointed to the right, the way she spoke Korean so well, her voice... Maybe she’s your type? You had a few crushes on girls in elementary school and all that but damn, no one had ever made you feel this way. 

 “Joonhyuk-ah, come help me with these”

 “Uh… my dad’s calling me. Hi…” why did you say hi again you idiot. 

 Trying your best not to dig another grave for yourself, you turned and jogged, awkwardly, to your dad and his friends. Despite trying your best, you couldn’t help but overthink about what the girls were giggling about.

 2 hours (?) and a few stolen glances at her later, you got home with your parents and your dad told you all about them, not without his usual mischief. The man was Mr. Enami Masaru, his old friend from university way back then - just by the tone of your dad, you could tell he was really excited about having his good old mate moving in next door. Apparently, they would also be working with each other at your dad’s research center from now on. His wife, Ms. Enami Keiko, carried the same vibe just like your mom - you were glad that she had a friend her age in your neighborhood. Their two elder children, Lisa and Chisa, are both older than you. Why do their whole family look so good? They look like they came out of a fashion ma...

 “So have you talked to Asa yet, honey? I heard she’s your age” your mom asked, snapping you back to reality.

 “Really? I thought you were born in 2005.” your dad said. You didn’t even know if he was being for real or joking.

 “C’mon, dad. It’s 2006” 

 “Oh yeah, then you’ve got yourself a new girlfriend” your parents laughed. Girlfriend? Sure she looked great, her voice was great, and her hair… her hair. 

 Maybe, just maybe, you got feelings for her. 

 “I just said hi, mom. Didn’t really know what to talk about. You know I get shy easily.” you said, crashing face first onto the family couch.

 “Better dress nice tonight, we invited them over for dinner tonight. Asa’s coming too, she’s going to your school too so try and help the lovely girl because you guys will be seeing each other for the next few years”. Great, just great. The way your mom said that so cheerfully just let you know it wasn’t going to be an easy night. 

 Seeing each other for the next few years? What did mom mean? You were already considering moving out of the neighborhood after that dumb greeting. Anything to erase that memory or reset it.

 Mom told you to be downstairs at 7. You hate people who are never on time, but you for once gave yourself a righteous excuse to be late, hoping the seats would all be taken and avoid awkward talks. But no, your mom - who seemed weirdly chippier than usual - patted the seat beside her, calling you: 

 “Joonhyuk-ah, sit sit”. 

��There Asa was, already seated next to the chair your mom was pointing at, hands politely on her laps, hair tucked behind her ear - words can’t describe how good she looked in that skirt and sweater. From that point on, you clearly knew, this girl was going to be the death of you.

 The atmosphere was cozy - dads updating each other on their lives since uni, moms exchanging dish recipes like they had known each other for years, the older sisters talking about some TV show. Which left you and Asa behind, drowning in that awkward silence. While trying to sit down, your dumb ass accidently touched her knees. And again. That’s twice, TWICE*? She didn’t even say anything, just smiled at you - your heart, now beating over 130 bpm, your body, frozen.

*I love TWICE

 Minutes went by, things had been smooth so for, apart from you two being awkward with each other. Mom’s food were great as usual, nothing to complain about, adults were mid conversation when your lovely mom decided to make your night worse, turning to Ms. Keiko who sat in front of her:

 “Our Joonie is quite a talented kid, he’s been doing taekwondo since 6” your heart hadn't felt that heavy since mom caught you gaming in the middle of a school night a few months ago, almost dropping food onto the table.

 “Oh yeah, the kid loves football too but his taekwondo is impressive. He got scouted for the national youth training program at a school competition. He’s doing great at school too. ” your dad added in with some food still in his mouth, way too proud. Mom just smacked his arms slightly, reminding him we were having guests over.

 Your eyes were straight on the food in front you, but you swear you could feel Asa turning slightly, her gaze on you.

 “Wow, that’s impressive,” Ms. Keiko said. “Our Asa’s got a lot to learn from you then.”

 You smiled at her “Oh no, it’s just okay - not that great, Ms”.

“Asa will actually be attending the same middle school as you, we’ve done all the paperwork already.” she explained with a warm smile. “She’s been learning Korean for a while back in Japan but she’s still a bit shy. It’d be wonderful if you could help our Asa out. You two would get along so well”. The way she said that made you feel some sense of responsibility, like you look like the kid who we could trust to protect our daughter from now on.

 Uhm, like, as in friends? Or… Your hearts skipped a few beats. “Of course, Ms. I’d be happy to help Asa out”.

 Your first time saying her name out loud, made her look at you again. You weren’t aware but she was slightly blushing then, her sisters noticed tho. You tried to reach for some water but accidentally knocked your spoon into her bowl. Great, just great. Your misery just only started.

 Lisa and Chisa started giggling - the sibling teasing kind of giggle, the worst kind. “Day 1 in Korea and you already have a boyfriend, Asa-chan”. Lisa said in Japanese while reaching for the fruits, with Chisa and their mother politely smiling. The dads, lost in their own world. You don’t speak Japanese but you knew for sure it had something to do with you. Asa’s blush returned quickly, trying to shut her sisters’ banter down with a glare but it didn’t really work.

 Dinner went by quick, thankfully. You volunteered to do the dishes, not only out of hospitality but also wanting to catch a breath. The families gathered in the living room, reminiscing over dad’s old memories and hideous looking university photos in your family’s faded photobook. Speaking of university, what’d you do with your life when you get to uni? You didn’t give it much thought at that point, all you did was study, eat, taekwondo, game, repeat. Academic stuff wasn’t your priority back then, it was just that you happened to be goo-

 “Hi” a quiet, soothing voice pulled you back to earth. Asa came by your side, rolling up her sleeves while smiling, eyes not quite looking at yours. “I’ll help”

 “Oh it’s okay. I can do this by my-”  “But it’s boring in the living room. I want to help you” now her eyes were really looking at  you. You weren’t imagining or hallucinating but was she… pouting? Also, since when did you two start speaking in 반말*? 

*반말/banmal - casual speech used to talk to friends, people who you feel close with. Not formal, not stiff

 She didn’t ask, you awkward self certainly didn’t either. It just kinda happened. And honestly, it felt nice.

 “Uhm, yeah. Thanks” you smiled back at her, still awkward but a good first step. You were on washing duty, hers was drying. For a moment, you guys didn’t say anything but it didn’t feel wrong, it felt warm, nice. Laughter came occasionally from the living room. Right then, you wished her hands would touch yours, even just for a little bit.  Gathering up all your saved up courage in the system, you decided to break the ice. “Your Korean is really good.” you said, in moderate volume as you didn’t want anyone hearing.

 “I’m glad you think it’s good.” She paused mid-dry, lips slowly forming a smile. “I practiced really hard to sound native… I don’t want to sound weird when school starts”

 “No, It’s great. Don’t think too much about it”.

 “Thanks… Joonhyuk-ah.” She looked at you again, now a bit longer. Oh shit, did she just say your name?

 The two of you kept the same position, repeating the same actions, unaware of how comfortable you had grown.

 “So, are you excited for school?”

 She thought for a bit. “I guess, studying in a new country feels weird”.

 “Yeah, it must be tiring for you. The kids at school are ok, not that bad.”

 “Do you like school?”

 “Depends on the day and my mood, I guess.” That made her chuckle - which sounded like heaven to your ears.

 “I really appreciate you wanting to help me out, I felt really nervous before moving here.”

 “It’s nice having you right next door, maybe we could go to school together everyday.”

 She looked at you, feeling touched, surprised maybe - but you were just trying to finish the last dishes without thinking too much about what you said.

 As the last dishes went into the rack, you both stood there, neither wanting to leave.

 You glanced at the living room and cleared your throat. “So, can I have your Kakao?”

 She blinked at you. “Instagram works too. It’d be easier for us to… you know, talk or text there. Help with school, or anything you want…”

 She didn’t answer with words. Lovely smile on her face as she reached for her phone in her pocket.

 “You can add me here.” your fingers brushed together as you tried to hold the phone to see it clearer,

 “Looks like you’re quite famous on Insta.” you joked.

 “Oh that… they’re just friends back from Japan. I just told pretty much everyone to follow me since I would be moving to Japan.” she smiled softly while trying to explain. “It feels less lonely that way”

 “I don’t really know how to explain it… but I’m sure you will meet nice friends here too. Might be a bit hard at first but I’m here to help.” She then nodded, the faint sadness on her face disappeared.

 “Do you want to go out together?” … “Not like that, you know, like-i could show you around the neighborhood, tomorrow? Get you up to date with everything around here.”

 Her smile came back this time, a bit fuller. “That’s nice. I’d really like that”

 Just right when you decided to say something, your mom called the both of you into the living room, must be time for dessert. Your moment together ended, but the feeling stayed with you that night.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

A FEW HOURS LATER

 You were cozy in bed, phone in hand - best feeling ever.

 You had been like this for over 40 minutes now - scrolling through her Instagram. There were only about over 20 photos but something in your head made sure you had to get every detail in those photos. Of her.

 You then decided to open up Kakao, tapping on her name. Her profile picture, gorgeous. Her background photo, the sky somewhere in Japan maybe? The tones really suited her. Her caption, which was in Japanese, confused the hell out of you. Must have been some kind of quote or life motto, gotta be that. Were you acting like a weirdo, staring at her social media like this? 

 Suddenly, your phone buzzed.

[아사]

hey, are you still up?

 You weren’t hesitating at all.

[you]

still up, can’t really sleep tbh.

[아사]

same. sleeping in Korea feels weird. ㅋㅋㅋ

 Cute - you thought to yourself.

[you]

uhm, really? 

[아사] sent you a photo.

 It was a screenshot of your… contact on Kakao. Why did she send it? Oh -  your name, it was [준혁선베🥋] (Joonhyuk sunbae🥋… sunbae huh? Must have been because of that thing both your moms mentioned at the dinner table - but the typo made your heart want to jump right out)

 You froze for a bit, heart fluttering - unsure how to reply.

[you]

that’s me? 

[아사]

응, do you like it?

 Of course I like it, hell maybe I like you right now but I can’t just say it, right?

[you] that’s great. but i’m not your sunbae, we’re the same age. also, it’s 선배 with a 배, not 베 tho ㅎㅎㅎㅎ

 Your dumbass thought she was still a bit confused about the sunbae-hoobae thing.

[아사]

i knew something was off ㅜㅜ so embarrassing

i knowww. it’s just like a joke since you will be helping me out from now on, right?

[준혁선베🥋]

ㄱㅊㄱㅊ (it’s okay). no big deal 

yeah, i’m here to help

 You didn’t think much. You rushed to change her name right away, just before capturing it and sending it to her.

You sent a photo.

[김아사🌸]

kim asa? 

hmm. 

why is there a cherry blossom next to it?

[준혁선베🥋]

i mean, you speak Korean really well, so kim asa fits. the cherry blossom is… 

i just think spring suits you well.

[김아사🌸]

that’s nice sunbae ㅋㅋ

 Right then, you didn’t know what possessed you. Your fingers ran right over to the emoticon shop and chose one that suits her the most. There it was, Loopy. It cost you a bit but hey, anything to make her smile right? You sent along with a message: welcome to Korea gift ㅋㅋ

[김아사🌸]

??? 

oh you don’t have to omg 

[준혁선베🥋]

but i wanted to, it’s cute too

 Asa then sent you an emoticon of Loopy. blushing and waving.

[김아사🌸]

you’re nice sunbae

this one looks like you ㅎㅎㅎ

 You’re nice…. I’m nice…. Cupid just shot you right in the heart with those words. You stopped for a few minutes. No thoughts, no words, just pure happiness in your system.

 You watched her chat bubble. “typing…” it came and went, came and went.

 You waited. 5 minutes passed.

 12:46AM - you went in to check her profile once again. Still nothing.

 Asa must had been sleeping already, leaving you with all these never-felt-before emotions.

 “this one looks like you ㅎㅎㅎ”

 Well, at least you two got to meet up tomorrow…

 You kept smiling, the sleeping lamp light’s glow felt weird tonight, in a good way… Maybe something in your life changed, for the better.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

So uh, yeah, my first piece, really hope you guys enjoy it - might be a few mistakes here and there but, please give me reviews/suggestions. Thank you very much ❤️❤️❤️. Big shout out to @stewpidcheescatarinabluu, @usedpidemo, @barnacles34, @erospandemos - who inspired me to get into writing. also, how do i get more interaction ㅠㅠㅠㅠ?

[skateboards-wheels]

HELLP i'd be so happy to i love talking about forsaken meta!!

so first off i'll get the easy stuff out of the way: chance and two time nonbinary. they - in this patch actually i think - got nonbinary pride skins!!

chance has also been regularly been referred to with he/they in discord patch and devlog notes, and here's the specific proof of them - and noob + 1x1 + 666 are queer:

^^ note the creative freedom mention i WILL bring it back up in a second.

for the specific any pronouns i could find. elliot is the only one i could find.

which is a small problem!! because there IS a screenshot, confirming that they use any pronouns, but i can't find it!! which is a problem!!

for some context: forsaken is a more recent game, having been out since christmas. it's only recently gotten a REALLY big following a few months ago, meaning there's a big demand for canon information. however, it's still a more recent phenomenon!! meaning, instead of being hosted on something like mirahaze, or wiki.gg; it's hosted on fandom wiki.

and it being on fandom wiki specifically is bad, frankly. it's an ad-ridden website that most, if not anyone, can edit anytime. this leads to vandalism on wiki pages way more often than most other wiki sites, both lighthearted in nature and actively malicous. I can confidently tell you that i have seen this screenshot, i've discussed it with a friend, and i know it's out there, but due to it not being on the wiki i cannot provide you with it. fandom wiki is a very good resource for getting the lore, don't get me wrong. it is a LOT more well-kept than most fandom-wikis i've seen in my time. but i really wish it had the professionalism and the accessibility that phighting and regretevator's mirahazes have. it is a FRONT PAGE GAME on roblox, and many people still don't know very important story information due to it being hosted on fandom.

however, i can in fact provide proof that he/they is used for other survivors!!! one of my main poitns in my original tags were that they used they/them along with the characters 'typical' pronouns to indicate neutrality/that you can use any pronouns for them.

"Previously infamous for their exploits, he had a change of heart after gaining a son," -007n7 bio

"Guest 1337 braces for impact, applying Resistance V (aka Invincibility) for 1s and has their movement speed reduced by 80% for 2s." -guest 1337's block ability

"After Elliot heals any player, except for other Elliots, they gain a charge for this ability." -elliot's rush hour ability

the most noticable of these he/they pronouns is dusekkar: they/them is used for dusekkar 3 times, which is two more times than the average survivor.

two time is used with they/them in their bio and abilities. and chance's abilities.... only use he/him for chance. meaning that most players, when getting into the fandom side, will ONLY know that chance uses he/him and not realize that chance is, in any way, nonbinary. DUSEKAR uses more they/he than the CANONICAL nonbinary character with those pronouns.

and this segways into a problem i have with forsaken: they need to make it more obvious that their characters are queer and can be interpreted as queer if its ambigous. this is a roblox game, yes, some people in your audience will NOT be open to viewing them like that. but it's your responsbilty to ward them away within your game. yes, the pride skins are appriciated, their bios are funny, but you need to be more OPEN about that.

most people i've corrected about the pronoun situation have been very kind and understanding. it's why the "im two time and my pronouns are they/them" is such a popular meme in the community. but there are going to be people who do not respond to other peopel correcting them as kindly. there are queer people who will be yelled at and degraded for simply correcting another player, and letting them know that there's queer people in the game they're playing.

forsaken is an indie game, yes, but it's also like??? bare minimum expectation??? for them to make something very important about a character more obvious??? chance is not a man he is a nonbinary person. they are not some "greedy money hungry MAN whos a WEASEL of a MAN" they are a nonbinary person!!!!! them being nonbinary talks about their personality a lot more than if they were a cis/ambigous man!!!!

same with two time: a lot of the same people who misgender two time, directly or not, also mischaracterize them. they are not a creepy guy, they are not operating on the pretenses of the "creepy male cult leader" sterotype, because they're NONBINARY. they're a queer person experiencing trauma, and that's something to consider when discussing their character.

^^ they are planning to add skins, presumably in the illusive noli update, but still. it's been nearly 7 months since the game's release, and yet the cast being queer-coded is still not public knowlege. i still see people suprised that 1x1 and noob are genderfluid and he/him them like crazy. and by proxy i do not see anyone putting two and two together about shedletsky being queercoded bc of his relation to 1x1, DAWG...

so uhm yeah. wwe are gaysaken

Hello everybody for tonight I bring you

He/They Guest 1337. thanks for coming to my TED talk

[madhels-enby-boyfriend]

I won’t say (I’m in love)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Madeline x Helen x reader x Helena x Elizabeth

Warnings: +18 MDNI, smut, use of strong language and I think that’s it but let me know if I missed something.

Tags: angst, fluff, smut, love confession, established friendship, established poly relationship (Madeline x Elizabeth x Helen x Helena), reader being in denial, everyone has taken the potion, everyone is a little (a lot) out of character, crack treated way too seriously, bottom!reader, first dates, mentions of only being used for sex in the past.

Summary: Viola, your best friend, has tasked you with keeping an eye on Helena Rubinstein, Elizabeth Arden, Madeline Ashton, and Helen Sharp, to make sure they don’t accidentally reveal her secret. This wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t keep flirting with you, you can’t stand the flirting.. really.. you hate it (or do you?). You managed to push down this anger, till these four decide to start flirting even more one evening, so you snap.

Notes: it’s finally here!! This took forever and was meant to be just something silly but then turned into this monster. This really is just the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written… this really is for me and like 3 other people who are into the same stuff as me. I do not speak Polish so if that term of endearment is wrong or makes no sense, my apologies. Anyway I hope you enjoy reading it 🫶🏻

Words: ~8.1K

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If a year ago someone had told you that you’d spend your days trying to deal with four extremely hot women flirting with you to cure their own boredom, you would have seen that as a fun way to spend your time… a year ago you was mistaken. The amount of times these women drove you insane was immeasurable, truly… at this point it had to be some sort of game to see who could drive you crazy the fastest. Never in your centuries long life had anyone been able to get under your skin like Madeline Ashton, Helen Sharp, Helena Rubinstein, or Elizabeth Arden could. 

You were supposed to be spending eternity doing absolutely nothing, being surrounded by the greatest minds and artists of the world. That was the promise Viola had made you when she had begged you to drink the potion about two centuries ago. She had claimed she couldn’t face eternity without her best friend, and so you had drank it, for her. She had promised you it would be fun, you and her hanging out for eternity, surrounded by the greatest people in this world.  And up until a year ago, it had been fun, sure not all of the greatest minds had accepted her offer, and the ones that did accept weren’t always to Viola’s taste… but it had been a great time nonetheless. Viola had shown you the world, showered you in luxury, and had shared secrets with you that only a select few had the privilege of knowing. 

And then it happened… the favour she needed… she had asked so sweetly and it had seemed like fun at the time. Keep an eye on four women, how difficult could it really be?

She had told you about Madeline and Helen and how, in their search to find easier ways to fix their bodies when they needed touch-ups, they had found out that Helena and Elizabeth had taken the potion too. In hopes of being aided by these legends, who were known for their make-up and creams, they had sought them out. And well… now the four of them had started living together and to put it bluntly… she didn’t trust those four to not accidentally reveal her well kept secret. 

So she had asked you to worm your way into their lives, and keep an eye on them, just for a little while, to make sure they wouldn’t put everyone in danger, and you, foolishly, had accepted. 

It hadn’t taken long for you to find out why they were now living together... they had formed a polycule of insanity. Madeline had explained how it happened to you once, not too long ago, while drunk. She had also explained that all four of them were dating each other but they were /not/ allowed to date anyone else. Then later with a wink had added that they would make an exception for you if you decided to join them. You had answered with an eye roll and a ‘thanks’. 

One (or all) of them flirting with you was nothing new, about two months into your mission they had started this little game, touches that lingered too long, compliments that were a little too sexual to be considered as friendly, jokes about you joining them… you weren’t stupid, you knew they were using you as some sort of game, a way to fix the boredom of having too much time. You had seen how possessive and jealous they got… maybe flirting with you was just some sort of foreplay. Still you had to admit it was having its effect on you… you couldn’t help it… you were a simple person, four gorgeous women flirted with you, you gay panicked and forgot how to function, it had seriously interfered with your ability to work. 

You tried to force yourself out of your own thoughts as you stood in front of their mansion’s front door, ringing the doorbell. They had invited you for dinner and a movie. Movie nights had become a ritual, every Saturday evening you’d spend the evening on their couch, watching 50’s movies and movies starring Madeline Ashton. However, the dinner before was new, which is why your heart was currently beating out of your chest, why you were taking a trip down memory lane, and why you started overthinking. 

Had they found out about you being sent by Viola? Were they about to interrogate you? Had their flirty behaviour around you caused a rift between them and were they about to tell you they didn’t want you in their life any more? That last thought horrified you… because you’d disappoint Viola, no other reason. You definitely didn’t like hanging out with them, you really hated that they flirted with you, you definitely hadn’t caught feelings for them, and the idea of no longer being surrounded by them definitely didn’t cause an ache in your chest.

The door opening snapped you out of your thoughts once more. You were greeted by an overly excited Madeline, which was never a good sign. She only got excited when some sort of mischief was involved, and she definitely wasn’t the one who usually opened the door, insisting on making an entrance, even in her own home. 

Before you could even get a word out she ushered you inside, guiding you to the dinner table with a hand around your waist, her hand getting dangerously close to your ass, while ranting about her day. This was new.. she wasn’t often this handsy with you. Soon you were greeted by everyone, Elizabeth kissed your cheek, instead of her usual polite smile, which you tried to brush off, but then Helena gently cupped your cheek as she told you how happy she was that you had accepted their invitation and Helen pulled you in for a hug while she told you how good you looked tonight. 

Now you were sure something was up, they rarely greeted you this warmly, this was how they’d usually greet their lovers… well this or with an actual kiss. Before you could begin to spiral, Helena began to talk about what was going to be served for dinner, her cook being the one responsible for tonight’s meal. Meanwhile Helen guided you to your seat at the table, pulling out your chair for you, something she usually only did for her lovers, before gently squeezing your shoulders as you sat down. Madeline and Elizabeth seemed to be discussing something but you couldn’t hear what was being said. 

You told yourself you were overreacting, this was just them playing their little game again, just a little more intensely. You getting flustered by this was definitely because you were getting annoyed with their antics and not at all because you liked being treated like you were a part of their polycule of madness. 

That’s what you told yourself throughout the entirety of dinner, when Madeline kept making inappropriate remarks about the use of your mouth, the food tasting good but you probably tasting better, and an unfortunate sound, that sounded a lot like a moan, leaving your lips when you tasted the food. And when Helen excitedly took your hand in her own, in a way she usually reserved for her partners, as she talked about how writing her book was going, should definitely be attributed to annoyance and not something else. 

The warmth that spread through you when Elizabeth insisted you would be a perfect model for her newest product, a privilege usually only Madeline or Helen got, or when Helena called you ‘aniołku’, which you later found out means angel, when polish terms of endearment had previously only been used on her lovers, was definitely irritation at this little game they insisted on playing, and not something else. 

Your mind was reeling and you were trying so hard to focus and act like normal and make conversation, but you barely managed to get your sentences out and you couldn’t manage to think of an appropriate topic to discuss with these four acting like this. 

By the time everyone had finished their dinner and was making their way to the couch, your heart was beating out of your chest, because of anger and gay panic of course, nothing else. 

You quickly made your way over to the couch, sitting on your usual spot, trying to calm down and gather your thoughts when Madeline suddenly strewed herself across your lap, something she usually only did to Helen. 

“Is this seat taken?”

Madeline’s voice was low and sultry, and the smirk plastered across her face only made your anger worse. Any chance at a coherent reply was thrown out the window when Helen leaned down to kiss Madeline, who was still placed in your lap, giving you a full view of her cleavage. You had tried to look away, out of respect, but you were only a mere sapphic, and her tits were right in your face. 

The blooming feeling in your chest that was all consuming and was leaving you all hot and bothered and that was definitely anger, became even more intense. Especially when you saw Madeline’s smirk grow in the corner of your eye. You felt yourself turn bright red, yet Elizabeth gave you no time to recover. Her teasing voice reached your ears, the words barely registering as you desperately tried to regain some of your composure. 

“Helen, my sweet, you’re going to give the poor darling a heart attack.” 

Helen, with a very proud smile plastered on her face, sat down next to Elizabeth. You tried to hold on to some shred of your dignity but before you could even try to calm down and stammer out an apology, Helena, who had sat down next to you, gently patted your cheek, a gesture usually only reserved for her partners. 

“Do not mind them, they are desperate for your attention.” 

Although her voice seemed more innocent and caring then the teasing tone Elizabeth had used, her face betrayed her. She was enjoying flustering you just as much as they were. That familiar feeling, the one that was definitely frustration and nothing else, had grown more intense with every action. It had become unbearable, your heart was pounding far too quickly and your mind was reeling, a million questions swarming your mind. 

What was happening? Were you overthinking these actions? Did they just mean nothing? Had you imagined the flirting? No… this was definitely different than usual, you were sure of it. But why were they acting differently? Why were they suddenly treating you like you were a part of their polycule of madness? 

Sure they had treated you like their personal little play thing for a year now, like you were the cure to the boredom that accompanied eternal life, without any regard to how you might feel. Which was angry…of course… you felt angry… because you didn’t like to be toyed with… not because you didn’t like them giving you hope that your feelings might be returned, while deep down you knew that this was nothing but a little game to them. 

But today… today they were torturing you even more than usual, giving you even more false hope, toying even more with your emotions… why? Did they know why you were here? Had they found out? Where they trying to torture it out of you? 

When Madeline opened her mouth once more, no doubt to make another very badly disguised vulgar remark, you snapped. The overwhelming intensity of the emotions becoming way too much to continue keeping it all inside. 

“Why?!! Why are you doing this?!! Do you want to hear me say it? Is that it?!” 

Your frustration was clear in your voice, your voice coming out hurried and way louder than usual. You clenched your fists when you heard the smug “yes” falling from Helena’s lips. Your rage only intensified when Madeline looked up at you with a triumphant smile, while excitedly nodding her head, that was still placed in your lap. You swore you could feel the anger coursing through your veins as Elizabeth looked at you expectantly with that satisfied smile on her face and the way Helen coyly smiled as she breathed out the “say it” didn’t help either. 

“Fine!! I work for Viola! I came here to spy on you and make sure you didn’t mess up.”

The rage and exasperation could be heard in your voice and was visible on your face. Their attempts at torturing it out of you had been successful and you could no longer bring yourself to care. 

You expected the air to fill with ‘I knew it’s, triumphant bragging and insults, instead the entire room went quiet and the atmosphere changed immediately. Your already racing heartbeat spiked even more as Mad shot up from your lap, her face clearly displaying her surprise, you swore you even saw some hurt in her eyes. You quickly looked at Elizabeth, whose entire posture had grown rigid, like she was putting her armor back on.. it was then that you realised you had taken the fact that she had taken it off at all for granted. Helena began angrily pacing the room, wearing the scowl that could make a grown man cower in fear.

So they hadn’t known…then what the hell had they wanted you to say earlier? Your confusion and shame only grew as you felt 4 pairs of eyes trained on you, their anger and hurt barely hidden.

“What have you been telling her?” 

Helen’s harsh voice echoed through the room and snapped you out of your mind. You gulped before quickly replying, while silently scolding yourself for the guilt that settled in your stomach. Why were you feeling bad for them? They had done nothing but frustrate you, you definitely had not grown attached to them and you definitely did not care about them. 

“Nothing! The last time I spoke to her was months ago and that was just to report that you’re being surprisingly careful and aren’t doing anything to be worried about!”

You blurted out the words, not taking a breath before you had gotten the sentences out. It was the truth, you had reported to Viola a while back, stating that although they were clearly crazy, they didn’t seem to be doing anything that could possibly expose Viola. Whether or not you actually believed that was a completely different story. 

“If that is true then why are you still here?”

This time it was Helena’s turn to speak, her accent thick, something that usually happened when her emotions overwhelmed her. Her voice sounded outright cruel, as if your mere presence offended her, the disbelief and distrust clear in her voice. 

An unfamiliar ache settled deep within you, along with the guilt and embarrassment you were currently feeling. Not only had you blown your own cover for no reason, but you had also clearly hurt and betrayed these four women and now they were staring at you as if you revealed you were the devil himself. They clearly no longer wanted you around and their anger towards you felt palpable. 

You gulped and asked yourself the same question Helena had asked mere seconds ago…why were you still here? Viola had told you you could come back months ago, trusting your opinion on them and not really seeing any reason for you to stay there any longer. However you had insisted you needed to stay longer, you hadn’t really given a reason, because you didn’t want to admit the real reason to yourself, and Viola hadn’t questioned you, she had just given you that knowing look… that look that said that she knew you better than you knew yourself… you had ignored it at the time. 

But the reason had become more difficult to ignore, just as it had become increasingly harder to keep convincing yourself that you didn’t care for their advances, that the only thing you felt when they had flirted was anger, that this entire night hadn’t made your feelings for them blatantly obvious, and that you hadn’t been secretly wishing you could be a part of their relationship in a meaningful way, not just as the person they flirted with when they were bored. 

You gulped as you pushed the feelings welling up inside of you down, this really wasn’t the time to spiral about your obvious feelings for these four women, not when they were currently looking at you with so much hatred in their eyes. 

Helena impatiently tapping her heel against the hard tiles reminded you of the question that still hung heavy in the air. But what could you say? You had only just accepted the truth… besides this didn’t exactly seem like the time to confess your feelings for them. Not only did they look like they were ready to strangle you but you knew for certain that they were unrequited. Sure if you’d admit to wanting a one-night stand they might have agreed to it before this mess, but they could never feel something meaningful towards you, no one ever could. You had learned that the hard way. After taking the potion, people had only ever seen you as one thing, a sex object, something to have fun with for a night and then discard like you weren’t a person with feelings. 

While you spiralled your mouth moved without your permission, the words spilling out of your mouth against your own will, you only registered what you were saying when your own words reached your ears. 

“Because for some fucked up reason I can’t seem to leave despite having absolutely no reason for staying.”

The terror, devastation and exasperation was clear in your voice. The hurt, denial, and care you had been carrying for a year lacing every word as you continued, unable to stop. 

“Because I… because somewhere down the line I… I started caring. I grew attached. I-”

Your voice stocked for a moment, you could feel their eyes on you while you fixed your gaze to the floor, as you knew what would be coming next. You couldn’t bear to look at them as the words tumbled out of your mouth. 

“I developed feelings… despite everything… despite knowing your flirting was nothing more than just a way to cure your boredom… I fell in love.” 

You cringed at your own admission. You had successfully locked your heart away for decades, had built walls around it that were so high that no one ever even tried to climb over them. And in a little over a year these four women had managed to break them down, their flirty remarks and teasing comments hacking away at them, brick by brick. By the time you had realised it they had already found the key and had somehow managed to gain access to your cold heart. 

Before you could spiral even more, you heard a dramatic gasp that undoubtedly had left Madeline’s mouth, yet you still couldn’t bring yourself to look at them and meet their eyes, to see that anger and hurt now mixed with some sort of pity, or worse… disgust. 

“You really think that lowly of us? You really believe we’d toy with your emotions just because we’re bored?”

Helen’s voice sounded so small and hurt, as if you had just added another layer to the previous betrayal. You forced yourself to look up at her. There was no pity nor disgust in those green eyes, only hurt and the last flicker of anger she had expressed earlier. 

You weren’t sure how to answer that question. You knew they could be cruel, you had witnessed some of their fights and they got ugly, but your belief that their flirting could never be serious had not been based on what you thought of them, it had been based on how you had been treated in the past, in being proven time and time again that people had only ever wanted you for one thing. 

Your gaze drifted from Helen to Elizabeth, who you had much more trouble reading at the moment, she had always been the best at keeping her mask on, at hiding her feelings. She had straightened her posture and was wearing a neutral expression, something she usually did when hurt or when overwhelmed with her emotions… but there was something different, something you couldn’t put your finger on. 

You gulped as you tried to find a way to respond, your words coming out clumsily as you tried your best to explain yourself while your heart hammered inside your chest, while you tried not to think too much about the fact that everyone seemed to ignore the pretty big confession you had just made. 

“No! No I don’t.. it’s just… I’ve seen how possessive you get and… I know I’m not the kind of person people keep around for anything other than…”

You cringed at your own words, you sounded pathetic and you were not even sure you were making any sense. You seriously considered leaving, you were only digging a bigger hole for yourself and at this point things only could get worse. 

Your eyes drifted to Madeline as she began to speak, a slight frown displayed on her face. She looked at you like she knew what was going on in your head, like she saw you, like she somehow understood what you were trying to say. 

“Oh baby, whoever made you feel that way was wrong.” 

Madeline took your hand in her own as she continued to speak. She was very rarely this serious and ready to talk about feelings, so you hung onto every word she said, as your heart hammered inside your chest.

“We weren’t just looking for a quick fuck… I mean maybe at first we were, but after really getting to know you, and after a lot of difficult and annoying conversations, we realised we all want more than that… that our feelings for you ran deeper than that.” 

Her words slowly began to sink in, the realisation that you had always assumed the worst instead of believing they were being honest began to dawn on you. You felt like a fool, Madeline’s touch being the only thing that kept you from acting on your urge to just bolt out the door and never return. 

“We planned on asking you to join us today…”

Elizabeth explained, her mask slipping slightly, yet she was clearly still guarded just in case something else went wrong, not that you blamed her for it with how this evening had played out. You weren’t the only one who seemed to notice because while Elizabeth had been speaking, Helena had wrapped her arm around her waist, her hand resting on her hip, something she usually did when her lovers needed some extra strength or support. 

Their increased flirting this evening suddenly made a lot more sense, the entire evening beginning to become a lot less confusing, although you still had one question. 

“What did you think I was going to say…? Before I admitted to working for Viola?”

You almost whispered the question, still horrified at the mess you had created, though part of you was a little glad it had let to you confessing your feelings now that the others seemed to return them. Maybe not as strongly as you… you were painfully aware no one had used the word love… but you could deal with that part later.

Helen timidly spoke up to answer your question. If she could still blush, she probably would be blushing right now. 

“We thought you were going to confess your feelings… you looked so flustered and nervous…”

You wished for a giant pit to open up beneath you and swallow you whole, the embarrassment becoming too much. Not only had it taken you ages to realise your own feelings, they had known, or at least assumed, you had feelings for them before you did. 

Before you could continue spiraling, Elizabeth’s earlier words suddenly fully hit you. They were going to ask you to join them. They wanted you to be part of their relationship. 

“Well you ended up being right.”

You chuckled awkwardly and groaned internally, today really could not have gone worse. You swallowed harshly, your gaze drifting to Helena as she began to speak. 

“So we are in love with you, you are in love with us…will you be our partner or not?”

She was clearly done with this whole mess and although her face didn’t display any of her nervousness, the tremble in her voice and her grip on Elizabeth’s waist tightening gave her away. 

Your heart skipped a beat when you heard the word she used, a giggle escaped your lips at her impatience, and a small smile made its way to your lips when you noticed just how nervous the other three had become when she used that word and asked the question, as if you hadn’t confessed your feelings minutes ago. 

“Yes, I would love nothing more.” 

You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this many emotions in such a short amount of time but the agony and stress had all been worth it to get to this moment. 

Your train of thought was cut off by Madeline launching herself forward and capturing your lips with her own. Once your brain caught up to what was happening you kissed her back passionately, her lips moving against yours quickly and hungrily, like she had been waiting to devour you and was now finally allowed to. She dropped your hand and moved both hands to your hips, pulling your body closer to hers.

Before you could even whine about Mad pulling back and letting go of you, Helen’s lips were on yours. Her kiss was much slower, like she was trying to savour every minute, her tongue darted out and swiped over your bottom lip, asking for entrance, which you eagerly granted. While her tongue explored your mouth her arms wrapped around your neck. 

When Helen pulled back you felt dizzy and you had trouble believing this was actually happening. You didn’t have the time to pinch yourself though because Helena gently grabbed your chin and without letting go of Elizabeth’s waist, pulled you in for a kiss. Hers was demanding and rough and left no argument about who was in charge, not that you minded, you were too far gone to properly think anyway. She bit your bottom lip, then smirked against your mouth when you yelped, the smirk staying there when she let go of your chin and pulled back. 

Your heart was racing and you tried to catch your breath as Elizabeth gently tucked some hair behind your ear before gently cupping your cheek with one hand, the other resting on your waist as she pulled you in. Her kiss was soft and gentle, yet the fire was still clearly there, barely hidden beneath the surface. It was still her who picked the pace, this was a softer kind of dominance, yet she was still the one in charge. This kiss was shorter than the others but still left you breathless and wondering if you had experienced what it was like to be in heaven.

Every single kiss had been different, yet they had all had one thing in common, you felt loved as they kissed you. They weren’t kissing you to get you into bed, though there was no doubt about their attraction towards you. They had simply kissed you because they had wanted to kiss you for months, because they loved you, because you were now theirs, not because they wanted to get off. 

The rest of the evening proved that, as it was spent cuddled up together on the couch, watching a movie Helen had picked out. And there were soft touches and kisses and teasing remarks, but not once had anyone tried to get in your panties. That night you went home with pink cheeks, ruined lipstick, and a warm feeling in your chest.

The next few weeks had been busy, after a couple of long and intense conversations about your time with Viola, about rebuilding trust, and about what was important and what was needed for everyone to feel happy and loved in this relationship, your girlfriends had decided that having one-on-one dates with you was a top priority. They were needed to make sure no one felt neglected, to make sure the different relationships were nurtured too, and to make sure your integration into their polycule wouldn’t be too overwhelming. 

You had to admit you had been slightly nervous, sure you had hung out with them one-on-one before, hell you had hung out with them in all possible combinations of insanity, but these would be your first real one-on-one dates with them and you really didn’t want to mess it up. 

Your first date was with Helen, she had picked you up at your place at 2 pm sharp, looking absolutely stunning in a dress that Madeline had clearly helped her pick out, you made a mental note to thank her later for the stunning view she had provided you with. Her smile when you complimented her had made your heart skip a beat and you had grown flustered when she had told you just how beautiful she thought you were. 

She had taken you to your favourite local bookshop, where you both walked hand in hand and searched for a book to start reading together. The silences were never awkward and before you realised it you’d spent hours perusing the store, hand in hand. When you broke the silences the topics were endless, she had talked about how her love for writing had come way later than her love for acting, in fact she had started writing when she realised just how shitty most of the scripts she read were. She had been convinced she could do a better job. You talked about your life before having met Viola and how you could barely remember what it had been like. Both of you had let out your inner theatre kid when the topic of musical theatre was brought up. 

Afterwards you went to her favourite coffee shop, where you once again lost track of time as you both shared parts of your lives you had previously kept hidden, little stories that had been stashed away to be forgotten about till now. It was then that you got to know a side of Helen you previously had only caught small glimpses of. What she was like before taking the potion, how she struggled with her mental health, and how she still couldn’t bear to think about her time in the health spa. 

The date had ended with Helen dropping you off at your place. She had walked you to your door, where she had gently and lovingly kissed you, a much more timid kiss than your previous ones. Your heart had fluttered and you had whispered a shy goodbye before walking inside and feeling like a teenager who had just gone on their first date ever. 

Helena was the next person to take you out on a two person date. She had told you to be at their place in the early evening, dressed in the fanciest thing you owned. When you arrived you had been greeted by Helena in a beautiful blue silk gown wearing more jewels than you had ever seen in your entire life. She had ushered you inside and into her bedroom, stating she had something to give you. 

When you opened the red velvet box, you were greeted by a beautiful (and clearly expensive) necklace. Before you could even protest and tell her this was too much, she was already taking it out of the box and putting it on you, simply stating that it was a necessity and that a stunning thing like you needed to be decorated with the finest of jewels. You had blushed furiously, kissed her passionately, and had spent the entire drive thanking her and telling her how much you loved it. 

She had reserved a table at her favourite fancy restaurant and had spent dinner regaling you with her favourite stories about her favourite artists. You almost knew them by heart at this point, Dalí painting her with his own moustache after being fed caviar in her bed, Picasso insulting her ears, the crush Tamara De Lempicka had had on her. You didn’t mind hearing them again though, you loved how animated she told them, and you didn’t miss the little sparkle in her eyes when she recounted the juicier details. 

After dinner she had taken you to her favourite opera and it had been the most wonderful experience, you couldn’t remember the last time you had been so touched by a piece. The drive home was spent discussing your favourite parts and after walking her to her door, she had kissed you goodnight with a kiss that reminded you a lot of your first kiss with her. It had left no doubt about who was in charge and had made you forget your own name. After parting she walked inside with smudged lipstick and a grin plastered across her face. 

The following date was with Elizabeth, who picked you up at your place in the late morning, looking as elegant as ever, though you didn’t miss the little changes in her usual make-up. She had put on a little extra blush, her eyeshadow contained the tiniest smidge of glitter, and she was wearing the lipstick she only wore on special occasions. The first thing she had said was a comment about your great taste when she noticed you had used her lipstick. That smug look on her face told you she was going to boast to Helena about this later. 

Elizabeth had decided to take you to her favourite art museum, excited to share everything she knew about her favourite paintings and sculptures. You listened to her ramble on about every little piece of information she could remember. She told you all about the stories and meanings behind certain decisions the artists made and then told you about the artists themselves and what she knew about them. Every once in a while she’d mention an artist you’d met so you’d tell her all about what they were like, what meeting them was like, and if they were really like the stories she’d heard. 

After you’d spend hours talking and walking around the museum, she’d taken you to lunch at one of the places she visited regularly. The staff knew her by name and knew her order by heart, which was a little intimidating. She had helped you pick out what to order while her hand rested on your thigh, it didn’t move till it was time to eat. The conversation flowed easily, she talked about her love for horses and what life was like on the farm, you talked about your time with Viola, how you had met her and how you’d become best friends. 

Afterwards she dropped you off at your home, and had walked you to your door, she had kissed your cheek before leaving, never really being one for PDA, even if it was right in front of your own door. She had, however, made sure to leave a lip shaped stain on your cheek, which you couldn’t bring yourself to wipe off for the rest of the afternoon. 

Madeline was the last to take you out on a one-on-one date. You had picked her up because you had seen how she drove and despite not being able to die, you’d rather not go through that experience again. So you had picked her up at 9 pm, stuttering a hello when she walked out in a stunning low-cut jumpsuit. She had pecked your lips before handing you a couple of blankets and a basket she told you to be very careful with. 

You did as instructed and drove you both to a quiet hill, with a beautiful view. You had helped your date out of the car and put down the blankets while she grabbed the basket from the trunk and carefully placed it down on the blankets. You had teased her, stating that you expected her to prefer the more expensive dates and she had responded in mock offense, stating that she was a woman of many tastes and could enjoy the simpler things in life. She had also admitted that there was supposed to be a meteor shower tonight and that she had always been a bit of a space nerd. Your heart fluttered when she had quietly added that she wanted to share this moment with you. 

She revealed the champagne and glasses she had brought with her and you spent the rest of the night drinking, listening to her passionately talk about stars and meteor showers, and laying next to one another, holding each other’s hand as you tried to connect the stars into the silliest possible shapes. The sky was filled with laughter and as Madeline looked at the meteor shower, you looked at her, your heart warming when you saw her eyes light up as she stared up at the sky in awe. 

By the time you had walked her to her door, the sun had already started rising again. She had kissed you lovingly and slowly, a stark contrast to the heated kisses you two usually shared. She had whispered a soft “thank you for the perfect night” against your lips before properly pulling back and walking inside. The smile that had stretched across your lips didn’t leave you, even as you crawled into bed and fell asleep as the rest of the world woke up. 

Outside of those one-on-one dates, you’d spent most of your time in their mansion, you were almost always surrounded by at least two of your girlfriends. Despite the dates and the many hours spent together, you still hadn’t had your first night together. It was clear they had taken your confession about only ever being used as a sex object seriously. It seemed that this was their way of trying to make sure they made you feel loved and valued as a valued part of their polycule.

And it had worked, you had felt more loved these past few weeks than you had in any other relationship, there was only one problem, it had been months now and they all looked so incredibly hot, and the kisses and light touches had left you hornier than you had ever felt before. Especially on days like this when they were all dressed in their comfortable clothes, which only made them look hotter, and were all touching you in some way. Lizzie’s hand was on your thigh, Mad’s head in your lap so you could play with her hair, Hel was holding onto your free hand, and Helena had been applying her own products on you, demanding you to take better care of your skin. 

You were trying your best to ignore the second heartbeat that had developed ever since they had put you in this position, but that was starting to get increasingly more difficult as Lizzie’s hand squeezed your thigh, while Mad let out soft satisfied moans when you played with her hair. Hel looking so incredibly good in her glasses, that she had put on to read one of her newest books, didn’t help either. 

When Helena finished putting her skincare routine on you, you thanked her with a kiss. It was gentle and rather innocent at first but you could feel the restraint she was practicing to not turn it into something more hungry, the slow calculated movements of her lips and the way her nails softly dug into your chin gave her away. You carefully wiped your tongue across her bottom lip, telling her she didn’t have to hold back. The kiss deepened instantly as she slid her tongue into your mouth. She immediately took charge, her tongue exploring your mouth as her own mouth swallowed any sounds that escaped your lips. 

When you pulled back you didn’t miss the way Helena’s pupils had dilated, the way Elizabeth’s grip had tightened on your thigh, or the way Helen was now staring at your lips. It slowly dawned on you that they too had been waiting and holding back for months now, and their desire was starting to make itself known. And by the way they were looking at you, you could tell that your own need wasn’t being hidden very well. 

Madeline sat up and placed herself in your lap once more, yours and Helen’s lap really were her favourite seats. 

“I deserve a kiss too.” 

It was a barely hidden demand, one you’d gladly comply with. You gently cupped her cheek and pulled her in for a kiss, your free hand landing on her waist. This kiss had a way more heated start than the last one, she moved her mouth against yours eagerly, letting every little noise escape past her lips, your own barely muffling them. Because of the way she was positioned in your lap, you could feel just how badly Mad wanted you, and it only turned you on even more. 

You pulled back panting and watched as the last pieces of their innocent façades slowly started to crumble, their want now being openly displayed on their features. That’s when it fully hit you just how badly they needed this too, so without thinking twice you voiced your desires.

“I need you… all of you.. so badly.. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Before you could even blush at your own words, Madeline had jumped up from your lap and grabbed your hand, leading you to the bedroom, Helen, Elizabeth, and Helena were right behind you. 

Your heart raced as you got pulled into the bedroom all four of them shared, your eyes immediately landed on the giant bed in the middle of the room. Before you could turn around to see if the others had followed, you felt someone wrap their arms around your waist. Helen’s perfume quickly enveloped you as she hugged you from behind. She whispered a question in your ear, her mouth right next to it. 

“Are you sure? We want to make sure you know how important you are to us…”

If there had still been a smidge of doubt in your mind before, it was now completely gone, the only things you felt were incredibly loved and horny. You let go of Mad’s hand, who made a displeased sound, and turned to meet Helen’s eyes.

“So show me.”

Your pupils were dilated and your entire body was vibrating with desire. You needed them and you needed them now. That all must have been clear from those three words because you watched as their last bit of restraint fully crumbled. Within seconds Helen’s lips were on yours, kissing you more passionately than she ever had, pushing her tongue into your mouth and stroking your tongue with hers. Elizabeth’s mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking and kissing any piece of skin that was available to her. Helena and Madeline made light work of each other’s clothes, their lips kissing the skin that was revealed to them. 

Moans and whines filled the air as they mixed and mingled, you pulled back when you felt Elizabeth tug at your t-shirt, you took a step back, making it easier for her to take it off. Mad, fully naked, lipstick stains littered across her body, helped get rid of the rest of your clothes, marking any spot she could reach as more and more clothes littered the floor. It didn’t take long before Helena made sure that Helen’s clothes joined the mix and you and Mad made sure to add Elizabeth’s outfit. 

Once everyone was completely naked and unsure of exactly whose marks were littered across their body, Helena led you to the bed and gently pushed you to sit down on it. Madeline sat down behind you and decided that it was her turn to mark your neck, leaving bite marks and hickeys in the spots Elizabeth had left uncovered. Her hands settled on your thighs and she gently yet firmly spread your legs. You were quickly flanked by Helen and Lizzie who had decided that your boobs had been neglected this entire time. Elizabeth peppered kisses across your boob, before circling your nipple with her tongue and then taking it in her mouth. Helen went with a rougher approach and left bite marks and hickeys all over boob. Helena kneeled down in between your legs and began to leave marks across your abdomen before starting her journey downwards, a smirk spreading across her lips. 

Your moans became louder as you became wetter and wetter, one of your hands settled in Helen’s hair while the other grabbed Madeline’s thigh. A whine escaped you when Helena ignored where you needed her most to add some colour to your thighs. Before you could complain Helen moved one of her hands to your dripping folds, and began to slowly circle your clit. Your moans were silenced by Elizabeth kissing you hungrily, her tongue exploring your mouth like she had been waiting to do this for forever. Madeline’s hand replaced Lizzie’s mouth on your boob. She massaged it roughly before her fingers began to circle and pinch your hardened nipple. 

Helen gave your collarbone the same treatment as she had given your boob previously while her fingers stopped their ministration on your clit and spread your folds. Within seconds you felt Helena’s tongue in between them, collecting the wetness that had gathered there before pushing her tongue inside you and exploring your cunt with it like she was starving and you were her favourite meal. 

Your nails dug into Madeline’s thigh, which earned you a whine, while you moaned against Elizabeth’s mouth, your head falling back against Madeline’s shoulder. This all felt so overwhelming in the best way possible. Madeline’s voice reached your ears as she showered you with praises, telling you how beautiful you looked like this, how good you were for letting them take charge, and how she couldn’t wait to hear more of those pretty sounds. 

You could feel yourself growing closer as your thighs began to shake, having to pull back to catch your breath as it grew more and more shallow. Elizabeth’s mouth moved to your shoulder, leaving hickeys all over it while Madeline continued praising you as she rolled your nipple between her fingers, while digging her nails into your thigh hard enough to leave marks, which caused a high-pitched whine to leave your lips. Helena curled her tongue and repeatedly hit that one spot that had you seeing stars. Helen kissed her way up to your ear and bit your earlobe, tugging at it softly. 

“Cum for us, sweetheart.”

Elizabeth mumbled against your shoulder while looking up at you. Those four little words sent you over the edge, your entire body tensed up as you drenched Helena’s chin and Helen’s fingers in cum, while you yelled out a string of curses. 

Your body went limp against Mad’s as you tried to catch your breath. You whined as Helena licked up every last bit of cum, that whine turned into a moan when you saw Helen suck her fingers clean and moan at your taste. Mad pulled you closer to her before Helena crawled back up and asked her if she wanted a taste too. Madeline eagerly agreed and Helena kissed her passionately, letting her taste you on her tongue. Madeline moaned loudly and once they had both pulled away whispered in your ear. 

“You taste delicious… when do you think you’ll be ready for round two?”

You blushed bright red, unable to come up with a coherent response, your entire body feeling like it was made out of jello, so you just let out a chuckle, while playfully rolling your eyes. 

Many hours and rounds later you found yourself cuddled up in between your girlfriends, your limbs all entangled in one another, you weren’t sure where you began and they ended, not that you minded. You had never felt this safe, loved and cared for before. 

That night was the first night you had ever truly made love, but it certainly wasn’t the last. Sure the five of you would have your ups and downs, it was never easy. These four were toxic and messy and knew how to hurt you like no one else, but you would gladly walk around with a couple of extra scars on your heart, if it meant that you finally got to love and be loved, finally got to feel again, after centuries of locking your heart away, even if that feeling was gut wrenching pain every now and again. It was all worth it to get to be a part of this polycule of madness.

[sherewrytes]

𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕜𝕖𝕟 ℙ𝕚𝕖𝕔𝕖𝕤, ℝ𝕪𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟 𝕊𝕦𝕜𝕦𝕟𝕒 21

↳ Sukuna x f! black reader

Summary: After the death of his grandfather, Sukuna Ryomen is left to shoulder the weight of his family, caring for his younger brothers, Yuuji and Choso. As he withdraws into grief, his relationship with Y/N, his girlfriend of a year, begins to crumble. When Y/N discovers the truth about his grandfather’s passing during a heated argument, it leads to a painful breakup. Now, both are navigating life apart, but Sukuna’s heart aches for Y/N. Determined to win her back, he must confront his pain and find a way to break through the walls he’s built. Can he rekindle their love, or is it too late?

contents: heavy angst, modern au, 18+, smut, dark romance, drug use, talks of depression and similar topics. (a lil )

fic warnings. ooc, profanity, mental health issues, toxic relationships, cheating, explicit smut, serious drug use, mentions of depression + more to be updated as story progresses.

Please read with proper discretion. this is a work of fiction. all characters are written to portray roles that are necessary to the plot and are in no way a reflection of their canon counterparts.

Taglist: @for-hearthand-home@clp-84@thelightknight21@favvkiki  @helightknight21@dylsw@ria-s-writes@sleepymothafterhours@sukunasstomachtongue@cosmic-lovr@imm0rtalbutterfly@kyo-kyo1 @choppersworlds-blog

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Chapter 21: Drowning in Silence

Hours later, I came to, Selene sprawled out next to me on the bed, her body curled into mine. My head was pounding, and my limbs felt heavy as I stretched and yawned.

Then came the loud, insistent knocking.

I frowned, glancing at the clock. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but the knocking didn’t let up. Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled to the door and opened it.

There she was. Y/N.

My chest tightened. 

Why is she here? 

The thought hit hard, my stomach twisting.

I stared at her, aware of how I must look—disheveled, hollow, hopeless.

I stood there, the weight of her gaze sinking into me like a blade. Y/N looked at me, her face a mix of anger, sadness, and something else I couldn’t quite place. Her eyes flicked over me, lingering on my disheveled hair, the bags under my eyes, and the faint remnants of last night still clinging to my skin.

"Why are you here?" I asked, my voice rough, laced with the aftermath of whatever poison I’d filled myself with hours ago.

She crossed her arms, standing her ground even as her expression softened for a brief second. "We need to talk, Sukuna."

I laughed bitterly, leaning against the doorframe. "You sure? Doesn’t seem like there’s much left to say between us."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is some game."

I rubbed a hand down my face, trying to shake off the haze. Behind me, I heard Selene stirring, the sound of her moving under the sheets unmistakable. Y/N’s eyes darted past me, catching the movement, and I watched her jaw tighten.

"You’ve got company," she said, her voice colder now.

Why come over now YN why?

I turned slightly, glancing back at Selene, who was walking towards me, hair messy, wearing nothing but one of my shirts. She grinned lazily, clearly unbothered by Y/N’s presence. "Who’s this?" Selene asked, her tone dripping with smug curiosity.

Just my fucking luck

I clenched my jaw, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me. "Doesn’t matter," I muttered, stepping outside and closing the door behind me before Y/N could say anything.

"You’re unbelievable," she said, shaking her head as she turned away from me slightly, as if looking at me for too long would hurt.

"You shouldn’t have come here," I said, my voice quieter this time. 

Fuck, I wish you were still mine?

"You and Toji... whatever it is you have now, go back to that. You don’t need to be here."

She turned back to me, her eyes blazing. "You think this is about me and Toji? Sukuna, I’m here because of you. Because I care, even after everything." Her voice cracked slightly, and she took a deep breath, steadying herself

Still care….she….still cares…..

I stared at her, unable to respond. The weight of her words sat heavy in the air between us, cutting through the numbness I’d been clinging to.

"You look like hell," she said softly, her voice losing its edge. "And I don’t know what it’s going to take for you to see it, but you’re killing yourself."

You think I don’t know that baby.

"Maybe I am," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Her face twisted in pain, and she reached out like she wanted to touch me but stopped herself. "Sukuna, please..."

Please don’t beg YN… It’s breaking me

Selene finally spoke up with  an amused smirk on her face. "You good out here, or should I go?"

Y/N’s eyes darted to her, then back to me, and for a moment, I saw something break in her. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her pace quick and determined.

"Y/N!" I called after her, but she didn’t stop.

I stood there, watching her leave, the ache in my chest growing with every step she took. Selene’s voice cut through the silence. "She doesn’t seem like much fun."

I turned to her, my expression cold. "Go home, Selene."

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Whatever," she muttered, disappearing back inside to grab her things.

When she left, I sat on the porch steps, staring at the empty street. The silence was suffocating now, and for the first time in a long while, I felt the full weight of my choices crushing down on me.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there, but the streetlights were buzzing faintly when I saw headlights flash across the driveway. Geto’s car pulled up first, followed by Gojo’s sleek ride. Just as I thought this night couldn’t get worse, Toji’s truck screeched to a halt behind them.

He was out of the truck before the engine had fully stopped, slamming the door and storming toward me with a fury I hadn’t seen in years.

Before I could even crack a joke, his hand grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me to my feet. “Back for more, lover boy?” I sneered, the bitterness rolling off my tongue.

Toji’s fist connected with my face before I even finished the sentence. The hit sent me stumbling back, but I caught myself on the porch railing, laughing through the sting. “What’s that for?” I wiped my lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. “Let me guess—didn’t expect Y/N to come see me, huh? What did she tell you, Zenin?”

“She didn’t have to tell me a damn thing!” Toji barked, stepping closer, his fists clenched. His chest heaved as he glared at me, his jaw tight. “I knew you’d pull some shit the moment she came here.”

I smirked, pushing myself off the railing. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

“Don’t test me, Sukuna.” His voice was low, dangerous, and filled with venom.

Geto stepped between us before Toji could swing again, placing a hand on Toji’s chest. “That’s enough,” he said firmly. “We’re not doing this here.”

Gojo leaned casually against the car, watching the scene unfold like it was some kind of soap opera. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, huh, Sukuna?” he drawled, a mocking grin tugging at his lips.

“Shut the fuck up, Satoru,” I spat, glaring at him before turning back to Toji. “So, what now? You came all this way to babysit me? Or are you just marking your territory?”

Toji’s eyes narrowed, but Geto’s grip on his shoulder tightened, holding him back. “Don’t give him the satisfaction,” Geto muttered.

“Satisfaction?” I barked out a laugh. “You think this is fun for me? Watching you play house with Y/N? You think I don’t know what this is?” I jabbed a finger toward Toji. “You’re not here for her. You’re here because you’re scared. Scared that no matter how much she tries to forget me, you’ll never be enough.”

SHUT UP SUKUNA SHUT UP

Toji lunged, but this time Geto shoved him back. “Enough!” Geto snapped, his usual calm demeanor cracking. “This isn’t helping anyone!”

Toji’s chest heaved as he stared at me, his eyes blazing with rage. “You’re pathetic, Sukuna,” he said through gritted teeth. “You don’t care about Y/N. You don’t even care about yourself.”

WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE KNOW HE DOSN’T KNOW MY LIFE

I chuckled darkly, shaking my head. “And yet here you are, worried about what I’m doing. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Walk away, Toji,” Geto said firmly. “He’s not worth it.”

Toji stared at me for a moment longer before finally stepping back, his shoulders tense. “You’re lucky,” he muttered, turning toward his truck. “Next time, you won’t be.”

I sank back onto the porch steps, my laughter fading into silence. Gojo approached, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and stared down at me. “You’re a mess, man,” he said simply.

“Yeah, well, messes don’t clean themselves,” I muttered, lighting up a cigarette.

Geto sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “One of these days, Sukuna, you’re going to push too far.”

“Maybe,” I said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “But not tonight.”

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the anger boiling up inside of me like a storm threatening to break loose. Toji pacing around my yard, like I was some kind of villain for Y/N’s pain, like I could control it, made me snap. I shoved the door open, the wood slamming against the wall with a sharp bang. I stood there, practically seething, my chest heaving.

"You think I wanted any of this?!" I shouted, my voice raw, tearing through the house. "You think I asked for this? You think I asked to break her heart?! You want me to admit it? Yeah, fine. I'm an addict. You want me to wear that like a fucking badge?!"

SHUT UP SUKUNA THEY DON’T CARE

I felt my fists clenching at my sides, but the words kept coming, fueled by all the shit I’d buried deep down inside. "You all wanna see me as this fuck-up, huh? The one who doesn’t care about anyone? Well, I’m here, aren’t I? Just waiting for you to kick me when I’m down, telling me how bad I fucked up."

THEY’RE NOT LISTENING SUKUNA SHUT UP!

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing now, a sharp pain slicing through my chest. “That old Sukuna? He’s dead. He died when Jin did.”

I could feel the tears threatening to break free, but I fought them back, my throat tightening as the truth spilled out of me like a flood. "You guys don’t know the half of it. After Jin died... my parents showed up. My father? He beat the shit out of me, blamed me for Jin’s death. And my mother? She stood there. She just... stood there and watched. 

SHUT UP SUKUNA STOP TALKING!

You think you know what it’s like? You don’t know a goddamn thing. You don’t know what it feels like to be abandoned by the people who are supposed to love you."

My voice cracked at the end, the bitterness turning into something darker, something more vulnerable. I hated feeling like this, hated letting them see how far gone I really was, but I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. "So go ahead. Tell me I’m a mess. I don’t care anymore. But don’t act like you know me. You don’t. None of you do."

I looked at them—Geto, Gojo, Toji—eyes wild, shoulders tense. The silence that followed felt like an eternity.

My breathing was erratic as I picked up anything in my path, throwing it across the room. Photos of my family, once cherished memories, shattered against the walls. The sound of glass breaking was almost cathartic, the pieces of my past scattering at my feet. I kept going, not caring about anything but the rage and pain surging through me.

I stopped and turned to them, my voice trembling with fury. "What the fuck are you guys staring at me for? You wanna do something? Stop me then!" I pointed at the broken remnants of my life scattered around me. "But you can't, can you? 'Cause deep down, you don't really know me. And the one... the one person who did—" I paused, the words choking me as I looked away. "The one person who really knew me is gone... and he's with the love of my life now."

I FEEL LIKE I CAN’T BREATHE

I sank to the floor, feeling the weight of my body and my mind. My hands were shaking, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t calm down. The anger, the guilt, the sorrow—all of it was too much. But I had to keep going. I needed them to hear me.

I dragged my hands through my hair and let out a frustrated sigh. "Did you know... the first time I ever did drugs, I was 13 years old?" I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "Jin caught me. Of course, he never told anyone. But sometimes, I wish he did. Maybe it would've changed things."

MAYBE IT WAS 11 I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and I closed my eyes, letting the weight of my confession settle. "I was just a fucking kid... a scared little kid trying to get away from everything."

I sat there for a moment, the quiet of the room pressing down on me. It was a struggle, but I needed them to know, needed someone to hear the truth.

The room felt colder with each word, each confession. My chest tightened as I let out the words I had buried for so long.

"I learned how to make lean off of hanging with the wrong crowd. They wouldn't give me any, so I made it at home." I laughed dryly, shaking my head. "The feeling was euphoric. For once, everything was calm. It wasn’t noisy, but the coming-down feeling? It made me sick."

I looked up at Toji, locking eyes with him. "Jin hid my secret for years, hoping I’d stop.

He knew I never did, but I made it through high school. Got into a great university. So don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. No one knows that better than I do."

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. "But it's like nothing ever changes. I keep losing control. I’m stuck in this shit, and no matter what I do, I can’t get out."

I paused, my mind racing, before I turned to Toji once more. "I can’t be friends with you anymore, man. It’s... it’s killing me, watching you with her. 

Watching you be happy with someone I—" I cut myself off, staring at the ground for a moment before continuing. "It’s too much. Yes, I’m selfish for saying that, but it’s just the truth. I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with it. With you."

I could feel the anger bubbling up again, but it was different this time. It wasn’t just anger at Toji; it was anger at myself. At everything I had done, at everything I had let slip through my fingers. But I couldn’t stop it now.

"So if you hate me for it, fine. I get it. But I can’t keep being the guy who just watches you walk away with her, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

I felt the weight of my own words crash down on me, each one heavier than the last. “I was never faithful to Y/N. I was more faithful to my vices than her,” I continued, the bitterness slipping into my voice. 

“But somehow, she saw who I really am and loved me for it. The more she loved me, the more I hated myself. I hated being an addict. I hated hiding from her, but she saw me anyway."

My laugh was hollow, almost mocking. "I feel like she always knew. Knew about the lies, the cheating, the addiction... but she chose to stay." I shook my head, trying to keep myself from breaking down again.

"You guys are worried about me during my self-destructive spiral, but the final nail in that coffin was when she left me."

I gestured around me, frustration lacing my every movement. “All this? This is just the aftermath. This is what’s left after everything I did to destroy us. I watched her walk away, and all I could think was, I deserve this."

I paced a few steps, feeling the rage simmer in me again, but it wasn’t just anger at her, at Toji, or even at myself anymore. It was everything.

"None of you get it. I didn’t just lose her. I lost myself a long time ago. And I’ve been trying to fill that void with anything I can." My voice broke slightly, but I refused to let it show.

“I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can.”

I turned back toward them, feeling the lump in my throat. "So yeah, I’m a fuck-up. I’ve fucked up more times than I can count. But don’t act like I don’t know. Don’t act like I don’t feel it, too."

The silence that followed was suffocating. I glared at them all, waiting for something—anything—to break the tension. My heart raced in my chest as I waited for one of them to speak, but they all just stood there, staring at me like I was some kind of alien.

So I raised my voice, pushing them harder. "So, what? You guys got nothing to say? You’re just gonna stand there? You’re always saying I can talk to you, well, I’m fucking talking! Answer me, man!"

SAY SOMETHING!  ANYTHING! PLEASE

Toji flinched at my outburst, his posture tightening, but he didn’t say anything. Geto's eyes shifted away, and Gojo—Gojo just stared, his expression unreadable.

“Answer me!” I barked, stepping closer. I could feel my fists clenching, the rage coursing through me like electricity. “All this shit you’ve been saying, all this ‘we’re here for you’—don’t just stand there and look at me like I’m the problem. I’m talking to you! I need to hear it, man.”

FUCKING ANSWER ME! SHOW ME I’M JUST USELESS LIKE EVERYONE THINKS

Gojo shifted, his jaw tightening, and I could see he was about to say something, but the words didn’t come. They were all just frozen, stuck in some kind of limbo between caring and not knowing how to help me. It pissed me off more than anything.

The silence around me felt suffocating, but I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out, the weight of them pressing harder than ever. My voice was quieter now, barely more than a whisper, but the pain in it was raw.

I SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID ANYTHING

"I'm done here, man," I said, voice trembling. "This is why I kept everything to myself. You don’t get it. You think I’m just a fuck-up? No, you don’t understand why I am the way I am. Did you know I was the last person Jin texted?

He told me I should lay off the drugs, be better. That’s the last message I got from him. And you know where I was? Right in my room, high out of my mind."

I paused, looking up at them, but the room was still silent. No one said a word. It didn’t matter what I wanted to hear anymore.

 I was beyond that. I rolled another joint mechanically, my hands shaking slightly as I lit it. I took a long drag, hoping the smoke would settle my mind, calm the storm brewing inside me.

But as I exhaled, the tears came. They burned my eyes, dripping down my face, and I couldn’t stop them.

Everything I was trying to hide, everything I was running from... it all hit me at once. I coughed violently, the smoke doing nothing but amplifying the hurt.

And in that moment, I didn’t care if they saw me fall apart. I didn’t care about the pride anymore. I just needed to feel something—anything—other than this numb emptiness.

The silence in the room pressed against me, heavy and thick, but Choso's voice broke through, asking the question I couldn't answer. "So why didn’t you talk to us, bro?"

I didn’t respond at first. I just kept smoking, my hands trembling as I fought to keep the tears at bay. Every breath felt heavier than the last, and the weight of my past—my mistakes, my pain—was suffocating. I wiped my face, ignoring his question, not because I didn’t want to answer, but because I didn’t know how to put into words everything that had broken me.

I couldn’t look at any of them. Not yet. I took another drag from the joint, my throat raw from the coughing. It felt like I was trying to choke down my own thoughts, but they kept coming, too fast and too violent. The truth was leaking out whether I wanted it to or not.

"You guys wanna know why my parents left?" I said finally, my voice cracking as I forced myself to speak through the weight of it all. "It was because of me. They said it every time they called. 

Every damn time. I overheard Grandpa arguing with them on the phone, saying that boy, our oldest, has a problem. We shouldn't have had him. I heard every word. Felt every blow my dad would hit me with when I was around."

I stood there for a moment, the pain swirling inside me, clawing at my chest, making it hard to breathe. "I raised my voice, but they fucked up their lives, and I’m the one to blame. Me."

The words left me with a bitter taste in my mouth, the guilt sinking deeper into my bones. I laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. "I don’t know why it wasn’t me instead of Jin that night. Why he had to go? Why I wasn’t the one to die."

The weight of it all crushed me again, and this time, I let the tears fall. There was no stopping them.

I could feel the air in the room shift, the weight of silence pressing down on me as I spoke. My voice cracked, but I pushed through. “You guys don’t think I know Yuuji’s failing at school now? That I don’t see it? I know I’m the reason.”

I looked between Choso and Toji, my hands trembling slightly. “You think, ‘cause I’m a fucking addict, I don’t care? That it doesn’t eat me alive every single day?” My laugh was bitter, sharp, the kind that left a bad taste in your mouth. “But that’s exactly why, when I came out, I never offered to take him back. I knew I couldn’t. He needs more than I can give him. Hell, so do you, Choso.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I didn’t want to hear their voices, whether it was pity, anger, or anything in between.

I couldn’t stomach it. The tightness in my chest grew unbearable as I turned and walked away, leaving them behind in the living room.

I made it to my room, the walls closing in on me like they always did. My hands fumbled with the drawer, pulling out an envelope that had haunted me for months.

The edges were worn from how many times I’d held it, opened it, thought about what to do with it.

When I walked back out, Choso was still standing there, his face unreadable. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I thrust the envelope into his hand, my fingers lingering for a moment before I let go.

“That’s money Grandpa left for us,” I said, my voice rough and uneven. “It’s everything he saved. I want you and Yuuji to have it. There’s more in the bank. Everything’s under our names—yours and mine. There’s a letter in there too.”

I swallowed hard, forcing the next words out. “You can take it to the lawyer and remove my name if you want. It’s yours now. For you and Yuuji. It’s more than enough to take care of both of you.”

I glanced at the floor, my fists clenching as I tried to keep my voice steady. “And when I’m gone... make sure you take care of the house. It meant a lot to Grandpa. It’s all we have left of him.”

The weight of the envelope in Choso’s hand felt heavier than anything I’d ever carried. I couldn’t bear to look at him, to see the hurt or confusion—or worse, the anger—I knew was written all over his face. My chest tightened, every breath like dragging in broken glass.

The silence between us stretched, thick and unbearable. My legs felt like they might give out, but I stayed standing, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Choso shoved it back at me, I stared down at the envelope in my hand, his voice tight, frustration and hurt bleeding into every word. “What do you mean, when you’re gone, Sukuna?”

I forced a smile, the corner of my mouth twitching upward, but it wasn’t warm—it was hollow, empty. “You think with the way I’ve been living, I’m gonna last long, bro?” My voice was steady, but it carried the kind of resignation that made the room colder. I gestured to myself, letting my arms fall limply at my sides. “Look at me. Really look. I’ve been on borrowed time for years.”

His jaw tightened, and his hand came up again, shoving the envelope into my chest like he was trying to push the thought of losing me out of his head. “That’s enough,”

he snapped, his voice wavering with emotion. “I don’t wanna hear it. You’re not leaving, man. We need you. I need you... Yuuji...” His voice broke for a moment, and he shook his head before continuing. “He’s not coping well. You know he was always attached to you more than anyone.”

The mention of Yuuji made something twist painfully in my chest. I let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in my throat as I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Yeah... he’s way too much like Jin in that way.”

My voice softened, the words almost choking me. “Jin was the one who always tried to keep me in line, always tried to make sure I didn’t fall off the edge.”

I swallowed hard, the knot of guilt tightening in my throat. “And Yuuji... he’s the same. Always reaching out, always needing me.”

I clenched my jaw, my hands trembling as I stared at the ground. “And it kills me because I can’t be what he needs. I couldn’t be what Jin needed. I’m just... not enough.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, as I tried to steady my breathing. My mind replayed memories of Jin, of Yuuji, of all the times they looked at me like I was someone worth saving. And every time, I’d let them down.

Choso’s face went pale, his eyes widening as my words sank in. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear him. The room felt like it was tilting, the walls closing in, my body betraying me with every passing second.

“Call an ambulance,” I whispered, my voice so faint I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me.

My chest felt tight, like the air was being pulled from my lungs. I could feel everything slipping away—the rush of the drugs taking me too far this time, dragging me into a place I couldn’t claw my way out of.

My knees buckled, and before I could catch myself, my body crumpled to the floor.

My limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive, as I tried to move. The cold tiles beneath me bit into my skin, but even that sensation began to fade.

As I stared up at the dim ceiling, my thoughts blurred together in a chaotic mess.

 How did no one notice? How was I slipping away right in front of them, and yet, no one saw the signs?

The edges of my vision darkened, and Choso’s panicked face swam in and out of focus above me. His voice was frantic, calling my name, shouting for help, but it was like I was underwater. The sound came to me in distorted waves, too muffled to grasp.

My body felt distant, like it wasn’t mine anymore. The pounding of my heart slowed, each beat echoing in my ears until it became an irregular, fading rhythm.

I wanted to say something, to tell Choso I was sorry, to tell him not to blame himself, but the words wouldn’t come.

And then, there was silence.

Not the kind that brings peace, but the kind that swallows you whole.

The world around me vanished, and all I could feel was the weight of regret pulling me under.

Author's note: Part one is finally over... if yall wanna be tagged in part two when it drops let me know. Drop a comment... Part 2 maybe lighter....or not lol

Snippet from

Chapter 1 Part 2:

At some point, I saw Gojo’s eyes tear up. It wasn’t something you ever expected to see from him, but even he couldn’t hide it. He didn’t say a word, just let the pages fall from his hands and walked away, the weight of the journals in his expression.

We were all broken in different ways, trying to hold on to something. To a person. To an idea of who Sukuna was, or who we wanted him to be. But in the end, all we had was the reality of what we found.

[cercess]

Hello! I was wondering if you write for anaxa? if you do, i have req: what if he spots reader peacefully asleep in a sunny spot during the late afternoon? do you think he'd come up and join them? if you dont, sorry, feel free to delete (っ °Д °;)っ

❥ Hi anon, thank you so much for the request. I do write for Anaxa, and pretty much every adult hsr character! This idea is so cute and I hope you enjoy what I came up with.

❥Tags: Fluff

❥Rating: General

❥Word Count: 364

❥Divider Credit: X

Failure is said to be the greatest contributor to progress, but after a long series of setbacks, Anaxa finds such platitudes to be irritating. He spent days in his lab, looking over endless alchemical formulas for some hint as to what he was doing wrong. The answer to his questions remain out of reach, a fact that enrages him. Good questions yield good results, and he prides himself on his ability to inquire thoughtfully. Clearly, he’s failing to meet his usual standards.

He decides he needs a new perspective. His back aches as he rises from his chair, and his joints breathe a collective sigh of relief as they are freed from their stagnant cage. As usual, he ignores the whispers of students whilst traversing The Grove; right now, there’s only one person whose opinion matters.

The walk to your quarters is second nature to Anaxa. He has perfected the route to reach you as quickly and efficiently as possible. Finding fresh perspectives is not typically his go-to means of problem-solving, but you’re different from the close-minded scholars that infest The Grove like vermin. Perhaps his motivations are not entirely fuelled by finding answers, either. After days of not seeing you, a familiar feeling builds in Anaxa’s chest. He’ll never admit it, but he misses you.

Your home is small; typical of The Grove’s scholars. When he opens the door, Anaxa can see the whole of your little world. The large window that acts as the focal point of the space is currently obscured by your frame. It’s not uncommon for Anaxa to find you dozing in the window-seat at this time of day, and it seems your habitual naps have postponed his quest for answers. Surprisingly, he feels no anger or disappointment. He approaches you carefully, as not to disturb your rest.

Peace is not something Anaxa typically seeks; he has dedicated his life to the relentless and rigorous pursuit of knowledge. But, seeing the serene look on your face, he begins to contemplate the benefits of allowing oneself a break. He settles on the other end of the window-seat and allows his eyes to flutter closed for the first time in days.

[baldieboi]

That's a good thing, do what you enjoy. I also find myself sucked in with many things work (negative), story brainstorming (positive), occasionally drawing (positive).

I feel like the Primarchs just couldn't imagine having their Mother one day passing and they didn't understand the importance of spending time with her while they have the chance. Unfortunately, this is something many learn too late even in real life.

The Mother's death is exactly what you said. Passed peacefully in death. I didn't want to cause more pain to the Primarchs (I swear it feels so wrong making them sad, no matter they are fictional characters, the feeling remains). And there's something poetic in passing peacefully. They were offered peace by the Mother and in death she had peace as well.

I gotta say, originally I had a... quite different story idea. Mother passing remains the same as it is here but, and here comes the part that's different, it was not the reader passing.

The Emperor chose another to be the Mother/High Consort (for political and symbolic reasons, so he can show himself as more of a humane figure for the masses) and that's who the reader was to be. Here, the reader would have need to ease the Primarchs grief, to earn their trust so they see the reader more than someone who wants to replace their precious mother. The story would have ended up with them accepting the reader and while they never would have seen the reader the same as the first Mother... it would have been still a nice, perhaps angsty-wholesome story. At least according to the original plans.

But... frankly, I can't. I can't find it in myself to write this, not just because of having a job takes away almost all my free time... but simply because I can't.

This version is already sad enough and I am not sure I could manage writing the Primarchs slowly overcoming the grief and accepting the loss.

But who knows? Maybe one day I will reconsider. Or not. Time will tell.

I haven't considered the tagging being possibly interpreted in the wrong way by anyone but actually it makes a lot of sense. Just because I don't think of the wrong thing... who is to say nobody else does? It's pretty common with me. I think of the most normal (perhaps most innocent) things and people are absolutely not. I had some very uncomfortable and sometimes hilarious misunderstandings with it.

Thanks for for bringing this to my attention. I will edit the tags (but from what I have seen people didn't misunderstand, is that a good sign? anyway, I will change the tags)

The warhammer x reader part can remain, right? I will keep it as that in itself shouldn't be under the same problematic possible misinterpretation like the primarch x reader tag.

When I will write and post the next part (I plan to make it have exactly 3 parts, no more, no less) I will post it with this in mind.

Mother

Part 1

You died. To the Primarchs you were like a mother. They came to say their last goodbyes to you. Angst.

@ghrgrsfdesfrfg @w-40-k

Lion El'Jonson

The Lion knelt besides you with perfect knightly grace, his head bowed in respect. His hands, those weapons of war, trembled as he reached out to touch your folded fingers.

"Mother" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I came as soon as I could. I know... I know I'm too late but I had to tell you."

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

"I brought you something. A flower from Caliban, from the grove where you said you wanted to walk someday. I know it's just a simple thing but you always said the simplest gifts carried the most love."

He placed the white bloom in your other hand, his fingers lingering on yours.

"I was your knight, Mother. I was supposed to protect you, to come when you called. I was too far away, fighting battles that don't matter now. Forgive me. Please forgive your failed knight."

A single tear fell onto your joined hands.

"I love you, Mother. I should have said it more. I should have said it every day."

Fulgrim

Fulgrim approached with a canvas in his hands, his features streaked with tears he made no attempt to hide.

"I finished it" he said, holding up the painting, your portrait, now complete despite the scar his chisel had left which fell from his hands when he heard the news of your death. "I know it's not perfect but you always said my imperfections made my art more beautiful."

He set the painting where you could see it... if you could still see.

"You were my muse, Mother. Every beautiful thing I ever created was because I was trying to capture even a fraction of the beauty I saw in you. Not just your face, though you were lovely, but your soul. The way you saw wonder in everything."

His voice broke.

"I wanted to paint you forever. I wanted to spend eternity trying to show the galaxy what real beauty looked like. But I can't... I can't paint you anymore. How do I create beauty in a world that doesn't have you in it?"

He touched your cheek with infinite gentleness.

"Thank you for teaching me that love was the greatest art of all. I'll try to remember that even when the world feels ugly without you."

Perturabo

Perturabo stood besides you with his hands full of blueprints, dozens of them, architectural plans that represented years of work.

"I brought you the designs" he said, his voice rough with emotion. "All of them. The gardens you wanted to see, the palaces I designed with rooms full of light, the cities where children could play safely in the streets."

He spread them out around you, a paper ocean of dreams made manifest.

"You were the only one who understood what I was trying to build. Everyone else saw weapons and fortifications but you... you saw homes. You saw beauty. You saw the future I was trying to create."

His massive hands clenched into fists.

"I wanted to build you a garden, Mother. A place where you could walk among growing things and know that they were protected by walls that would never fall. I wanted to give you peace made manifest in stone and steel."

He knelt besides you, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I don't know how to build without you to build for. What's the point of creating something beautiful if the most beautiful thing in the galaxy is gone?"

He pressed his forehead to your hand.

"I love you, Mother. You made me feel like an architect instead of just a destroyer. Thank you for seeing the dreams in my blueprints."

Jaghatai Khan

The Khan came to your side with wind-tousled hair and dust on his boots as if he had ridden hard to reach you.

"I'm sorry I'm late" he said, sinking to one knee beside hs you. "I was riding when the news came and I... I couldn't stop. I rode for three days straight, hoping that if I was fast enough I could somehow outrun this reality."

He took your hand in both of his.

"You understood why I had to ride, didn't you? You never asked me to stay, never tried to cage me like the others did. You knew that the hunt was part of who I was and you loved me anyway."

His voice grew thick with emotion.

"But I should have stayed more often. I should have sat with you in the gardens and let you braid flowers in my hair. I should have told you about the sunsets I saw on distant worlds, should have brought you stories from the wind roads."

He lifted your hand to his cheek.

"You were my anchor, Mother. The fixed point that let me range so far because I always knew I could return. Now I'm lost in a way I've never been before and I don't know how to find my way home."

He took a shuddering breath.

"Ride with me in spirit, Mother. When I race across distant worlds be the wind at my back. That's how I'll carry you with me, in the freedom you gave me to be who I was meant to be."

Leman Russ

Russ approached with something clutched in his massive fist. When he opened it, it revealed a small carved wolf, no bigger than his thumb, crude but heartfelt.

"I made this for you" he said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. "I know it's not much. I'm not... I'm not good with the gentle things like Fulgrim or Vulkan. But I wanted you to have something."

He placed the tiny wolf in your palm, closing your fingers around it.

"You were the only one who wasn't afraid of me, Mother. When I was young and the wolf was strong, when I could barely control the beast in my blood, you would run your fingers through my hair and tell me stories until I was calm again."

His voice broke.

"You called me your wolf-son and you meant it as a loving thing. Not as something to be ashamed of but as something precious. You made me feel like the wolf and the man could exist together, that I didn't have to choose."

He rested his forehead against the edge of your bier.

"I howled for you, Mother. All the way from Fenris to Terra, I howled. And for the first time in my life the howl felt empty because you weren't there to answer."

His tears fell freely now.

"Pack bonds are forever, Mother. Death doesn't break them. You'll always be part of my pack, the heart of it. I love you. My pack loves you. Forever."