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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped��quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

#the pitt #dr robby #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #noah wyle #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #smut #slowburn

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rawrfrferrari · 11 days ago

Note

Charles leclerc x girlfriend reader at Lorenzo and Charlotte's wedding smau

Best Man, Better Boyfriend | CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x girlfriend!Reader

Genre: SMAU, Fluff, angst

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

yourusername

Liked by charlotte2304, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername My best girl is getting married to her best boy 💍 Lolo, my sunshine soul, you deserve every ounce of the magic coming your way. Enzo, thank you for loving her like we all dreamed someone would.

tagged : charlotte2304, lorenzotl

view all comments

charlotte2304 I love you so so much, y/nn ❤️

→ yourusername ❤️ u Lolo.

lorenzotl I’m the lucky one 💛 Thank you for this post and for always being by her side.

→ yourusername Enzo 🥺🫶🏽

pascale_leclerc Welcome to the family, ma douce Lottie and Y/n, you're as much family as Charlotte is 🤍✨

→ yourusername Love you, Mama Leclerc 🫶🏽

julia.tolotta So happy to finally have a sister @/charlotte2304. Love you too y/n❤️

→ yourusername ❤️

jasminsprengel My heart is so full! Congrats @/charlotte2304, @/lorenzotl, so happy for you both 🥰

charles_leclerc Most memorable day ❤️

→ yourusername Can I keep Leo?

→ charles_leclerc you can keep anything you want.

yoursisterusername SO HAPPY FOR THEM 😭💍

arthur_leclerc Finally! I was starting to lose hope in Enzo's planning skills 😂

→ yourusername Surprised that you kept the plans a secret. Couldn't be more proud of you 🥺

username1 Now let’s talk bridesmaid dresses 😌

→ yourusername Hell yeah!!

CHARLES'S POV

BOUTIQUE IN MONACO

The small boutique smelled like cedarwood as Y/n walked in with Charles and rest of the wedding party to select from the outfits the bride and groom has chosen fitting the theme.

Y/N stepped out of the fitting room, smoothing down the soft satin of her bridesmaid dress. She chose a blush pink dress that complimented her the best.

Charles looked up from his seat, gaze flickering up and freezing mid-motion. All the other groomsmen were trying out their tux but he wanted to wait for Y/n to choose her dress and match his tie with her.

“You’re staring,” she said, folding her arms, but her voice held no real edge.

Charles blinked like he’d just been smacked out of a trance. “I’m not staring. I'm observing...”

“Right,” Y/N said, drawing out the word. “Because you’re a fashion expert now?”

He stood up then, walking over and making a point to circle her slowly like he was analyzing F1 telemetry. “No. But I know when something fits right.” His voice dropped just slightly, fingers ghosting near her waist, never quite touching. “And that dress fits you right.”

Y/N’s breath caught. Just for a second. “You’ve never said that to anyone else in the wedding party,” she said carefully.

“I’ve never meant it about anyone else in the wedding party.”

She looked at him trying hard to control not to blush. “What about you?” she asked, stepping back. “Got your tux picked?” She awkwardly diverted the topic.

He held up a swatch book, grinning. “My tux fits right. the only thing left to select is my tie.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled, flipping through the swatches like she hadn’t already decided an hour ago. “You should match with Arthur.”

“Since we'll be walking down together I think I should match my tie with you,” Charles said, amused.

“You love doing this don't you”

“Yeah,” he said, too soft. Too quick. “I do.”

They both froze. Y/N swallowed. “I meant making the wedding look perfect.”

“Yeah,” Charles echoed, gaze unreadable. “Me too.” She turned away first, pretending to thoughtfully advise other bridesmaids hairstyles on their dresses.

Y/N'S POV

yourusername

CHARLES' HOME, MONACO

The paper bag crinkled loudly as Y/N set it down on Charles’s coffee table, the aroma of green curry and fried rice filling the room like a hug in spice form.

Leo was already circling her ankles, like she'd give him food as well. "You already ate,” Y/N picked him up, laughing as she scratched behind his ears. “You menace.”

“Wonder where he gets that from,” Charles said, appearing from the kitchen with two wine glasses in hand.

“I’m ignoring that,” she said, accepting the bottle anyway.

They sat cross-legged on the couch, digging into the food with quiet satisfaction. It was their fourth date.

Leo eventually settled between them, head on Y/N’s thigh like he’d picked a side. She absentmindedly stroked his fur while stealing the last spring roll.

“You like him more than me,” Charles sighed.

“He doesn’t overthink where to place his elbows when we eat,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. And then, his arm brushed against hers on the cushion. He didn’t pull away this time.

“So,” he started, too casually. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, chewing slowly. “About?”

Charles shifted a little, clearly trying to act cooler than he felt. “The Monaco Grand Prix. It’s in a couple of weeks.”

“I know,” she said, watching him. “I've never missed the home races.”

He laughed, then shook his head, suddenly serious in that open, vulnerable way that always caught her off guard. “ I want you to come as my girlfriend.”

Y/N blinked. Her heart flipped. “You sure?” she asked, voice lower now. “That’s… public.”

Charles nodded. “I’m sure. My whole family is supposed to be there, that includes you.”

She looked at him, then down at Leo, then back at him. “Can I wear red?”

“You’d better.” She leaned back against the couch, smiling into her wine.

Charles smiled wide, boyish, unmistakably relieved. Leo barked once like a stamp of approval before promptly crawling into Y/N’s lap, who kept her wine away and kissed his head.

leclercsupremacy

liked by gridgossip11, wagsofficialtea and others

leclercsupremacy The Leclercs, Charlotte, and Y/N attended Monaco GP race day. Did Charles and Y/N just made it official with the post race kiss?

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f1editsdaily I stalked her, She's already in the family since Lorenzo started dating Charlotte, Pascale and Arthur's comments in her posts are wholesome

lecfosi16 lowkey bold of her to debut at Monaco of all places

itslecrec the way Arthur was carrying her bag???

username1 she’s literally just another influencer 🥱 nextttt

→ leclercsupremacy She's a software engineer and is currently regional development head for Monaco in Google. So, no, not another influencer...

sharles16stan My Roman Empire is Charles looking at her like she’s his whole world.

leclercsangel not y’all mad because he likes a woman with a personality 😭

username2 girl… he held her face when he kissed her. that’s not casual.

wifeofcl Kissing after a P2? Chill. It’s not even a win.

formulababygirl Not the Monaco prince getting his princess moment 😭

f1noir_1 We get it. She’s dating Charles. Can we get back to the actual racing now?

CHARLES' HOME, MONACO

The apartment was too quiet when Charles and Y/n went in after the celebratory dinner. Charles had been dull the whole dinner.

Y/N watched Charles dropping on the couch from the doorway for a moment before she stepped in, gently taking Leo off leash. He sprinted in the room to his toys, as Y/N nudged.

His hands were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone pale. She didn’t speak but moved to sit beside him.

“I had it,” he said after a long time, voice so soft it barely existed. “We had it. And they—”

His jaw clenched. “fucked everything up!”

Y/N swallowed. “P2 is still—”

“It’s not enough.” His voice cracked then. “Not for this. Not for everything I’ve put into this. Not for him.”

For Charles it was not just about the race. It was about his father.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I’m doing everything I can. I train like a machine. I say the right things. I show up. I fight. And it never feels like it’s enough. I’m not winning. I’m not—” He broke off, shaking his head like the words betrayed him. “I’m not making him proud.”

Y/N reached for his hand, unfolding his fingers one by one until his palm was open in hers.

“Cha,” she whispered, her voice tight, “he’s already proud of you.”

He didn’t look up. “He saw the boy who raced in karting with fire in his eyes and dreams too big for his chest. He saw the boy who got up every time it hurt, who never lost that fight. He saw all of it and he was proud then. Imagine what he’d feel now. Not just of the driver you’ve become, but the man.”

His breath hitched. Y/N kept going, voice steady despite the lump forming in her throat. “Your father isn’t proud of trophies. He’s proud of his boy.”

Charles turned to her slowly, eyes glassy and aching. “Your whole family is very proud of you, mon amor. We love you so much. Even on days like this when you don’t believe in yourself, we believe enough for all of us. You don’t have to earn our pride, Charles. You already have it.”

Tears slipped down his cheek silently, and she caught them with her fingers like they were something sacred.

“I’m tired,” he whispered. “I just… I wanted it so badly. For him. For me.”

“I know, baby” she said, pulling him into her arms, letting him fold into her chest like something crumpling under the weight. “And you will get it. I don’t know when. But I do know that you haven’t failed him. You’ve made him proud a thousand times over. And no fuck-ups can ever take that away.”

They sat like that for a long time. And in the quiet, just above the sound of his breathing against her shoulder, she whispered into his hair “Your dream isn’t over, Cha. And he’s still with you. All of us are."

Maybe that didn’t fix everything. But it was enough for tonight.

yourusername & charlotte2304

liked by charles_leclerc, jasminsprengel and others

yourusername Woman of the hour 🤍✨ @/charlotte2304

view all comments

lorenzotl Mon amour 🤍

→ charlotte2304 ma chérie

lorenzotl Thank you for making her feel so loved, Y/N.

→ yourusername 🤍

username1 Team bride !💖

pascale_leclerc so elegant and full of love 💐 truly beautiful, just like you both 🤍

→ yourusername thank you for raising the sweetest fam ❤️

→ charlotte2304 love you, maman 🥹

charlotte2304 still not over this day. not even a little bit. thank you for making everything feel like me. you are the best human I know, Y/nn.

→ yourusername You deserve the best, Lolo 🥺🤍

charles_leclerc Leclerc's best girls ❤️

→ yourusername baby ❤️

julia.tolotta she’s glowinggggg 🕊️💍

username2 The most prettiest bride to be 🤍

username3 The perfect weekend 😍🙌

arthur_leclerc belles-sœurs 🥺🤍

→ yourusername arty 🫶🏽

jasminsprengel 💕💕💕💕💕💕

HOTEL HERMITAGE, MONTE-CARLO

Y/N and the other bridesmaids arrived with Charlotte and took their places next to the groomsmen.

Charles offered Y/N his arm, already waiting just behind the florals framing the start of the aisle. He looked unfairly good in the fitted tux and a soft pink tie that matched her dress exactly. She hadn’t known he’d pick it. But of course he had.

“Ready?” he asked softly, eyes flicking down to hers.

The wedding planner motioned them forward, but for one second, it felt like the world held still.

He held out his arm again, a little more formally this time, and she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

And then they walked down the white petal-strewn aisle, through golden sunlight and hushed gasps, through camera shutters and the scent of blooming jasmine.

Her dress shimmered with every step. His presence was steady beside her, the warmth of his skin brushing hers at the elbow, grounding her.

When they reached the end of the aisle and split to their respective places beside the altar, Charles lingered a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let her go.

Charlotte stepped into view at the top of the aisle, everything else blurred. Y/N’s breath caught.

She tried to hold it together. She really did. But as Charlotte’s eyes met hers something inside Y/N cracked wide open.

Tears slipped down her cheeks silently. From the overwhelming wave of love and pride and that strange kind of ache that only comes when you realise someone you adore is stepping into the most beautiful phase of their life.

yourusername

liked by charlotte2304, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername The most magical ‘I do’ I’ve ever witnessed 🕊️💍

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charlotte2304 My maid of honor, my soulmate in glitter and crisis.

→ yourusername Amour 🤍

charles_leclerc We walked the aisle too, no? 😉

→ yourusername Shush 🤭

lorenzotl You’re family, always. Thank you for everything, truly. Couldn’t imagine the day without you.

→ yourusername Beau-frère 🤍

yoursisterusername So wholesome 🥺

username2 Still recovering from the speech. Truly beautiful ❤️

→ yourusername Thank you ☺️

jasminsprengel YOU WERE STUNNING!

username3 MoH of the century award goes to you.

arthur_leclerc Speech game: strong. Cry game: stronger.

→ yourusername 💪🏼

username4 Now we need yours and Charles' wedding ❤️

username5 Oh my god these pictures are sooo pretty🥺

TWO YEARS LATER

yourusername

liked by arthur_leclerc, charles_leclerc and others

yourusername La Familia ❤️

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charles_leclerc Mon Cherie❤️

→ yourusername mon amour ❤️

charlotte2304 Best Auntie

→ yourusername Best niece 💕

username1 🧿

arthur_leclerc pic credit???

→ yourusername @/charles_leclerc

→ arthur_leclerc 😭

username2 That golden hour glow is criminal

pascale_leclerc My sweet girl 🌸

→ yourusername Mama Bear, ILY 💗

yoursisterusername Baby content, dog content, couple content… overachiever.

→ yourusername Go study for our finals 🙂

username3 Gorgeous ✨️

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc 16 #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fluff #f1 smau #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #Charles Leclerc fluff #charles leclerc smau #f1 imagine #arthur leclerc #Charles Leclerc x girlfriend #Charles Leclerc x girlfriend reader

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bluesidesposts · 1 month ago

Text

Oh Icemav fic where ice is insanely attracted to mav but mav thinks ice still hates his guts. So maybe it's like the first navy ball they are both attending and mav is wearing a full tux for the first time-

Ice sees him across the room and freezes mid step, slider colliding with him. Slider looks up about to say something when he sees mav, sees ice looking and mav and thinks ohh boy ....and here ice is having full in mental breakdown over how hot mav looks, we want to tear those clothes right off, maybe he get down on his knees or oh no he might even be happy just looking at him. And in his breakdown he doesn't see mav making his way over to them-

Mav: oh god it's so hot in this tux, I am ever wearing againg

Ice (without thinking): you are hot in the tux, you should let me get you out of them.

Mav: :0

Ice: :0

Slider: wheezing

#icemav #pete maverick mitchell #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #bradley rooster bradshaw #tom iceman kazansky

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keeryhours · 4 months ago

Text

Masterlist

Eddie with a plus size girlfriend, who is obsessed with seeing you naked, who buries his face in your tits or between your plush thighs and could stay there all day. Who slaps your ass hard as he fucks you from behind, watching the jiggle of your ass and thighs.

Who loves you in short skirts, or crop tops that show off your tummy. Who convinces you to wear that bikini to the pool even though you’re nervous, “Because you look soooo hot in it babe, please let me show you off.”

Eddie, who asks you to prom even though he swore for his entire high school career that it was stupid and he’d never go. Yet there he was, throwing rocks at your window at midnight, guitar slung around his neck and shoulder as he played your song. Then, his honey voice calling up to you, “Will you go to prom with me, princess?”

Eddie, who insists he wants to go dress shopping with you. Who says he wants to see you trying on all those different dresses, seeing the way each one accentuates your body and shows off his favorite parts (which is all of you, to be fair).

When you try on The Dress, you both know immediately. It’s perfect. It’s black and off the shoulders, a flowing, glittering skirt with a slit that goes up to your mid thigh. The bodice has sheer panels that show just the slightest tease of your skin. Eddie wants to rip it off right then and there.

In fact, he follows you back to the dressing room, unzips it for you and bends you over in front of the mirror. You watch as he makes quick work of his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, aching and rock hard since he saw you in the first dress. He pushes inside of your already soaked pussy, long arm reaching around you to cover your mouth as you let out a whimper.

He pumps into you from behind, hips snapping against your perfect ass with a slapping noise he tries his best to keep quiet with shallow thrusts. He can watch every part of your body in the mirror, from your gorgeous bouncing tits to your fucked out facial expression. He digs his free hand into your hip, and you can’t help but stare at the intense look on his face in the mirror as he fucks you.

He cums fast, the hot as fuck view combined with the thrill of fucking in public proving too much for him to last. He grunts as he fills you up, and your eyes roll back as you feel the warmth of him deep inside.

When he pulls out he helps you get dressed back in your own clothes. He kisses you deeply - “I promise princess, I’m gonna make you cum over and over again when we get home.” You like the sound of that, but honestly didn’t mind that he was the only one who finished with your quickie. You like making him feel good. But of course, he makes good on his promise.

Prom night rolls around, and Eddie picks you up in a limo he saved up for months to rent. When you nearly cry telling him he didn’t have to do all that for you, he shakes his head like it’s total nonsense. “Nothing’s too good for my princess.” You never thought you’d see the day that Eddie Munson went all out for prom.

All eyes are on you when you walk in together. Jaws drop at the sight of the metalhead wearing a suit with his hair neatly combed and pulled back, a boutonnière matching your dress pinned to his chest.

Eddie dances with you all night long. The music isn’t his thing and you know this, but Eddie doesn’t complain once. He actually seems like he’s having a great time.

He’s having an even better time when he pulls you off to the bathrooms, locking you in as he hikes your dress up to your waist, lifting you to sit on the sinks. He drops to his knees and buries his face in your pussy, not caring about your loud, breathless moans as he makes you cum on his tongue. Then he’s undoing his own pants, and you think there may be nothing hotter than Eddie fucking you in a tux.

“Oh my god, baby,” he moans against your neck as he ruts into you, his pace fast and desperate. “You feel so good. Christ, you feel so fucking good, so tight and wet. My perfect girl has a perfect little pussy, doesn’t she?”

When he cums, he’s not quiet. He moans your name, pumping you full of rope after rope of his hot load. His hands grip your hips so hard they tremble. When he finally composes himself, you help each other fix your appearances, hoping no one would notice.

You feel the proof of how good you made him feel dripping down your thighs the rest of the night.

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bbokicidal · 10 months ago

Text

Marriage? Marriage. | Hyung Line! SKZ [OT8]

Genre : Fluff Warnings : None Pairing : Hyung Line SKZ x Fem!Reader

Notes : Ever wondered what your wedding would be like with SKZ? How they would propose? What their tux/outfit would look like? Your ring? The venue? Well I've got it all right here! (Completely w/ photo references!)

Other Notes : This is just how i picture things going down/looking. If you disagree or have other opinions, that's totally fine! But please don't go in the comments complaining it isn't how you pictured it. If you don't like it, scroll past. Thank you!

Chris

The Proposal : You'd be absolutely WRONG if you thought Chris would propose to you anywhere but Australia. He's going to plan a trip home, bring you along, and get you on the beach with his family (that includes the boys) so they can all be there for it. He'll get on one knee while you're taking pictures near the water in a sweet sundress that matched the color of his button up, give you the most heart wrenching, tear jerking, cheek blushing, romantic speak through his giggles - and then ask you to marry him while offering you the most beautiful diamond ring you'd ever seen in your life.

The Venue : Although he doesn't drink (often), Chris finds that vineyards are some of the most beautiful places he's seen for wedding venues. The wine is provided - any flavor you can think of - and the area of the ceremony is just out back by an archway covered in vines and floral scenery. The pond just behind the building is perfect for a background - and during the exchanging of vows, people coo at both your shared words with each other and the pair of swans floating along behind you.

First Look : Chris doesn't want to do a first look before the ceremony, so you wait to take pictures until that is done. But when he sees you round the corner to come down the aisle? Oh, he's red in the neck and bawling by the time you reach him - of course he's laughing through it, sniffling and laughing even more when someone reaches over his shoulder to dab his pink cheeks with a tissue - already prepared for his tears.

His Best Man : Felix - of course.

Minho

The Proposal : He goes all out - as out as he can, bringing you to Jeju Island on a vacation and doing it in the solitude of your own company. He wants it to be just you two, announcing it to the others when Jeongin notices the ring as soon as you walk into the room. The proposal goes smoothly, with him bringing you to a nicer - definitely fancy - dinner and then laying the velvet box on the table for you to open yourself. You're flabbergasted, he's a smiley, blushy mess - and now, you're both engaged.

The Venue : Minho lets you pick out the venue, which ends up being a relatively fancy building that.... is definitely older. The pillars are massive, the ceiling is high - painted with murals of angels and relics. He helps with the decorative ideas however, deciding with you that a deep and rich red should be the primary color theme with flowers and small details like pearls, beads, and banners. And it's a good idea, for sure.

First Look : He's all smiles when he sees you for the first time in your dress. Just before the ceremony and about to do photos, he turns around to find you standing behind him and immediately places his hands on your waist to tell you just how beautiful you look. He has to take it all in however, making others laugh by the way he keeps pausing mid sentence to visibly look you up and down in awe.

His Best Man : Chris - His only hyung.

Changbin

The Proposal : It's softer, sweeter - and it happens in the comfort of your own bed. With the news of a bun in the oven being revealed to the world just two weeks ago, Changbin decides that since you're both taking such a large step into having a family... then why not - you know - make it officially a family? Together forever, and all that. He whispers it to you in the early morning hours, a soft "We should get married." only to be met with a shy grin from you as you ask if he's serious. And he most certainly is.

The Venue : Taking up most of the responsibilities in funding the wedding, finding the venue, decor, food, etc. -- Changbin picks out an outdoor venue where the two of you won't get too warm and there will be plenty of space for lots of guests; Your family, his family, his friends, your friends - he wants them all there to witness the moment. There's a few buildings like a bunkhouse with a wedding suite and guest rooms for the wedding party, a building for the reception and food - and the ceremony will be outside with a large archway that he can dip and kiss you under until you're out of breath.

First Look : Changbin is aaaaaall giggles when he sees you for the first time, covering his mouth before yelling out, "yah! this is my wife?? this?? how did i bag this? look at this!" Constantly hyping you up, telling you how gorgeous you are in your ear, having you sit in his lap for pictures - Man is coooooocky, and has every right to be when you look that good.

His Best Man : Hyunjin. (Man's got both his husband & wife on either side of him.)

Hyunjin

The Proposal : So, so romantic. At an art gallery - where he had, somehow, had a piece of his art displayed. That was the reason for visiting the gallery, he said, but the real reason was so that he could propose to you in the soft silence of the building and somewhere both of you truly cherished. Felix was there, too, mostly to take photos. But also to witness his best friend bagging the most beautiful girl in the world.

The Venue : Deciding together, you both agree on a smaller venue where your families can enjoy the ceremony - and then a larger venue just down the stress where the reception and food can be held. The venue for the ceremony is quaint, with dressing rooms for the bridesmaids and groomsmen, and a larger room where you'll be wedded. The reception ceremony - well, it's big enough for all of the group to bust down some moves (and maybe some choreo from their performances.)

First Look : Hyunjin also waits until the ceremony to get his first look at you, but when he does - he nearly falls to his knees at the sight. He's in shambles, turning away for a second to gather himself before putting on a polite smile and taking your hand when you reach him. He'll be sure to lean down and tell you how gorgeous you look, however, whispering out that he's never seen anyone so beautiful in his life - and he looks in the mirror every day, so.

His Best Man : Changbin.

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagine #bangchan x reader #hyunjin x reader #changbin x reader #lee know x reader #skz scenario #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagine

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writingsonsaturn · 1 year ago

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fake dating with tim bradford?

r needs a date to a family members wedding and she wants to go with a friend and tim is more than willing. unrequited love and maybe a little smut??

you're someone better - tim bradford

{ masterlist }

🪐: omg 2 fics in one day?? anyways this is nastyyy smut lmfao enjoy!

word count: 2.2k

content warning: minors DNI, smut, oral (fem rec), fingering, talk of emotionally abusive parents?? if i missed anything lmk!

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Your head bobbed with stress, your sister's wedding was this weekend and you still hadn't been able to find a date willing to accompany you. You had thought it would be easy, the moment you mentioned there would be an open bar you imagined people would be more than willing, but alas you had been wrong.

“Hey, L/n! You almost finished with the case file?” your friend and coworker Tim Bradford asked, “yeah it's finished” you replied with a sigh. “Then what are you stressin’ over?” He sat in front of your desk with a comforting smile, “my sister's wedding is this Saturday and I need a date, but havent got one yet.” you let out an exasperated sigh.

Your mother has been on your case lately about getting your life ‘in order’. Constantly being compared to your sister was exhausting, you were never fast enough to catch up to your sister's achievements, and none of your own were good enough. “I’ll go with you” Tim interrupted your self-deprecating thoughts, “oh god Tim, you don't have to.” you tried to deflect but Tim insisted “hey, come on it'll be fun! And your mom already knows me so it'll be more believable if i'm your date then some random dude you met on tinder.” You smiled at his kindness.

You packed up your stuff, dropping your case file onto Greys desk. “Alright, well you can’t back out now. Saturday, suit and tie, four o’ clock.” you stated, pointing your finger at him. He smiled “wouldn't miss seeing you in a fancy dress for the world!” he shouted at you with a laugh.

Tim had always been your secret little work crush, he was kind to you and always had been. You both had a similar upbringing, and you bonded over that aspect. You had transferred into the precinct after moving from Orange County, you had decided you needed a new start and the LAPD had an opening for a detective and you decided to take the opportunity.

Your mother was less than pleased that you would be moving an hour away, but you were desperate to get out of her grasp.

When you left the station your cheeks were red, and flushed. A big smile was present on your face at the image of Tim being your date to your sister’s wedding. Besides the fact he was insanely good looking, he was also just a sweet and gentle guy. Which was the complete opposite of your sister’s soon-to-be husband, and you finally felt as if you were one step ahead of your sister for the first time in your life.

On Saturday morning, you got up earlier than usual to start getting ready. Your stomach had been twisted with butterflies all morning, your dress was a navy blue fitted dress with a slit that went to your mid thigh and had a square neck. The dress flattered every aspect of your body, your hair was done in a half up half down style with a slight wave, and your shoes were black heels with securing straps going up your calf and tying just under your knee.

The sound of your heartbeat quickened as the numbers on the clock counted up towards the time you had given Tim, as if the direct moment the clock struck four there was a knock on your front door.

Walking to the front door felt like it was taking forever, every millisecond it took you to walk to the door made your body fill with that much more anxiety. You opened the door to see Tim standing in a nice black tuxedo and a bowtie, “Oh wow, you know i’ve never seen you in a tux before but i think i like it” you snorted, walking out and closing the door to lock it. “Y/n you look-” Tim seemed flabbergasted, looking you up and down “you look absolutely beautiful” he finished his compliment.

You blushed at his comment whispering a silent “thank you” before you both walked to the car, Tim opened the passenger side door for you. He ran around the backside of the car to get into the driver's side, “are you ready?” he asked with a small hint of reassurement. “Yeah! Let’s get this party started.” your voice was flat and lacked enthusiasm causing Tim to let out a hushed laugh.

The venue wasn’t far, but the high tension in the car made the journey feel like an eternity. Tim barely looked at you and his knuckles were bright white with the grip he had on the steering wheel, you weren’t sure what was wrong, and you were scared to find out. You wondered if it was possibly because of the current case he was working, you knew he was put on the task of finding the drug lord and breaking into his circle but he hadn’t told you much about it.

You had simply just let it be, not wanting anything to cause your sister’s night to be ruined. Looking to your right you watch the trees pass, you become further and further away from the city.

The wedding had gone as good as expected, your sister was giddy and excited to finally solidify her man as her husband. Tim had to hand you a tissue after your sister said her vows, although the two of you had hardships she was still your big sister and you were more than happy for her.

“Fancy seeing you here Tim, I didn’t think y/n was going to show up with anyone. Let alone someone as handsome as you.” your mother remarked, causing your mood to dampen. Tim’s arm went around your waist, pulling you towards his body, “Actually, I wanted to be here. I'm surprised I got a chance with such a great woman” Tim’s stern face glared at your mother’s as he told her off, politely.

You hid your small smile, as your mother left with an annoyed look.

“Your mom is just ridiculous,” Tim laughed.

“Oh god, I know! I'm so sorry” you said with embarrassment.

You and Tim talked on your way up to the reception hall, the conversation flowed naturally.

For a second, and only just a second, you allowed yourself to imagine Tim as your lover, the ease that came with talking to him made him feel like a breath of fresh air. Your heart deflated when the false reality you had encapsulated yourself in for a second was interrupted by your sister coming up to you, “y/n your seats are over there next to mom’s table, please just try and be nice to her, don't ruin this night for me.” your sister spoke loudly, you just nodded and walked over to the table while Tim got you two drinks.

Sitting alone was awful, your mom had free reign to talk to you without another person around, and you had no way of defending yourself without her causing a scene. “I don’t know your game y/n, but Tim is too good for you. He deserves a nice, well rounded woman. Don’t force him into a relationship with you, because you and I know damn well you aren’t good enough for him. Don’t be selfish.” your mother finished, before going back to her table to fake kindness to the others.

Tim had noticed your shift in mood and he knew why, as he waited for the drinks to be poured for the two of you he watched your mother come over. He saw the way you shrunk into yourself and your eyes glossed over, he never liked your mom, everytime she would come into the station he noticed how you immediately changed your demeanor. The way your smile would falter and your back would straighten, he hated it.

He brought the drinks over to your shared table, “Here's the drink, sorry it took so long, i'm starting to think people just came for the free alcohol” Tim tried to cheer you up with a shitty joke. You smiled only to appease him but he knew you better than you thought, “actually could you come with me to the bathroom? I don't want to get lost in this place, I think it's haunted." This time Tim’s joke landed and caused a giggle to come out of you, “Yeah, I'll protect you from the big scary ghosts'' you joked, getting up from your seat to accompany Tim on his travels.

“The men’s bathroom is just on the ri-” you were cut off by the sudden pressing of Tim’s lips to yours, you immediately kissed back with vigor. He pushed your back up against the wall, As much as you wanted this all you could hear were your mom’s word circle through your head “Tim.. I- we can’t” you tried catching your breath.

“Why y/n? Is this because you don’t want it or because your mom told you, you shouldn’t?” he questioned with a stoic face, eager to get his lips back on yours.

“You deserve someone better than me, Tim”

“You are someone better, y/n” his desperate voice needed you to understand what he was telling you.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face, trying to determine your body language. “Yes” you said quietly, afraid that this was all some cruel joke. With that he continued to kiss you, pushing you into the bathroom.

You felt his warm hands roaming your body, “do you know how long i've wanted this? How long i've wanted to feel your breathing against my skin?” Tim questioned, his lips traveling down your neck softly. You wondered if this had been some kind of sick mind trick that was being stowed upon you in your dreams, but the euphoric touches couldn't be made up.

Your head lolled back against the door as Tim’s hot breath traveled further down your body, your dress preventing him seeing everything he wanted.

You whined at the loss of contact before you noticed where he had gone, opening your eyes, you looking down to see Tim getting his knees in front of you. “Oh fuck me.” you breathed out, Tim laughed at your reaction “I would like to, but im not gonna fuck you for the first time in a venue bathroom.”

The feeling of his lip’s returned to your skin, kissing agonizingly slow up your legs. He became increasingly closer to where you needed him most, your soaked core was pulsing for him, his soft eyes looked up at you smiling, allowing his hand to travel up your dress.

“No panties? Dirty girl.” he taunted your lack of clothing, you on the other hand didn’t wear underwear because you didn't want a visible panty line, but you were fine with this too. More than fine actually.

His fingers teased your wet slit, “where do you want me?” his crisp voice asks. Your breathing hitched at the feeling of his fingers still toying with your hole, “do you want me here?” he traced your throbbing clit, “or here?” he slid his finger towards your hole.

You were finally able to pull yourself out of the feeling to talk, “I want your mouth and your fingers everywhere” you whined. He decided not to torture you any longer, finally putting his head between your thighs and having his long awaited feast. You nearly doubled over at the feeling of his tongue against your hot cunt, you had dreamed of this moment hundreds of time’s when you were alone in your bedroom.

You gripped tightly at his gelled hair, “oh fuck, Tim” you moaned trying your best to keep your voice down, but you were failing, with how good Tim’s tongue felt against you, you wouldnt care if the whole world heard you moaning his name.

He continued his abuse to your clit while simultaneously circling your dripping heat, “is all of this for me?” Tim pretended to not know the answer, he wanted to hear you say it. “All for you Tim, always all for you” you didn’t realize what you had just admitted but Tim hadn’t cared to mock you for it as it only inflated his ego. “You should’ve told me sooner, could have started taking care of you a lot sooner, pretty girl.” he spoke against you before returning to suck at you bundle of nerves.

When he determined you were ready enough, he sunk a digit into your tight cunt. You moaned louder than you had intended, “i- im gonna come” your shaking voice exclaimed.

Tim only laughed, “Already, baby? Are you that deprived?” he said in a faux concern, groaning against you when you pulled on his hair again. He thrusted his fingers in and out of you, the coil in your stomach continuing to build and tighten before it finally bursted.

He slowed down his pumping, helping you ride through your orgasm. You were breathing heavily as he got up, he held you closely in his arms doing his best to keep you upright.

“Woah, baby, relax, i've got you” he whispered in your ear and carried you over to the sink, cleaning your mess up. “I don't think I can walk.” you joked, Tim stood between your legs rubbing your thighs soothingly. “It’s okay, i'm in no rush to get back out there believe me” he laughed and tried bringing you back down from the high you were still caught in.

“You wanna ditch?” you smirked with droopy eyes, “they won't miss me”

“Yeah let’s go, need to get home so i can fuck you right”

#reader insert #the rookie #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford x you #tim bradford smut #tim bradford x fem!reader

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rootedinrevisions · 5 months ago

Text

Worth More than Gold

SUMMARY: Glen Powell has asked you, his long-time friend and secret crush to be his date to the Golden Globes. The evening is filled with glitz, glamour, and the intoxicating spark of possibilities - both on the red carpet and behind the scene. And at the end of the day Glen may not have won the Golden Globe, but he just might have won something better—you.

A/N: Glen's look at the Golden Globes did things to me and gave me so many ideas. This will probably be the last fic I do for the GG and I'm going to try to get back on track with my WIPs and Requests.

As always I'd love to hear what you guys think! I love seeing your comments and reblogs! I seriously smile and get all giddy like a little kid when I get a notification from you guys so please let me know what I think.

WORD COUNT: 10.8k

TAGS: In Comments.

The hotel room was a whirlwind of chaos, a perfect reflection of Glen’s pre-event energy. The plush carpet was littered with tissue paper from a last-minute gift delivery, a shoe box sat abandoned near the bed, and the sleek black tie Glen had decided to forego tonight was somehow draped over a lampshade.

Glen himself was in the middle of the room, pacing in socks and dress pants, his phone pressed to his ear. “Listen, I’m just saying, Texas football isn’t a sport—it’s a religion,” he declared, his Texas drawl warming the edges of his words. “And if the Longhorns take the game against Ohio State this week, we’re coming for that national title.”

He paused, evidently listening to the journalist on the other end of the call, then grinned as he gestured animatedly with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know you want to talk about the nomination. But did you see last weekend’s game? That last play in the second overtime?”

Across the room, you sat curled on the couch, scrolling through your phone but only half-paying attention to the screen. Watching Glen charm his way through an interview about his career or recent projects while managing to somehow steer the conversation to Texas football was nothing new.

“Cufflinks,” said Warren, the stylist ensuring Glen looked red-carpet ready. Warren stood to the side, arms crossed with the patience of someone who’d dealt with a dozen “Glen Powells” before.

“They’re in the pocket of your tux,” you called without looking up, your voice laced with playful exasperation. “Right where I told you I put them earlier.”

Glen froze mid-gesture, patting down his pants pocket first before moving to his jacket. When his fingers closed around the cufflinks, he shot you a sheepish grin.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he mouthed, before turning his attention back to his call. “Listen, I gotta wrap this up. Can I call you tomorrow and we’ll finish this?” he asked the journalist.

With that, he hung up and turned to the room, raking a hand through his neatly-styled hair. “You believe this?” He said, grinning as he pocketed his phone. “I’m on deadline and trying to get out the door for one of the biggest nights of my life. And GQ wants to talk about…wardrobe and clothes and who I’m wearing.”

Warren arched a brow, adjusting the velvet Armani jacket on its hanger. “Wardrobe is why I’m here, Glen,” he said with a grin. “Now, if you could refrain from wrinkling this masterpiece, we might actually get you to the event looking like a winner.”

You snorted, rising from the couch. “Poor you,” you teased, brushing imaginary lint off your own shirt. “Must be so hard being adored by millions while wearing designer clothes.”

Glen rolled his eyes and snorted, stepping closer as the stylist fussed with his cummerbund. “Hey, I’m counting on you to keep me sane tonight,” he said, half-serious as he began to tug at the cuffs of his shirt. “You’re my buffer.”

“Buffer?” you repeated, arching a brow. “That’s what I’m here for? Not moral support—just as a human barrier between you and Hollywood?”

“Exactly,” he deadpanned, his grin widening. “You’re overqualified for the job, though.”

You stepped forward, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt, your fingers moving with practiced ease over the slick fabric. Glen watched you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Okay, be honest,” he said, tilting his chin slightly. “One button or two undone? What’s the vibe tonight?”

You paused, letting your gaze drop to the open collar of his shirt, catching a glimpse of the chest hair peeking out.

“One,” you said decisively, reaching up to fasten the second button. “Two buttons undone is too much chest hair. You’re going to a red carpet, not auditioning for a ‘70s cop show.”

He laughed, the rich sound filling the room as he placed his hands on his hips. “Hey, my chest hair is a crowd-pleaser,” he countered, feigning offense. “You don’t know how many compliments I’ve gotten on this chest.”

You rolled your eyes, holding back a laugh. “Please never say that to me again.”

He leaned in slightly, his grin widening. “Admit it. You’re just jealous you can’t pull this off.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a playful tug. “Oh, please. If I wanted to show off chest hair, I’d buy a faux-fur vest and call it a day.”

“Savage,” he said, clutching his chest as though you’d wounded him. “You’ve got jokes tonight, huh?”

“Somebody has to keep your ego in check,” you replied, stepping back to inspect your work. “And you make it so easy.”

Glen chuckled, shaking his head as he tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. “Well, I’ll have you know, Warren said I was rocking this look,” he said, gesturing toward the stylist, who was busy folding tissue paper into one of the garment bags.

Warren didn’t even look up. “Warren also said to stop touching your shirt or you’ll wrinkle it,” he replied dryly, earning a snort from you and an exaggerated groan from Glen.

“Fine,” Glen said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “No more touching. But if I get to the carpet and I’m not turning heads, I’m blaming you.”

“Oh, you’ll turn heads,” you said, crossing your arms and giving him a once-over. “If not for the suit, then definitely for whatever ridiculous sound bite you give on the carpet. You’re physically incapable of being boring, remember?”

He grinned, stepping closer so the space between you was almost nonexistent. “Is that a compliment?” he asked, his voice dipping slightly.

You tilted your head, refusing to let him win. “Don’t get used to it, Cowboy.”

“Ah, there it is,” he said, leaning back with a laugh. “The nickname. I knew it was coming.”

You shrugged. “If the boots fit…”

Glen slid the custom velvet Armani tux jacket over his broad shoulders, the deep midnight-black fabric catching the light in subtle, luxurious waves. He tugged at the lapels, ensuring everything was sitting perfectly, before stepping back with an air of casual confidence.

“Well?” he asked, doing a quick spin on his heels, arms spread out theatrically. “What do you think? Too much? Not enough?”

You leaned back slightly, arms crossed, pretending to appraise him critically, but your expression betrayed you. Your eyes swept over him, taking in every detail—the sharp tailoring that hugged his frame perfectly, the structured cut of the jacket emphasizing his frame, and the way the silk shirt beneath hinted at the faintest trail of chest hair.

The stylist had done a remarkable job on his hair, taming the usual tousled locks into something sleek yet effortlessly natural. And the stubble—God, the stubble. He hadn’t bothered to shave completely, leaving just enough scruff to lend him a rugged edge that, if you were honest, made him look even more attractive.

The all-black ensemble was a bold choice, but it worked. The mix of textures—the smooth silk of the shirt, the luxurious velvet of the jacket, and the matte sheen of the tailored trousers—created a look that was polished yet unmistakably Glen.

“You clean up nice,” you finally said, a teasing smile pulling at your lips as you took him in from head to toe. “I mean, you almost look like a proper gentleman.”

“Almost?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as he turned back toward the mirror, pretending to check himself out.

“Well, the stubble kind of ruins the whole gentleman thing,” you quipped, biting back a laugh.

“Ruin it?” Glen turned to face you again, his voice dripping with mock offense. “The stubble is the pièce de résistance, thank you very much.” He ran a hand over his jaw, grinning when he saw the way your gaze briefly followed the movement.

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your composure. “Sure it is. But seriously, you look good, Glen. The best I’ve seen you look in a while.”

For a moment, his grin softened, and his eyes caught yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you replied, more sincerely this time. “You’re going to knock ‘em dead tonight.”

He held your gaze for a beat longer than usual, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he broke the moment with his signature charm. “Well, I have to. You’re the one who’ll have to be seen with me all night. Can’t embarrass you on your first red carpet.”

You glanced at the clock and froze. Less than an hour until you were supposed to be ready and out the door. Helping Glen finish getting ready had been fun—maybe a little too fun, you realized now, as time ticked away faster than you’d expected.

“I need to go get ready,” you said abruptly, stepping back and pointing toward the door.

Glen smirked, his hands casually adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Go on, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking.”

Without another word, you bolted for your room next door, already running through a mental checklist of what needed to happen to make yourself red carpet-ready in under an hour. Once inside, you kicked the door shut behind you and headed straight for the bathroom. Flicking on the light, you stared at your reflection in the mirror.

Okay. Hair. Makeup. Dress. You could do this. Right?

You pulled your hair loose from the lazy ponytail it had been in all day, raking your fingers through it and trying to decide if it would look better up or down. Your eyes darted to the neckline of the dress still hanging on the back of the closet door, but you didn’t have time to figure out how to make everything match. You groaned, pressing your hands to your face.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted your spiraling thoughts.

“Hello?” you called out, cautiously heading toward the door and cracking it open.

Standing there were two members of Glen’s glam squad—one holding a bag of makeup brushes and palettes, the other with a small suitcase of hair tools.

“Mr. Powell asked us to check on you,” the makeup artist said with a kind smile. “He thought you might be running behind.”

You blinked at them, momentarily speechless. “He... sent you?”

The hairstylist nodded. “He figured you might need a little help. Mind if we come in?”

You stepped aside to let them in, still processing Glen’s uncanny ability to predict you’d be panicking. “Sorry about the mess,” you admitted, glancing at the clock again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Don’t worry,” the makeup artist said, already setting up her supplies on the bathroom counter. “We’ve got this. Can we see the dress? It’ll help us figure out the best look for you.”

You grabbed the garment bag from the closet and unzipped it, revealing the dress inside. You’d picked it out weeks ago, but standing there now, you suddenly second-guessed everything about it.

The hairstylist tilted his head thoughtfully, taking in the neckline and cut. “With this neckline, I’d suggest pulling your hair up—something elegant but not overdone. It’ll show off your shoulders and collarbone beautifully.”

You nodded, trusting his expertise. “That sounds perfect.”

“And for makeup,” the other stylist added, “we’ll keep it timeless—focus on your eyes, a little shimmer, and a soft lip. Nothing too bold, just enough to complement the dress and the hair.”

“Let’s do it,” you said, exhaling as you sat down.

With practiced efficiency, they got to work. The hairstylist began gathering your hair into an elegant style that framed your face while showcasing the neckline of the dress. Meanwhile, the makeup artist brushed soft gold tones onto your lids, added a touch of liner to define your eyes, and blended everything seamlessly. A quick swipe of lipstick finished the look.

You watched the transformation in the mirror, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. By the time they stepped back to admire their handiwork, you felt like a completely different person.

“Done in thirty minutes, just like we promised,” the hairstylist said with a grin.

You stood, giving them both a grateful smile. “Thank you. Seriously, I wouldn’t have made it without you—or Glen, apparently.”

The makeup artist laughed. “He seemed pretty confident you’d need backup. Smart guy.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, thinking about his effortless charm and how much he looked out for you. “He really is.”

After the hairstylist and makeup artist left, you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a deep breath escaping your lips. You could do this.

You reached for the dress, still hanging from its garment bag, and carefully unzipped it. The soft fabric slid through your fingers as you pulled it off the hanger, feeling a flutter of nerves as you held it up in front of you.

The dress was simple, yet elegant, hugging every curve in a way that made you second-guess your choice. But it was beautiful.

With your heart racing a little, you slipped the dress on. You paused to glance at the mirror as you tugged the fabric up your body, hoping everything would fall into place.

But it didn’t.

The zipper snagged halfway up your lower back. You tugged a little harder, but it didn’t budge. Panic settled in your chest. You didn’t want to rip the fabric or make a scene, but there was no way to finish getting ready if you couldn’t zip the dress.

Your fingers fumbled for your phone, dialing Glen’s number before you could think twice. The seconds ticked by slowly, and your nerves only heightened with every ring.

“Hey, it’s me,” you said the moment he answered. Your voice trembled slightly despite your best efforts to sound calm. “I need help. The zipper on the dress is stuck, and I can’t get it up.”

“Don’t worry, I’m coming right over,” Glen’s voice was calm, reassuring. You could almost hear the smile in his tone.

The call ended quickly, and before you knew it, there was a soft knock at your door. You quickly pulled the front of the dress to your chest and peeked out, your eyes meeting Glen’s as you opened the door just a crack. His presence was as commanding as ever, but now, standing there, you felt exposed.

“Hey,” you greeted him, offering a sheepish smile.

“Hey,” he said softly, raising an eyebrow. “Need a hand?”

You nodded, opening the door wider for him to step inside.

As he entered, you turned, giving him full view of the situation. The dress clung tightly to your body, and you were sure your back looked exposed in the tight fabric. A slight blush crept across your cheeks as your fingers instinctively tugged at the fabric.

“Relax,” Glen said, his tone warm and teasing. He moved behind you and gently grasped the zipper.

After a few tugs and a bit of effort, he managed to get it unstuck, smoothly pulling it the rest of the way up. The dress fit perfectly once it was zipped all the way.

Glen stepped back with a satisfied nod, patting your hip gently. “All good. You’re all set now.”

You took a deep breath, your nerves slightly eased but still there. With a nervous smile, you smoothed the front of your dress down, trying to calm yourself before glancing back at him.

“Do I look okay?” you asked quietly, suddenly unsure of how you appeared.

Glen gave you a slow once-over, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than you expected. Then, his lips curved into a soft smile.

“You look amazing,” he said, his voice steady and sincere. “Seriously. You’re going to steal the show tonight.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the tension in your chest easing. Glen’s words meant more than you realized, and as he gave you that smile, it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

Once you were fully ready, feeling the weight of the evening ahead, Glen offered you a reassuring smile as he adjusted his jacket one last time. He gave you a soft nod, signaling that it was time to go.

Together, you left the suite, the sound of your heels echoing in the hallway as you walked side by side toward the elevator. Glen pressed the button, standing close enough to be a silent but steady presence. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he moved—like he was born to own every room he entered, even though his demeanor was always so grounded.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Glen stepped aside, letting you enter first. When you reached the lobby, the bustle of the hotel faded in comparison to the calm, quiet space Glen seemed to create around the two of you. He was the kind of person who moved with purpose, but never rushed—always thoughtful, always present.

As you made your way toward the entrance, he gave a quiet wave to a few people who greeted him, but he kept his focus on you, his hand close to your lower back as if guiding you through the crowd.

Outside, a sleek black car waited by the curb, the driver standing at attention. Glen held the door open for you with a courteous nod, his hand outstretched to assist you into the back seat.

You smiled, appreciating the little things—his attention to detail, the way he never made you feel like you were inconveniencing him. You slid into the seat, and as you did, Glen quickly followed, settling next to you with a quiet grace that was all him.

The driver closed the door, and the car began to move smoothly through the streets, the city lights reflecting off the tinted windows. The buzz of the evening began to settle into a comfortable rhythm, and Glen turned his attention to you with a soft look.

“You ready for this?” he asked, his tone light but sincere. He glanced down at your dress, the slight gleam in his eyes making you feel all the more seen. “You’re gonna turn heads tonight, no doubt about it.”

You smiled, trying to play it cool, but his words still made your stomach flutter. “I’m ready,” you said, your voice steady.

The car glided through the streets, the hum of the engine and the soft clink of the streetlights outside giving you a sense of distance from the chaos of the night ahead. Your fingers nervously drummed on the fabric of your dress, your gaze flickering from the passing city lights to the reflection of yourself in the window.

Glen noticed the subtle tension in your posture and the way your fingers twitched, like they couldn’t quite settle. His sharp eyes, attuned to every little shift in your mood, moved over to you. He shifted closer, his hand reaching across the space between you with ease, brushing lightly over your fingers before gently taking your hand in his.

"You're going to be fine," he said, his voice low, teasing but gentle, as he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. His thumb brushed the back of your hand, smoothing away any remnants of tension. "Just smile and wave, Penguin. You’ve got this."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the nickname, the warmth of his hand in yours bringing a little bit of ease. “Penguin?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow, feeling the tension in your shoulders release with that soft chuckle.

He grinned at you, the kind of smile that melted any nervous edge. “Yeah, Penguin. You know—Madagascar. Smile and wave boys. Smile and wave.” He gave your hand a playful tug, the humor in his eyes lighting up.

You shook your head, but the tension you’d carried with you slowly began to melt. Glen had that way about him—without even trying, he made things feel easy, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. His confidence was infectious, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that you could pull this off.

The car hit a smooth turn, the soft hum of the tires filling the silence. You glanced at Glen, his easy grin still in place, his hand steady in yours. There was something about his presence—something grounding, comforting. Without thinking, you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh as you let the last bits of tension drain away.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Glen glanced down at you, his expression softening. He didn’t move, didn’t shift away—he just stayed still, letting you rest there. His thumb continued its soothing motion across the back of your hand, and he tilted his head slightly toward yours.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice warm and steady. "You know I’ve got you."

For a moment, the world outside the car faded away. It was just the two of you, a quiet moment that reminded you why Glen was your best friend. His support, his calm energy—it was all you needed to take a deep breath and believe in yourself again.

As the car slowed to a stop, signaling your arrival at the red carpet, you felt ready. Maybe it was the way Glen always knew how to bring you back to yourself, or maybe it was just the fact that he was there beside you, exactly where he always seemed to be when you needed him most.

You stole a quick glance at Glen, catching the way his gaze softened as he looked back at you, his hand still comfortably wrapped around yours.

“Hey,” he said, the tone shifting just a little, serious but with the same undertone of care. “You’re gonna be great, okay? And if you need me to do anything, I’m right here. Just... be you.”

Glen gave your hand one last squeeze, a reassuring pressure that grounded you, and you suddenly felt like you could take on the world.

The driver opened the door, and the bright lights of the red carpet began to stretch ahead of you, already swirling with flashes and faces, the hum of excitement palpable in the air. Glen leaned toward you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the smooth skin of your neck.

“You’re gonna shine tonight,” he said quietly, his voice filled with confidence, making you believe it for the first time.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, then flashed him a grin. “Thanks, Glen.”

He winked. “Anytime, Penguin. Let’s go make some memories.”

With that, you stepped out of the car, Glen’s hand still firmly in yours, ready to face whatever the night would bring—with him by your side, you felt ready for anything.

The roar of the red carpet hit you the moment you stepped out of the car. A wall of flashing lights and the constant hum of voices calling out names created a dizzying cacophony. For a second, you froze, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. The chaos seemed endless, but Glen’s steady hand on the small of your back was the anchor you needed.

“Stay close,” he said quietly, his voice warm and reassuring, almost lost in the noise. He guided you forward with a gentle pressure, his touch never faltering.

Reporters shouted his name, cameras clicked furiously, and fans called out from behind the barriers. Glen’s demeanor shifted effortlessly, the easy confidence you admired about him coming to life under the scrutiny. But even as he navigated the chaos like a pro, his focus never strayed far from you.

When a particularly eager photographer stepped too close, Glen instinctively pulled you in, lacing your arm through his. The motion was protective yet natural, as though he’d done it a thousand times before.

He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “You doing okay so far?”

You nodded, the nerves still simmering but far less overwhelming with Glen beside you. “Yeah. It’s just... a lot.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers giving your arm a light squeeze. “It’s always a lot. Just keep smiling and don’t trip. I’ve got the rest covered.”

Moments later, you were ushered to the line of reporters waiting for interviews. Glen kept you close, his hand returning to your back as he led you toward the first microphone. The journalist’s attention immediately shifted to him, questions about his latest project firing off one after another.

“This is Glen Powell, looking dapper as always! Who’s your stunning guest tonight?” one reporter asked, her eyes flicking to you with interest.

Glen grinned, that signature charm lighting up his face. “This,” he said, his voice full of pride, “is the best friend who keeps me sane.” He glanced at you, his expression softening as if to emphasize his words.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as the reporter laughed. “Keeping Glen Powell on track sounds like a full-time job!”

“You have no idea,” you replied, finding your confidence in the moment. Glen chuckled beside you, his presence like a shield against the overwhelming spotlight.

The interviews continued, with Glen effortlessly steering the attention toward his projects while making sure you felt included. Whenever he wasn’t speaking, his hand either rested lightly on your back or your arm stayed looped through his. The gesture was subtle, but it kept you grounded, a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone in this.

In a rare lull between interviews, Glen turned to you, his expression softening as the frenzy of the red carpet seemed to momentarily fade into the background.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost drowned out by the noise around you.

You looked up at him, your heart still racing from the whirlwind of the evening.

“Hey,” you replied, a little breathless.

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of your updo from your face, his fingers lingering just slightly longer than necessary. His touch was light, yet it sent a wave of warmth through you. His eyes searched yours, the usual glint of mischief replaced with something quieter, more sincere. “You okay?”

The simple question held weight, as if he wasn’t just asking about the moment but something deeper. You nodded, your voice catching slightly as you said, “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

His lips quirked into a soft smile, his hand dropping back to his side, though the warmth of his touch seemed to linger. “Good. Can’t have my Penguin falling apart on me now.”

The moment hung between you, brief but charged with an unspoken connection that neither of you dared to address. Then the chaos of the red carpet surged back to life, pulling you both out of it.

“Ready to keep going?” Glen asked, his tone light again as he gestured toward the next line of reporters.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “Let’s do it.”

With your arm resting gently on his, Glen led you forward, his confidence bolstering your own. And as the night unfolded, you realized that no matter how overwhelming the evening became, you’d be okay—with Glen by your side.

The ballroom was a masterpiece of elegance, bathed in soft, golden light with tables draped in white linens and adorned with extravagant floral centerpieces. Each table bore name cards in ornate calligraphy, indicating an impressive roster of directors, actors, and other Hollywood heavyweights.

Glen pulled out your chair for you before taking his seat beside you, leaning in briefly to whisper, “You’ve got this. Just be yourself.”

You looked at Glen with a soft smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Powell.”

Within moments, the table began filling with familiar faces. To your left sat Richard Linklater himself, his unassuming charm making you feel more at ease than you’d expected. Across the table, a notable actress you’d only ever seen on-screen chatted animatedly with Glen, who was effortlessly charismatic as always.

“Glen,” Richard said with a warm smile, his Texan drawl coming through as he gestured toward you. “You didn’t introduce me to your lovely guest.”

Glen straightened, the corners of his mouth tilting upward as he turned to you. “Richard, this is the best friend who keeps me sane—and who’s also had to deal with my Dazed and Confused impression far too many times.”

You laughed lightly, shaking Richard’s hand. “It’s true. If I hear him say, ‘Alright, alright, alright,’ one more time, I might disown him.”

Richard chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “A classic never dies, though, does it?”

“I suppose not,” you conceded with a grin.

The quick banter caught the attention of the others at the table, who joined the conversation with playful remarks of their own. You held your own with ease, even managing to get a genuine laugh out of the actress across from you after a comment about the absurdity of some press junket questions.

Glen, sitting beside you, watched the exchanges with a kind of quiet pride, his gaze lingering on you whenever you spoke. At one point, he leaned closer, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You’re killing it. Remind me again—why am I not bringing you to all of these things?”

You smirked, taking a sip of water to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Because you know I’d upstage you.”

“Touché,” he said with a soft laugh, nudging your shoulder playfully.

As the dinner continued, Glen made sure to include you in every conversation, subtly steering the spotlight toward you when someone asked about his current projects. You found yourself talking about Glen’s work ethic and how he somehow managed to juggle it all without losing his sense of humor.

“Sounds like you know him pretty well,” Richard observed with a knowing smile.

“I sure hope so after I’ve put up with him for all these years,” you replied, glancing at Glen. “Someone has to keep him humble.”

The table erupted in laughter, and Glen shook his head, though the unmistakable warmth in his expression betrayed how much he loved every second of it.

When dessert was served—an artfully plated creation that was almost too pretty to eat—Glen leaned in once more, his tone playful but sincere. “See? Told you you’d be great.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, a smile tugging at your lips. “Not bad for someone who almost didn’t make it out of the hotel room.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening, “you belong here, you know.”

The weight of his words settled between you, a quiet affirmation that carried more meaning than the playful banter that had preceded it. You nodded, the nerves you’d been holding onto finally beginning to ease.

The awards show was nothing short of spectacular, a seamless blend of glamour, artistry, and showmanship. The host kept the audience entertained with clever quips and light-hearted jokes, while presenters took the stage to announce the winners in a variety of categories. The room buzzed with energy as names were called, winners delivered heartfelt speeches, and cameras panned over the crowd of celebrities.

Sitting beside Glen, you couldn’t help but notice how his leg bounced slightly under the table, a telltale sign of his nerves. Despite the outward appearance of ease he projected, you knew him well enough to see through it. Every now and then, his hand brushed his jawline, the slight stubble catching the light, as he glanced at the stage and back at you with an almost imperceptible smile.

You leaned closer to him during a quieter moment. “How are you holding up?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible over the applause filling the room.

“Better with you here,” he replied, his tone casual but sincere. The weight of his words sent a gentle warmth through you, grounding you as much as it did him.

As the night progressed, Glen laughed at the host’s jokes and applauded the winners, though you could feel his anticipation building as his category grew closer.

The glitz and chatter around you seemed to blur as the presenter finally took the stage to announce the nominees for Best Performance by an Actor in a Motion Picture - Musical or Comedy.

You felt Glen shift in his seat, his back straightening as his name was called alongside the other nominees. His hand brushed his thigh, and you noticed him take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. Instinctively, you leaned in just enough so your shoulder lightly pressed against his, a silent reminder that you were right there with him.

The presenter opened the envelope, the seconds stretching impossibly long. “And the award goes to... Sebastian Stan!”

The room erupted into applause as Sebastian rose from his seat, making his way to the stage. You clapped along with everyone else, but the knot of disappointment in your chest was impossible to ignore. Letting out a small, defeated breath, you glanced over at Glen.

He was smiling politely, clapping for Sebastian, but you saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. The kind of flicker only someone who truly knew him could catch. Others at the table offered their own words of encouragement, but Glen only nodded politely, his attention still half-focused on the stage.

Without thinking, you leaned closer, your voice low and meant just for him. “You’re still the most talented guy in the room.”

You reached over, resting your hand gently on his knee under the table, offering him the kind of comfort words alone couldn’t provide. For a moment, his gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face. A small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his hand briefly covered yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft but full of meaning.

Throughout the rest of the show, Glen leaned into your presence, subtly relying on you to keep him grounded. You noticed the way his body gradually relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as the night continued.

When another winner gave a particularly heartfelt speech, Glen turned to you with a quiet chuckle. “At least I don’t have to worry about tripping on the way to the stage.”

You laughed softly, the sound drawing out a more genuine smile from him. “See? There’s always a silver lining.”

By the time the final award was announced and the audience began filtering out of the theater, Glen seemed more at ease.

As the two of you stood to leave, he placed a hand on your back, guiding you through the crowd. “Thanks for keeping me sane tonight,” he said, his voice low but warm.

“Always,” you replied with a smile, feeling the unspoken connection between you deepen as the evening came to a close.

The after-party was everything you expected it to be: glamorous, extravagant, and a little overwhelming. The main Golden Globes after-party felt less like a celebration and more like a carefully orchestrated networking event. The room was packed with A-list celebrities, producers, directors, and journalists, each armed with a drink in one hand and a carefully curated smile.

Music thumped in the background, but it barely registered over the hum of conversations and the clinking of champagne glasses. Glen stayed by your side at first, introducing you to a few people here and there. You exchanged pleasantries with actors whose faces you recognized from the big screen and smiled politely at directors whose names you tried not to forget.

But before long, Glen was pulled away, whisked from one conversation to the next like the star of the evening. You watched as he posed for pictures, his easy charm making every interaction look effortless. He’d glance back at you occasionally, offering a reassuring smile or a quick wink, but you could tell even he was beginning to feel the strain of the crowd.

You nursed a drink at the edge of the room, trying to stay out of the way while still keeping Glen in your sights. It was easy to lose track of time amidst the chaos, but the constant flow of strangers and small talk started to take its toll. The energy in the room felt electric and draining all at once, and you found yourself wishing for a quieter corner to catch your breath.

After what felt like hours, Glen appeared at your side, his hand lightly brushing your arm to get your attention.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise around you. “This is… a lot, huh?”

You nodded, letting out a small laugh. “It’s a little overwhelming. How are you holding up?”

“I’ve smiled so much tonight my face might be stuck this way,” he joked, though there was a hint of exhaustion in his eyes. He glanced around the room, then back at you. “What do you say we head to my party? I think I’ve shaken enough hands and posed for enough pictures to last a lifetime.”

The suggestion was like a lifeline, and you didn’t hesitate to agree. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Glen’s shoulders relaxed visibly at your answer, and he gave you a small, grateful smile. He offered you his arm, the gesture both protective and grounding as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Despite the noise and flashing cameras still lingering near the doorway, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief as you stepped out into the cool night air.

The car ride to the rooftop bar was quiet, a welcome change from the chaos of the Golden Globes after-party. Glen leaned back against the seat, his shirt now unbuttoned to a second button and the faintest hint of exhaustion in his expression.

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “You know, most people would just go to bed after a night like this. Not go to another party.”

Glen chuckled, his head turning toward you. “What can I say? I’m not most people.”

When the car pulled up to the rooftop bar, Glen stepped out first, turning back to offer you his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go see everyone.”

The rooftop bar was stunning, its perimeter lined with fairy lights that cast a warm, golden glow. The city skyline sparkled in the distance, and the faint hum of music drifted through the air. Glen had rented the entire space, and as the two of you stepped inside, you were greeted by the cheerful buzz of conversation.

His parents were the first to spot you, their faces lighting up as they hurried over to greet Glen with warm hugs and congratulations.

His mom pulled you into an embrace as well, her voice filled with genuine affection. “You look stunning tonight, sweetheart. And thank you for taking care of our boy out there.”

“Always,” you replied with a smile, feeling the ease that came with being around Glen’s family.

You scanned the room and spotted Leslie, Glen’s younger sister, waving excitedly from across the bar. She was all smiles as she made her way over, throwing her arms around you in a hug.

“It’s been forever!” she exclaimed, pulling back to give you a once-over. “You look amazing! And that dress—ugh, you’re killing me.”

“You’re one to talk,” you teased, taking in her own dress. “You look incredible.”

Glen was quickly pulled into conversations with friends and other guests, his charm and warmth on full display as he moved through the room. You stayed behind with Leslie, the two of you settling into a quieter corner of the bar.

“So,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Tell me everything about the engagement. I need details.”

Leslie’s face lit up, and she launched into a detailed recounting of the proposal—how her fiancé had asked, the secret planning, how he included her friends and family in on the surprise. She showed you the ring, a design that perfectly suited her, and the two of you gushed over wedding plans.

“I’m thinking late spring,” Leslie said, twirling her glass of wine between her fingers. “Something outdoors, simple but elegant. Glen keeps trying to offer to pay for everything, but I want to keep it low-key.”

“That sounds perfect,” you said, smiling. “And knowing Glen, he’ll find a way to contribute whether you want him to or not.”

Leslie laughed, nodding. “Oh, I know. He’s the best, though. We’re lucky to have him.”

“Yeah, we really are.” Your gaze drifted across the room to where Glen was laughing with a small group of friends, his easy smile making your own lips curve upward. His hand was resting casually in the pocket of his suit pants.

“You’ve got that look again,” Leslie said, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You blinked, snapping your gaze back to her. “What look?”

She grinned knowingly and nudged your arm with her elbow. “The ‘I’m totally into Glen but I’ll never admit it’ look.”

Your eyes widened, heat rushing to your cheeks. “What? That’s ridiculous,” you said quickly, trying to laugh it off. “You’re crazy.”

“Uh-huh,” Leslie said, leaning back against the bar with a smirk. “Sure I am.”

You rolled your eyes, determined to brush off her teasing. “He’s my best friend, Les. That’s-” But before you could finish your sentence, Glen glanced over at the two of you. His eyes found yours across the room, and when he smiled—soft, warm, and undeniably genuine—you felt your words falter.

You didn’t even realize you had stopped speaking until Leslie let out a low chuckle.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, barely containing her laughter. “You’ve got it bad.”

Realizing what just happened, you tore your gaze away from Glen, your face burning.

“I do not,” you muttered, but the weak protest only made Leslie laugh harder.

She shook her head, her grin widening. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. Honestly, I’ve suspected this for years, but that little moment right there? Total confirmation.”

“Okay, enough,” you said, waving your hands as if to physically push the conversation away. “Let’s focus less on your brother and my nonexistent love life. Let’s get back to your wedding.”

Leslie just smirked, clearly not buying your denial. “Fine, but for the record? He’s totally into you too.”

You gave Leslie a confused look, followed by a doubtful laugh. “Yeah, right?” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Leslie raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your self-doubt. “Why do you think he wouldn’t be into you?” she asked, crossing her arms as if she were gearing up to debate.

You sighed, glancing down at your drink. “I mean…look at him,” you said, gesturing vaguely in Glen’s direction. “He could have literally anyone he wants. Models, actresses, anyone. And I’m just…” You trailed off, shrugging.

Leslie tilted her head, studying you with a knowing smile. “Just what?” she pressed.

“Just me,” you finished weakly, feeling a little silly for saying it out loud.

Leslie let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Okay, first of all, that’s ridiculous. Second of all—” She paused, leaning in slightly for emphasis. “You’re the one he asked to be his date tonight. Not a model, not an actress, you.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the truth of her words. “That’s just because we’re friends,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Friends,” Leslie repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Right. Because friends definitely look at each other the way he looks at you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again. “He does not look at me any type of way,” you insisted, but Leslie wasn’t buying it.

She smirked, nodding toward Glen, who was now making his way across the room in your direction.

“Sure he doesn’t,” she said, her voice teasing. “But just in case you’re still in denial, why don’t you pay attention when he gets over here? You’ll see what I mean.”

Before you could respond, Glen reached the two of you, his presence immediately drawing your attention.

“Hey,” he said, flashing that easy smile of his. “Am I interrupting something, or can I steal her for a bit?”

Leslie’s grin widened as she gave you a pointed look. “Not at all,” she said sweetly, stepping aside. “She’s all yours.”

You shot her a subtle glare, but Leslie just winked at you before turning to join the rest of the group. As Glen’s attention shifted back to you, your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always seemed to do when he was around.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze flicking over your face as if checking for any signs of discomfort.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just catching up with Leslie.”

“Good,” he said, his smile softening. “She’s been excited to see you. I think she’s secretly more interested in hanging out with you than me tonight.”

You laughed, the sound helping to ease the tension swirling in your chest. “Well, to be fair, I am pretty great,” you teased, falling back into your usual banter with him.

“Can’t argue with that,” Glen said, his tone light, but there was something in his eyes that lingered a little too long, something that made your breath catch just slightly.

The atmosphere shifted subtly as the music transitioned to something slower, a beat just mellow enough to set a softer, almost romantic mood. The chatter in the room seemed to quiet slightly, replaced by the rhythmic sway of the melody. Glen glanced toward the small dance floor, where a few of his friends were starting to pair off, and then turned back to you.

“Come on,” he said, extending a hand toward you, his smile warm and inviting.

You shook your head immediately, taking a small step back. “You know I don’t dance,” you reminded him, your voice firm but playful.

His grin only widened, clearly undeterred. “And you know I don’t take no for an answer,” he teased, stepping closer and gently taking your hand before you could protest further.

“Glen,” you said, a hint of exasperation in your tone, but he was already pulling you toward the dance floor.

“Relax,” he said with a laugh, glancing back at you. “I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow.”

You sighed in resignation, realizing there was no escaping this. When you reached the dance floor, you placed a hand on his shoulder, your fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his dress shirt. He wrapped an arm securely around your waist, pulling you just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You’ve done this before,” he said lightly as he started to guide you to the rhythm of the music.

“Once or twice,” you admitted, though you still felt slightly self-conscious. “But I’m warning you—I’m not great at it.”

“You’re doing fine,” he assured you, his voice low and steady, as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Leslie standing by the bar. She was watching you with an unmistakable smirk, her arms crossed in triumph. When your eyes met hers, she gave you a knowing look, the kind that said, See? Told you so.

You rolled your eyes at her and shook your head, trying to silently tell her to knock it off. Glen noticed the exchange, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced over at Leslie and then back down at you.

“What am I missing?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though your cheeks were already starting to warm.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, his tone teasing now. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Leslie’s just…being Leslie,” you said vaguely, hoping to leave it at that.

But Glen wasn’t letting it go. He tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his face as realization started to dawn on him.

“Wait a minute…” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Is she messing with you about something?”

“Not really,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“Not really?” he repeated, clearly unconvinced. His eyes flicked back toward Leslie, who was now openly grinning at the two of you. “Oh, she’s definitely messing with you about something,” he said with a laugh.

You groaned, your head dropping slightly as you muttered, “I’m going to kill her.”

Glen chuckled, his hand on your waist giving a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he said, his tone playful but his smile soft.

For a moment, you forgot about Leslie entirely, your focus shifting back to Glen as you moved together in time with the music. His gaze lingered on you, his expression unexpectedly tender, and you felt your heart skip in a way that made you wonder if Leslie might actually have a point after all.

As the slower song faded out, you felt a moment of relief. But then the next song started, and your heart sank a little as the unmistakable notes of a love ballad filled the air. The kind that spoke of longing and intimacy, the kind that made you suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you were still in Glen’s arms.

You glanced up at him, your lips parting to excuse yourself, but before you could step away, his hand on your back shifted, a gentle but deliberate pressure that kept you in place.

“Stay,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Glen, I—” you started, already shaking your head. There was no way you could dance to a love song with your best friend. It felt too…loaded.

“Just one more,” he murmured, and when your eyes met his, whatever protest you had ready fell away. There was something in the way he looked at you—something unspoken but undeniable. It wasn’t just a friendly look. It was softer, deeper, and for a moment, it left you breathless.

You nodded, barely, and he smiled—just a small, private curve of his lips that made your stomach flip.

He pulled you just a little closer this time, close enough that your chest brushed against his. The hold on your back shifted, his hand sliding just slightly lower, resting at the curve where your back met your waist. It wasn’t inappropriate—just enough to feel a little less like friendship and a little more like something else.

Without thinking, you leaned into him, your cheek resting lightly against his chest. His warmth was comforting, grounding, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself get lost in the rhythm of the song and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You felt him tilt his head, the faintest brush of his cheek against the top of yours. It was such a small gesture, but it sent your heart into a quiet frenzy, a rhythm that seemed to echo in time with the music.

Neither of you said a word as you moved together, swaying gently to the melody. The first verse passed, then the chorus, and you couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt to be here, like the rest of the world had melted away.

The song came to an end, the final notes fading into a hum of conversation and clinking glasses around you. Glen didn’t move right away, and for a moment, neither did you. You stayed in his arms, feeling the warmth of his hand still pressed against your back, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.

But then someone called his name from across the room, breaking the fragile bubble that had surrounded you both. Glen’s arm slipped away, though his hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on yours, as if reluctant to leave.

You nodded, offering a small smile, and watched as he crossed the room to greet a new arrival. The absence of his touch left you feeling untethered, a sudden awareness of just how much you’d let yourself melt into him during that dance.

Needing a moment to collect yourself—and maybe something stronger than a moment of quiet—you made your way to the bar. You ordered a glass of wine and took a steadying sip, trying to push the last few minutes out of your mind.

Of course, Leslie found you before you even made it halfway through your drink.

“So,” she started, leaning casually against the bar with an unmistakable smirk. “That was…something.”

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel the blush already creeping up your neck. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” she asked innocently, though her grin was anything but. “I’m just saying, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother look at someone like that. Or hold someone like that. Or—”

“Leslie,” you warned, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your attempt at composure.

She laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m just saying, for someone who insists she doesn’t dance, you looked awfully comfortable out there dancing with my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you replied, taking another sip of your wine in a futile attempt to drown your nerves.

“Doesn’t it?” she countered, raising an eyebrow. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like something more.”

You shot her a sharp look, but she just shrugged, still grinning.

“Relax,” she said, nudging your arm playfully. “I’m not about to make a big announcement or anything. But if you don’t see it yet…” She trailed off, giving you a knowing look before gesturing subtly toward Glen, who was still across the room, laughing with a small group of friends.

You followed her gaze despite yourself, and your heart gave a traitorous little lurch at the sight of him. His smile was easy and charming, but every now and then, his eyes flicked toward the bar, as if checking to see if you were still there.

“See what I mean?” Leslie said softly, pulling your attention back to her.

You shook your head, trying to play it off. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?” she challenged, her tone light but her expression serious. “Because I’ve known Glen my whole life, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. So, maybe it’s time you stop convincing yourself it’s all in your head.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, and you found yourself speechless, staring down into your glass of wine as if it held the answers you were so desperately trying to avoid.

Leslie let the silence linger for a moment before giving your arm another playful nudge. “Just think about it, okay?”

And with that, she pushed off the bar and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts—and the undeniable truth you were no longer sure you could ignore.

You stepped away from the bar, glass of wine in hand, and gravitated toward a quieter corner of the rooftop. The laughter and conversation from the party grew softer with every step, the music fading into a pleasant hum in the background. A gentle breeze brushed against your skin as you approached the railing, the Los Angeles skyline glittering like a sea of stars before you.

You leaned against the cool metal and took a slow sip of your wine, your thoughts drifting back to Leslie’s words. Was she onto something? No, she couldn’t be. Glen was your best friend, the one constant in your life through every twist and turn. You would know if he felt something for you… right?

But then again…

You sighed and rested your elbow on the railing, pressing your glass lightly to your lips. Leslie had known Glen her entire life. If anyone could read him, it was her. And the way she spoke—like she’d been holding onto this knowledge for a while—left you with an uncomfortable sense of doubt.

Could she be right? Could you really have missed something that big?

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled you from your thoughts. You looked over, expecting another party guest, but instead, you found Glen standing beside you. The velvet tuxedo jacket was now off, and his hair was a little mussed from probably running his hand through it one too many times, but his smile was warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning casually against the railing next to you. “You okay?”

You managed a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, just needed a breather.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze calm and steady, before arching a brow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Leslie pestering you at the bar, would it?”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” Glen said, clearly not buying it. “Because Leslie may or may not have told me to come find you.”

Your heart gave a jolt, and you turned to look at him. “She what?”

“She didn’t say why,” Glen added quickly, holding up a hand as if to reassure you. “But… she said…enough.”

“Enough?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

He hesitated, his smile fading into something softer, something more sincere. “Enough to make me realize I’ve been putting this off for too long.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Glen stepped closer. His eyes searched yours, as though he were trying to gauge your reaction before saying anything else.

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, his voice low. “For coming with me tonight. For being here for me—not just tonight, but always.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. There was something in his tone, in the way he looked at you, that made your heart beat just a little faster.

“And I need you to know,” he continued, taking another step closer, “how much you mean to me.”

The space between you was nearly nonexistent now, and for a moment, neither of you said a word. His eyes searched yours, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

You felt it then—that shift Leslie had hinted at, the one you’d been too afraid to fully acknowledge. This wasn’t just your best friend standing in front of you. This was Glen, the man who had been at your side for years, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

He took a deep breath and leaned in slightly, pausing when your noses were almost touching. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, giving you a chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

Instead, you met his gaze, your heart thundering in your chest.

Glen’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and then his eyes fluttered shut as he raised a hand to your face. His palm was warm as it cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

You closed your eyes just as his lips found yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though he was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t, when you leaned into him and placed a hand lightly against his chest, he deepened the kiss, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

The world around you faded—the music, the laughter, the skyline. All that mattered was the way Glen’s lips moved against yours, the way he held you like he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath as you both stood there, processing what had just happened. Glen’s hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles against your skin. Your heart raced, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the surreal, breathtaking reality of the moment.

Finally, Glen broke the silence, his lips curving into that familiar, playful grin that always managed to put you at ease. “So…” he began, his tone light but his eyes still holding that intensity from before. “Does this mean you’ll let me take you to next year’s Globes too?”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, breaking the tension in the most perfect way. You shook your head, resting your forehead against his chest as a smile spread across your lips. “We’ll see if you behave, Cowboy.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rested. “Behave? I’m a perfect gentleman,” he said, his voice tinged with mock indignation.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, arching a brow. “Oh, really? Perfect gentlemen don’t usually kiss their best friends on rooftops in the middle of a party.”

His grin widened as he shrugged, his hand still resting lightly on your waist. “Maybe I got tired of being just your best friend.”

Your breath caught again at the sincerity in his tone, the way his teasing words carried so much truth. Glen had always been charming, always quick with a joke or a flirtatious comment, but this felt different. This felt real.

You didn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say, but instead of pushing, Glen just smiled and leaned down to press a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead. And with that, he stepped back slightly, though his hand still lingered on your waist, as if to let you know that even with the space between you, he was still there, still yours.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of hesitation, but all you saw was sincerity. The smile that still lingered on his lips wasn’t one of teasing; it was genuine, like he was relieved to have crossed that line with you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you confessed, your voice quieter than usual. “This is... a lot to take in, you know?”

Glen nodded, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your dress, a small gesture that seemed to ground you.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I get it.” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he added, “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His words sent a wave of warmth through you, and for a brief moment, you closed your eyes, letting yourself truly hear what he was saying. The uncertainty that had clouded your mind earlier began to dissipate, replaced by something far more powerful—trust.

“I just don’t want to mess things up, Glen,” you admitted, looking up at him again, your voice low but clear. “We’ve been friends for so long. I don’t want to lose that.”

His hand gently cupped your face, his thumb now tracing along your jawline as he spoke, his voice steady. “We won’t lose it,” he promised, his gaze never leaving yours. “I wouldn’t let that happen. We’re in this together, okay?”

You nodded, the sincerity in his words making your heart swell. “Okay,” you whispered, the word feeling like a vow in the quiet space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, as if the world had paused just for you two. It was peaceful, despite everything—the chaos of the party, the swirling emotions inside you. Glen was here, right in front of you, and he was offering you something more. Something you hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.

Then, in the silence that followed, he grinned, that familiar playful glint returning to his eyes. “So, does this mean you’ll let me take you on a date?”

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him, and couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes twinkled with excitement. He was waiting, his expression open and genuine, and suddenly, it didn’t feel like anything was uncertain anymore. The nerves, the doubts—they melted away in the warmth of his gaze.

"Yeah," you said softly, your voice filled with the quiet confidence that had come from years of friendship and, somehow, this unexpected moment. "I'd like that."

His smile deepened, and for a second, it was as if time stood still. He reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face, his hand lingering on your cheek.

Without another word, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a soft kiss. It wasn’t rushed, nor was it shy. It was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. You both stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, as if savoring the moment before the world could rush back in.

"Come on," Glen said, pulling you gently by the hand, “Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”

As he led you back toward the party, his fingers intertwined with yours, and the moment felt complete. You’d crossed the line, yes, but it was the best kind of line to cross—one that made you excited for whatever came next.

You shared one last look, a silent promise between you two, before re-entering the party, side by side, ready for whatever the night—and your future—held.

#Glen Powell #Glen Powell Fic #Glen Powell Fanfic #Glen Powell Fanfiction #Glen Powell x reader #Glen Powell x you

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voicemailfromluke-beep · 21 days ago

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golden hour.

req: yes | 💬 fia girlie! i've followed you over to this blog finally! would you be open to writing a smitty fic with a plus size reader? maybe something where they go to a sharks gala to like hard launch their relationship and he fully shows her off and loves on her like all night? if you have time babes and are open to writing it! no pressure tho!

pair: will smith x f!reader ; will smith x mid/plus-size!reader

genre: fluff, romance, real-world au.

warnings: pure fluff, minor self-esteem/body image themes handled positively, public affection, protective boyfriend energy, tooth-rotting levels of love.

summary: you’ve only been dating will for six months, but tonight marks a milestone, it was your first public appearance together at the team’s annual charity gala. will’s been bragging about you to his teammates for months, but now it’s time for the hard launch. you’re nervous, but will? he’s absolutely thrilled to show you off. and when you step into that ballroom, it becomes crystal clear that he’s not holding anything back. not when it comes to loving you.

🍅’s note: the moment i saw this request, i was so ready, like i couldn’t even wait. i had to start working on it immediately because duh, smitty hard-launching us is literally everything i need. let me stay delulu in peace again and again.

“smitty, do i look okay?”

will turns around mid-buttoning his tux jacket and freezes. his lips part like he’s about to say something, but then he just stares. and stares.

“hello?” you ask, smoothing your dress nervously. “earth to smitty?”

he stares.

and then keeps staring.

you fidget, smoothing the fabric of your floor-length dress, fingers brushing over the curve of your hip, the cinched waist, the soft flutter of the sleeves.

“okay, seriously,” you say, laughing nervously, “you’re scaring me.”

he crosses the room in slow motion, tux half-done, bowtie forgotten, eyes locked on you like he’s just seen the moon for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “but holy shit babe.”

“you look…” his voice cracks. he clears his throat and tries again.

his hands land gently at your sides.

“you look so good i think i forgot how to blink.”

you roll your eyes, blushing despite yourself.

“you’re such a cornball.”

“and you’re unreal.”

he tugs you closer, dipping his head until your foreheads touch.

“like… are you kidding me? you look like someone painted you.”

“okay, now you’re laying it on thick,” your cheeks burning.

he leans back just enough to look at you again.

“thick is my favorite. did i not make that clear?”

you burst out laughing.

will grins, proud of himself. then softer, almost reverently.

“you’re stunning. you always are, but tonight? i’m not gonna stop touching you. everyone’s gonna have to deal.”

the gala is held at an upscale downtown hotel. you step out of the car in heels you only half-regret wearing, and will, true to his word, never lets go of your hand.

you barely get ten steps inside the ballroom before tyler toffoli spots you.

“there she is,” toff says, holding a drink and smiling wide.

“we thought will was making you up. showed us pictures like a proud dad with a costco-sized wallet. finally get to meet the mystery woman in person.”

you laugh. “hopefully i live up to the hype.”

“no offense, but you’re way cooler than we expected,” toff says, eyes glinting.

“he talks about you constantly.”

“he loves you,”

macklin celebrini adds, appearing behind toff with a goofy grin.

“it’s actually kind of gross. but, like, in a good way?”

you blink, a little overwhelmed by the warm welcome.

will slides an arm around your waist and presses a kiss to your temple.

“i told you,” he whispers.

“they’d love you.”

at your table, you sit between will and macklin. across from you are eklund, zetterlund, and a couple of their partners. everyone’s laughing, drinking, picking at their appetizers, but will?

will can’t stop looking at you.

like, physically incapable.

when your hand reaches for your water glass, he covers it with his for a second just to feel your skin.

when you excuse yourself to go to the restroom, he watches you walk away like you’ve taken his entire soul with you.

“she’s gonna be gone for maybe five minutes,” eklund teases.

“relax.”

“i am relaxed,” will lies, adjusting his tie.

“this is my relaxed face.”

macklin whistles. “you’re gone, smitty.”

“absolutely,” will says without hesitation.

“i’d marry her tomorrow if she asked.”

you come back to find will in the middle of describing your homemade lasagna like it’s the eighth wonder of the world.

“i took one bite,” he says seriously,

“and i... i blacked out. when i woke up, i’d done all the dishes and made a playlist called ‘songs that remind me of her.’”

everyone laughs. you shake your head and sit beside him again.

“stop exposing me,” you whisper.

will leans in against your ear. “never. you’re my favorite subject.”

midway through dinner, will clinks his fork against his glass. not loud, but enough to get attention at your table.

“i just wanna say something real quick,” he says, tugging you a little closer to his side.

“i’ve had the best season of my life so far. on the ice, yeah, it’s been amazing. but off the ice? it’s because of her.”

your eyes go wide. “will—”

“she’s smart, she’s funny, she makes the best mac and cheese i’ve ever tasted, sorry, mom, and she loves me even when i forget to change my skate guards before walking across the tile.”

a couple guys snicker. will doesn’t stop.

“i don’t care if this sounds dramatic, but i must’ve saved the whole world in a past life to end up with her in this one.” his voice dips softer.

“she’s everything.”

there’s a beat of stunned silence.

“goddamn, smith,” zetterlund mutters.

“yeah,” toff agrees.

“can’t even roast you after that.”

will beams. “good. that was the goal.”

you cover your face with your hands, overwhelmed and flushed and grinning so hard it hurts. will pulls your hands down gently so he can kiss your cheek.

“you okay?” he whispers.

you nod. “you’re insane.”

“i know,” he said.

“for you? i’d go feral.”

when the night is more calm and champagne is traded for slow dancing, you sway with will on the dance floor, his hands warm and secure around your waist, his smile soft and a little sleepy.

“you know,” he says into your hair, “this wasn’t just a hard launch.”

“no?”

“this was me telling the world,” he says, voice low, “you belong next to me. always.”

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chrystal-ink · 6 months ago

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Shadvent calendar Day 24

Shadow x GN Reader

Mistletoe

Shadow was never one for PDA. in fact you two barley held hands whenever other people were around if he could help it. however, tonight the cocktails were flowing and the spirit of Christmas was in the air.

The two of you had managed to miss each other all night. getting wrapped up in conversations with other people, giving out gifts, and avoiding the mistletoe hung ever so delicately in the living room for all to see. You were consciously avoiding it knowing that Shadow did not want to kiss in front of a room full of his closest friends, coworkers, acquaintances, and sonic.

Still he looked so nice in his tux and you knew that he had been eyeing you all night. but attraction or not you were going to respect his boundaries, you would just have to make up for it later.

Shadow on the other hand was craving the touch of your lips right about now. Denied their rightful place upon his earlier in the evening his distain for witnesses was thrown to the wind. You looked incredible tonight and the world needed to know that you were taken, that your lips were for his and his alone.

unfortunately he was caught up in a meaningless conversation with one of his coworker's and he could not get out of it. he had to do something and quick. signaling to Rouge he requested her to get him out of there.

Luckily they had been working together for so long that she understood immediately what he was trying to communicate. Not wasting a moment Rouge swooped into the conversation ending it with grace.

"What do you need Hon?"

"I need to get over to Y/N, I have a matter that needs addressing"

"Is this about those lips you've been staring at all night?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business bat, but yes."

"Fine, I'll help you, but you have to do it over there." She pointed to the mistletoe hanging in the center of the room.

"What? Why?"

"Why? well you two have been together for so long and yet I've never seen the two of you give each other more than a peck. I just want to make sure you're doing it right, for Y/N's sake."

"You are a pain you know that right?"

"Just looking out for you doll."

Shadow weighed his options for a moment, if he tried to make his way across the room he was sure to run into more people and have to engage in more meaningless conversations. it would take at least an hour to get to you, and even then he would have to wait for your conversation to end before he could even attempt to kiss you.

Still to kiss in a crowd was one thing, to do it with everyone watching was another.

He gritted his teeth it wasn't like him to shy away from anything and he wasn't about to start now. He needed your lips and fast so reluctantly he agreed.

"You wont regret this, I promise." Rouge responded happy her little negotiation worked. She took out her phone and texted everyone her plan, all they had to do was get you under that mistletoe by any means necessary.

❄️

You were mid conversation with Amy when her phone went off.

"That's weird who could be texting you right now? everyone we know is here."

"Don't worry about it, it's nothing." she reassured quickly putting her phone away. "Say, why don't we look for some more of those delicious crab puffs I think I saw some over there."

"umm okay, I guess we could."

But before you could actually turn to go the opposite direction Sonic interrupted your conversation.

"Hey Y/N How's it goin? Say, is that cocktail for me? Thanks!" He took your drink and bolted across the room before you even had the chance to react.

"Hey!" you whined before following after him, it was a confined space and with all the people there he couldn't have gotten too far.

You followed him almost to the center of the room before he stopped turning back to you your drink still in his hands.

"What's the big idea? you can't just do that at a party."

"I had it under control Sonic" Amy called finally catching up to the both of you.

"Yah, but I was faster."

"What's going on you two?"

"You'll see." sonic replied "Sorry about this" He gave you a gentle push. Stumbling backward you almost fell thankfully, a pair of hands steadied you before you could reach the floor.

"Hey." shadow looked down at you giving you a handsome smirk.

"Shadow? thanks, but how did you-"

"Everyone! looks like we have our first two lovebirds under the mistletoe!" Rouge announced "Why don't you give them a round of applause?"

You looked up and saw the offending branch right above where you and Shadow were standing.

"Oh no, we don't have to if you don't want. I know you don't really like this stuff." you apologized.

"Don't be ridiculous, It's tradition." Shadow said grabbing you by the chin. "And besides with the way you look tonight I want everyone here to know you're mine."

And with that he kissed you it was passionate, full of love and devotion. he was getting the touch he so craved and he didn't care who saw it.

Once your lips had parted and crowed died down a little you looked into his crimson eyes and smiled.

"You know, you could have just asked for a kiss my love."

"Yes, but I wanted to make this one special."

You giggled placing your hands on his chest.

"Well then love, You accomplished your mission"

You gave him another kiss each of you smiling against the other's lips before rejoining the party hand in hand.

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow #x reader #sonic fanfiction #not beta read #advent calendar #shadvent calendar

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saturnsag3 · 16 days ago

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In My Suit and Tie - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: will takes macklin to a frat fundraiser (warning: angst!)

wc: 2,539

The fundraiser was crowded, loud, and suffocatingly formal.

It was supposed to be a big night—an annual gala-style event hosted by Delta Tau Phi to raise money for Greek Life scholarships. The hall was rented out downtown, transformed with string lights and linen-draped tables, servers walking around with trays of champagne flutes, and a live string quartet tucked into the corner doing orchestral covers of Top 40 songs.

It should have felt special. But all Macklin could think was: God, this isn’t me.

He adjusted the sleeve of his slim-cut tuxedo jacket for the hundredth time, shifting from foot to foot in his polished (too tight) dress shoes. His shirt was a soft, cream satin button-down—barely buttoned, a little sheer, and tucked neatly into tailored black slacks that hugged him just right. It was elegant. Sexy, even. He’d spent hours getting ready for this. Hours choosing the perfect outfit. Hours imagining the look on Will’s face when he saw him.

And Will had looked. Had whistled low, pulled Mack in for a kiss and said, “You’re gonna make me lose focus tonight.”

But that had been in the apartment.

Now? Now Will was gone.

Well—not gone, exactly. Just swallowed.

Swallowed by the crowd. By the suits and the handshakes and the money. By the image of himself that he projected so flawlessly—president of the frat, star of the hockey team, local celebrity among frat alumni and university donors alike. He wore a sleek navy tux, hair slicked back, black tie sharp. And he belonged here. Moved through the room like it had been built around him. Every smile looked rehearsed. Every laugh landed.

And Macklin, trailing behind in designer shoes and soft lips, felt like nothing more than a prop.

He stood near the bar, sipping champagne and letting it burn on the way down. Kept checking his phone, not because anyone was texting him—but because it gave his hands something to do.

He watched Will light up with laughter, surrounded by a circle of older men in tuxedos and younger ones in suits with open collars and frat pins. Will was telling a story—hands animated, grin wide—and Mack knew it was that story. The one he always told about the overtime goal against BU. The one that made everyone fawn over him.

Macklin took a breath and walked toward the circle. Lightly touched Will’s arm.

“Hey, babe, I was just gonna—”

Will didn’t even glance at him. “Hang on, babe,” he muttered, holding up a finger. “Almost done.”

Macklin froze mid-sentence. Just like that, dismissed.

He stepped back. Pretended to sip his drink again.

Okay. Fine. Not the right moment.

Ten minutes passed.

Mack tried again, this time reaching for Will’s hand under the table where they sat for dinner, thinking maybe, Maybe he’s just distracted. Maybe I’m being too sensitive.

“Will,” he said quietly, “do you wanna maybe—”

“Just a sec,” Will said again, this time without even turning his head, eyes still locked on the guy across from him who was retelling some frat formal horror story that Mack had also never been invited to.

The third time, Will just leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Mack’s temple before going right back to schmoozing. “You look hot tonight,” he said absently. “Love you.”

Macklin blinked, holding his fork in midair. He felt his stomach turn.

It didn’t matter how good he looked. Or that Will had asked him to come. Or that Mack had turned down a weekend with his friends just to be here tonight, standing at Will’s side like they were some polished power couple.

He wasn’t at Will’s side.

He was behind him. Always behind him.

Decorative. Silent.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of noise. Wine glasses clinking, laughter booming, Will’s hand absently resting on Mack’s lower back when they walked—but never holding his hand. Never turning to let Mack be part of the conversation.

And then came the moment that shattered him.

Some donor had made a joke—something dumb, something about how all the hockey guys had “model partners” these days.

Will had laughed. “Yeah, this is Macklin,” he’d said with a little shrug, arm still slung around Mack’s waist. “He’s, y’know. My guy.”

My guy.

That was it.

Not boyfriend. Not partner. Not “the love of my life,” like he’d said in private a hundred times. Just my guy.

Macklin froze. Felt the words like a slap. Heard them echo and twist inside his chest.

My guy.

A footnote.

Someone across the table gave him a polite smile. Mack smiled back through the sting in his eyes. Nodded like he wasn’t seconds from unraveling.

And after that—he went quiet.

No more reaching out. No more brushing Will’s arm or trying to catch his eye.

He sat through the speeches. Clapped politely. Drank his champagne.

But he didn’t speak.

Not even when Will leaned in to whisper, “You okay, baby?”

Mack just nodded. Lips tight. Heart heavy.

And Will didn’t notice. Because he was too busy basking in his spotlight, unaware that Macklin had slipped out of it completely.

At least, not until they got in the car.

The ride back was dead silent.

Not the peaceful kind. The tense kind. The kind that buzzed under Macklin’s skin like a warning. He stared hard out the passenger window, arms folded tight across his chest, lips pressed in a line, his reflection flickering against the passing streetlights. His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

Will didn’t seem to catch on—at first.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, humming quietly along to the muted trap beat thumping through the car’s speakers. It wasn’t even that loud, but it felt like a goddamn siren to Macklin.

"You okay?" Will asked eventually, glancing over as he slowed to make a turn.

No answer.

Will tried again. “You mad or something?”

Still nothing.

He gave a half-laugh, like he thought maybe he could joke his way out of whatever was going on. “What, are you mad I didn’t get you another drink? You didn’t even finish the last one, baby.”

That was it.

“You didn’t even look at me all night,” Macklin snapped, voice low and brittle.

Will blinked, visibly caught off guard.

Mack still didn’t turn to face him. He kept his eyes forward, but his voice was sharp, each word thrown like a dagger. “Every time I tried to talk to you, you shushed me. Told me to wait like I was some annoying little kid begging for attention.”

“That’s not—” Will started, but Mack cut him off.

“You didn’t even introduce me like I mattered. You said I was your guy.” He finally turned now, and his eyes were glassy. “Like I was a pet. Or a—fuck—I don’t even know. I felt like a prop, Will.”

Will’s hands tightened around the wheel, knuckles going white. “Mack, come on. It was a formal event. A fundraiser. I was networking, talking to alumni—”

“You were showing me off!” Macklin’s voice cracked then, emotion pushing through, raw and shaking. “Like I was just there to look pretty. Smile when someone complimented you. Shut up when you were talking.”

Will flinched at that.

“I tried to be there with you, Will. To support you. And you couldn’t even look at me long enough to remember I was a person, not just something on your arm.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Will said quickly, but it was too fast, too defensive.

And Macklin’s laugh was bitter. “God, that’s what you always say when I bring this stuff up. That I’m being dramatic. Or sensitive. Or whatever excuse keeps you from actually hearing me.”

“I didn’t mean—” Will started.

Mack shook his head. “No. Don’t. Just… don’t.”

They pulled up in front of Macklin’s apartment. Will threw the car into park but didn’t move to turn it off.

The silence was suffocating now.

Will glanced over, brows furrowed. “Okay. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you felt like that—”

“That’s the problem,” Macklin said, finally looking at him, tears slipping quietly down his cheeks. “You never realize. You never fucking see me unless it’s convenient.”

“Mack…” Will reached out, but Mack pulled back like he’d been burned.

“No. Don’t touch me.”

Will froze, hand halfway across the console. “Baby…”

“Will.” Mack’s voice broke completely, a sob catching in the back of his throat as he turned away again, wiping his cheeks with the sleeve of his suit. “I spent all night trying to feel like I belonged next to you, and you made me feel like I didn’t even exist.”

Macklin’s voice trembled now, and when he spoke again, it was quieter—almost like it was just for himself.

“I spent two hours getting ready tonight,” he said, blinking through tears. “I tried on three different outfits. Did my hair twice. I put on that lip gloss you said tasted good. I was excited, Will. I was so fucking excited to be in your world for a night. To meet the people you talk about. To see what it’s like.”

His voice cracked again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it.

“I wanted to be someone you were proud to have with you. And the second we walked through the door, I realized I was just… background.”

Will’s heart sank. “Mack, baby—”

He sniffed, wiping his cheek quickly.

“I was so excited to be on your arm tonight,” he whispered, “and you made me feel like I was in the way.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Will sat completely still, the weight of every careless gesture, every dismissive glance crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

“I just…” Mack shook his head slowly. “I can’t do this with you tonight.”

Will reached across the console, slow, like he could still fix it. “Please, just let me—”

Mack flinched back. “Just stop..”

Will’s hand dropped, useless in his lap.

Mack looked out the window again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “I need space, Will. I need… I need to be alone.”

Will opened his mouth, but no words came.

“Please,” Mack whispered. “Just go.”

So Will did.

He watched Macklin get out of the car with his arms crossed tight, like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will. He watched the front door close behind him. And then he sat in the dark car alone, surrounded by the echoes of what he’d missed, and the love he might’ve just pushed too far away.

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: an anon requested angst so i just combined it with another ask about fratboy!will, very sad sigh but it’s what i do best and i really like how it came out, i hope u guys enjoyed (but not too much) <33

#willmack #hrpf #macklin celebrini #will smith hockey #san jose sharks #mlm

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brodygold · 13 days ago

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The Perfect Wedding

“What do you mean he’s not coming, Barry!?”

“That’s what his text says, hon. Here, look.”

This was supposed to be the best day of our lives. Everything was leading up to today. First meeting Rachel at college, where we both studied mechanical engineering. Proposing on the two year anniversary of our first date, in the same restaurant, at the same table. Spending the next year meticulously planning every detail of the wedding: the perfect venue, the perfect catering, the perfect tux and wedding dress. I spent hours writing my vows, which were currently burning a hole in the pocket of my tuxedo pants. Everything had to be perfect.

So why in the world do I get a text from the wedding officiant, the pastor of our local church, 15 minutes before the ceremony starts saying he won’t be able to make it?

Rachel threw her hands up in frustration. “Ugh. Did he at least give a reason?”

I looked back at the text. “Nope. He just said ‘Sorry I won’t be able to make it bro.’” That confused me a little bit. Pastor Kenneth was a rather uptight old man. I didn’t think bro was even in his vocabulary.

I got pulled out of my thoughts with a strong tap on my shoulder.

Standing behind me was a man about our age, mid twenties I’d have to guess. He had deep dark brown hair with a golden streak in the front, combed neatly. His hazel eyes perfectly complemented his suit, and his gold tie was shiny and captivating, if a little casual for an elegant wedding like this.

“Are you two Barry and Rachel?”

“That’s us. Who are you?”

“Ken told me he was supposed to officiate your wedding today and feels bad that he won’t be able to, so I came in his place.”

I let out a sigh of relief, not even realizing he never introduced himself like I asked. The wedding proceeding as planned was great to hear. “That’s great. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it. I just want you two to be happy today. I know weddings are stressful, but I want you to try to relax, okay?

Surprisingly, I actually did feel more relaxed when he said that. I could tell Rachel was the same. She had an almost blank look on her face behind her smile. I didn’t think about that too much though, relaxing was more important.

The man continues. “That’s it. Just relax for me. Everything will be perfect in the end.” He looked down at his gold watch. “It looks like we should go. Everyone is waiting for the big event to begin.”

—————————————————————————

I won’t lie, I felt incredibly nervous standing at the alter, my best man at my side, waiting for what felt like an eternity for it to start. But the man’s words resonated with me. Just relax, everything will be perfect. I can do this.

It wasn’t long before my bride to be was walking slowly down the aisle, guided by her father. Mr. Johnston had an air of authority around him even now. Stiff, formal, looking down on the common folk. I pushed that thought aside to continue admiring the love of my life walking towards me, ready to begin our new life together.

The new officiant began his speech.

“We have gathered here today for a truly momentous occasion. To celebrate the union and bond of two lovers and make it official. To share memories and make plenty of new ones for the future.”

“Marriage isn’t just about love. It’s a transformation. Bringing people together to become something bigger than the individual. Trusting one another. In essence, a team.”

Pretty standard as far as speeches go so far. This man seems to know his stuff at least. I can feel myself getting calmer and calmer already, and Rachel seems to be feeling the same way.

“Just like on a team, those in a marriage can grow. If they put in the time and effort, they can stand at the top together. They can score every goal.”

That makes sense. Reminds me of how I met Raychel, actually. I knew as soon as I saw her on the intramural soccer team our first year of college that she was the one. We went to the gym together as often as we could and really grew, both physically and as a couple. Made finding a tux for the wedding difficult, but it was worth it.

“But with enough hard work and dedication, they can succeed at anything. Even if they’re not the brightest bulbs in the box, the heart is what matters most. Who needs brains?”

Exactly! Who needs brains, anyway? Just because Raymel and I barely got out of school don’t mean we can’t do good! I remember meeting her at the gym where we work. I love a girl who can keep up at the gym with me! It’s just too bad we don’t have time for sports besides a weekly pickup game.

“And I can tell these two have heart and passion. I’ve seen these two dominate on the field, in practice, and in the locker rooms and showers of course. They’ll tackle any challenge thrown at them, jump over every hurdle, work together as a cohesive unit. Isn’t that what marriage is all about?”

“And as it is Pride Month, we must also be thankful this marriage is allowed to happen. Celebrate the happy marriage of two muscled bros, for all those who can’t. Shine like GOLD.”

Cheers to that! I’ll dominate anyone on the field and in bed. Bro, chick, it don’t matter to me. But being with my hot stud Raymond is enough for me. My golden bro for life, he is. I don’t know enough words to describe it, bro. His golden kit shows off every feature, just like mine. We just had to wear them for the wedding!

“But I’ve been talking for long enough. I know you’re all spacing out, thinking about the gym, the gains, the bros, and the gold. Now if you two wish, you may give your wedding vows.”

I knew I had dun somethin’ for this, but when I pulled out the paper from my pocket, it was, like, weird. There were all these squiggly lines and loops instead of words. I can’t read that shit! I just tossed it and said what I needed to.

“Raymond, bro… Before I met you, I didn’t even know what I was missing. You were like my missing protein shake, my gym partner for life. Every time I see you, my heart does like, a full chest day.”

“I promise to always spot you—physically, emotionally, and like, spiritually or whatever. I’ll flex with you through good reps and bad sets. Whether we’re crushing goals or just chillin’ in the locker room of life, I’m your man.”

“From now on, it’s just you and me, bro… two pumped-up jocks with one big golden goal—forever.”

I could hear several whoops and hollers from the crowd, all our golden bros cheering us on. My best man Ross clapped me on the shoulder hard. Raymond looked almost embarrassed, his cheeks redder than they were last night as we went to town on each other. He started talking not long after though.

“Barry, dude… ever since you walked into my life, it’s been total gains. You make my heart beat faster than any cardio ever could, and I actually hate cardio, so that means a lot.”

“I vow to never skip leg day with you. I vow to oil your back when it gets too hard to reach. I vow to be your number-one fan in the stands and your strongest rival on the field—’cause iron sharpens iron, bro.”

“Together, we’re unstoppable. I don’t need a playbook, ‘cause I already know the only move I wanna run… is the one that ends with us, side by side, forever jocks, forever in love.”

Cap smiled as Ray finished. I’m so pumped he could… “o-fish-ate” for us or whatever. I know he told us this big word for this, but my dum brain forgot it already. I’ll have to ask him later at the party.

“With the power invested in me, I now pronounce you husbands. You two may kiss and pump chests.”

And we sure did, bro, to the excitement of the bros. Seeing them all standing in the room, their golden jerseys proudly on as always, showing how much they have our backs. I knew we had something awesome here. There’s be plenty of time to celebrate later, and even more back at the hotel room of course, but I just had one more thing I wanted first.

Another kiss from my new husband.

I knew this was gonna be fuckin’ perfect.

#golden army #thegoldenteam #golden team #male transformation #jockification #male tf #jock tf #female to male #straight to bi #straight to gay #dumb jock #dumbing down #Golden Pride

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amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

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I recognize my ask hahahaha it's meeee! I was talking about Bubble Baths! Real proposal, and more hot scenes pleeeease 👀🥺

BUBBLE BATHS - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance, rom-com

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: After a heartfelt proposal, you and Tony Stark plan a dreamy beach wedding and honeymoon, only to face an invasion of privacy that tests your resilience but deepens your bond.

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ TW(s): Invasion of privacy (non-consensual photography), Emotional distress and anxiety following the violation, Mild sexual content and intimacy, Paparazzi harassment, Strong language

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

It starts a few months after the rooftop surprise.

You notice it right away—not because Tony suddenly changes, but because you know him too well to miss even the smallest shift.

He starts acting weird.

Not bad weird, not mission-stressed or work-overload weird. Not even grief-weird, the way he gets when a memory sneaks up on him from somewhere deep and uninvited.

No, this is something else.

He’s fidgety. Overthinking everything. Tapping his fingers constantly against tablet screens. Humming songs you’ve never heard before and stopping mid-chorus to stare at nothing. Getting distracted halfway through sentences. Saying “hey babe, you wanna go to Paris tomorrow?” at breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world. (You said no. You had laundry.)

You catch him checking his pocket. Constantly.

Sometimes he walks into a room, looks around like he’s forgotten something, and walks back out without saying a word. Other times he just stares at you. Long, lingering stares that aren’t quite his usual flirty ones.

It’s like he’s buffering.

But the weirdest part?

He’s being… subtle.

Tony Stark. Subtle.

It’s almost alarming.

You try to give him space, but eventually you can’t take it anymore.

“So,” you ask one night while you’re watching a movie on the couch. “Are you dying?”

Tony jerks upright like you just poked him with a taser.

“What?! No! I mean—no, I’m fine. I’m great. Why would you think I’m dying?”

You give him a look. “Because you’ve been acting like a squirrel with a tax evasion problem for three weeks.”

“I have not been—okay, that’s specific.”

“You twitch when you lie.”

“I twitch when I’m in love,” he shoots back, trying to cover the nerves with charm. “It’s part of the experience.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He cracks. “Okay. Maybe I’ve been planning something. But you’re not allowed to guess. Or snoop. Or FRIDAY will electrify you.”

“Noted.”

You drop it—for now.

Until a few days later, when he tells you to wear something fancy.

“You mean like cocktail fancy? Or black-tie fancy?” you ask, eyeing your closet.

“Fancy enough that the maître d’ will call me ‘sir’ and not in an ironic way.”

“…So tux-fancy.”

He shrugs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The night starts off exactly how you’d expect from Tony Stark.

He shows up in a tailored suit, hair flawless, arc reactor dimmed to a low romantic glow. You’re wearing that dress he loves—sleek, off-the-shoulder, deep red—and he looks at you like you just walked off the cover of a dream.

“You’re gonna ruin my fragile billionaire heart,” he says, offering his arm.

“I thought your heart was 80% sarcasm and iron.”

“It’s currently 100% yours.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you let him lead you out the door.

The car is sleek. The playlist is full of love songs disguised as ironic picks. He keeps checking his watch. You pretend not to notice.

But when you get to the restaurant—some swanky, rooftop place he’d name-dropped weeks ago—you find out very quickly that something has gone horribly, hilariously wrong.

There’s a sign on the front entrance: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT.

Tony stares at it for a full ten seconds.

Then: “What the hell do you mean private event? I was the private event!”

A security guard recognizes him instantly. “Mr. Stark, sorry sir, there was a double booking—some governor’s engagement party, real last-minute—”

Tony is already pulling out his phone. “No. Nope. I own this building. I’m going to fire whoever’s in charge of reservations and then rehire them just to fire them again.”

You reach for his arm. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not. This was supposed to be perfect.”

You smile. “It still can be.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I had a plan. Music. A view of the skyline. The champagne with the gold flakes. I even had a backup speech in case I panicked and forgot the first one.”

You pause. “Wait. Speech?”

He freezes.

“Forget I said that.”

“…Tony?”

“Nope. Not saying another word.”

You catch his hand and thread your fingers through his. “Let’s just walk. Come on. You can rant at me in Central Park. That’s fancy, right? Historical. Trees.”

He hesitates, then sighs. “You’re too good for me.”

“I know.”

He smiles, still frazzled, but already less panicked. You end up walking a few blocks and cutting through a side street that leads you into the park. The night air is cool and crisp, the kind that makes everything feel a little more alive.

You find a vendor cart near a path lit by old-style streetlamps. Tony looks at the hot dogs, then at you.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

You grin. “I can. You’re with me. Of course this is happening.”

You buy two hot dogs, because why not. You sit down on a bench by the water, stars peeking through the trees overhead. He tries to sulk. You bump his shoulder with yours.

“Best date ever,” you whisper, just to mess with him.

He snorts, still chewing. “Shut up.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

And for a while, you just sit there, the two of you under the stars, feet kicking softly at the gravel path. You feel his tension slowly bleed away. His arm slips around your shoulders. He kisses your hair.

Then he shifts beside you, turning so he’s facing you more directly.

“I had a whole thing planned,” he says quietly. “Fireworks. A drone light show. A monogrammed dessert cart with strawberries shaped like Iron Man helmets.”

You grin. “That sounds… horrifying.”

“I was gonna have FRIDAY narrate our relationship highlights in Morgan Freeman’s voice.”

“Oh my God.”

“I panicked, okay?”

He puts the hot dog down on the bench beside him and stands up, suddenly fidgeting again. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket.

The small velvet box is instantly recognizable.

Your breath catches.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he says, voice cracking a little. “But the truth is, nothing about us has ever been perfect. You came into my life when it was a mess. When I was a mess. And you didn’t fix me. You just… made me want to be better.”

You stand up slowly, heart thudding.

Tony opens the box.

There’s a ring inside—simple, elegant, unmistakably him. A platinum band, a diamond that glimmers like starlight, but nothing flashy. Just beautiful.

Just like you.

“I don’t want to do perfect anymore,” he says. “I just want to do forever. With you.”

Your throat goes tight.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, voice soft, a little shaky. “Hot dog and all?”

You start laughing through the tears. “Yes,” you say, instantly. “Of course I will.”

He slides the ring onto your finger, hands warm and trembling.

Then he kisses you like it’s the first time all over again—beneath the stars, the scent of hot dogs and city air wrapped around you, his heart in your hands.

You stay there a while longer, cuddled on the bench, whispering about everything and nothing. He keeps looking at the ring on your finger like he can’t believe it’s real.

You don’t care that it wasn’t perfect.

It’s yours.

And that’s more than enough.

---

The proposal doesn’t change everything.

It just deepens it.

Tony still makes a mess of his socks. Still tries to bribe you into skipping laundry day. Still invents absurd tech at 3 a.m. because he got “a vibe.” Still needs your arms around him on nights when he’s too quiet, when the silence of the penthouse feels like a weight only you know how to lift.

But now he says “fiancée” every chance he gets.

It comes out in everyday things. At brunch with friends. On a phone call with someone at Stark Industries. Once, loudly, in a hardware store aisle, just because you sneezed and he wanted an excuse to say it again.

Fiancée.

It makes your heart flutter every single time.

He tries to play it cool, but you catch him looking at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like maybe you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

You don’t. You’re still here.

You’re always here.

Planning the wedding becomes your shared obsession.

Tony pretends he doesn’t care about details, but he absolutely does. You discover this when he argues passionately with a florist over the symbolism of hibiscus versus frangipani. (“One says ‘love in a tropical paradise,’ the other says ‘I panic in the face of floral ambiguity.’”)

You pick the beach together.

A private stretch of white sand, tucked into a remote little cove in the South Pacific. The water’s impossibly blue. The breeze smells like coconuts and salt and sunshine. The kind of place that makes you forget there’s a world beyond this one.

Tony falls in love with it instantly. “We’re buying this entire island. I don’t care how many warlords I have to outbid.”

You laugh. “We’re just renting it for the week.”

“Fiancée, please. This is me we’re talking about.”

The weeks blur together in soft mornings and sun-drenched afternoons, tangled sheets and shared coffee, whispered plans at midnight with your legs knotted together under the covers.

You lead. Always.

Not just with decisions—though yes, you’re the one who chooses the cake flavors (three, because Tony insisted on a backup for the backup) and who vetoes the mechanical doves he wanted to fly overhead during the vows.

But you lead him in other ways, too.

At night, when he’s restless, you pull him to bed with that look in your eyes, the one that makes him drop whatever he’s doing and follow without question. You push him down onto the mattress, straddling his waist with deliberate slowness, watching the way his breath catches.

You don’t let him do anything but feel.

Your lips ghost over his jaw, his throat, the hollow between his collarbones. You whisper his name like a prayer as you guide his hands to your hips and take your time sinking down onto him, rocking slowly until he’s breathless beneath you, undone by the softness of your touch.

“Let me,” you murmur every time, and he does.

He lets you worship him.

Lets you kiss your way down his body on lazy Sunday mornings, lets you undress him after long days when his mind won’t stop spinning. You trail your fingers down his chest and watch the tension bleed out of his shoulders, his eyes fluttering closed as you tell him how much you love him.

He clings to your voice like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

And when it’s his turn to give back, he does so with devotion.

He kisses your ring finger when you least expect it—brushing his lips over your knuckles like you’re sacred. You’ll be reading, or working, or talking about appetizers for the rehearsal dinner, and suddenly he’s on one knee, pressing reverent kisses along your hand.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers.

You smile. “I’d say yes again.”

He takes that as a challenge.

One afternoon, you’re sunbathing on the beach, stretched out on a towel in a black bikini that makes him nearly combust. He brings you fresh fruit and sets it down like a peace offering, his eyes trailing down your body with zero subtlety.

“You know,” he says, sitting beside you, “I’m very impressionable right now. I could be convinced to make bad decisions.”

You smirk. “Bad decisions, huh?”

“I’m extremely suggestible.”

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then take me to the water.”

His pupils blow wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

You drag him into the surf with a wicked grin, waves curling around your ankles. The water’s warm and shallow, sunlight painting gold over his skin. You press against him, mouths meeting in a kiss that’s all teeth and promise, your hands sliding down his back.

You don’t go any further than that—not with potential seagull witnesses—but the way he looks at you afterward, flushed and grinning and entirely yours, makes it worth it.

At night, the two of you talk about the ceremony.

He wants to write his own vows. You joke that he’ll cry halfway through. He swears up and down he won’t.

You’re already imagining him red-eyed and emotional while you stand barefoot in the sand, veil tangled in the breeze, sunlight haloing around you like something out of a dream.

You imagine him saying “I do” and slipping that second ring onto your finger, and suddenly it feels so close you can taste it.

One night, back at the penthouse while packing for the trip, you find him in the closet staring at his suit choices like he’s solving a Rubik’s cube.

“Babe,” you say gently, stepping up behind him. “You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. Just… I keep thinking I’m gonna mess this up.”

You wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You won’t.”

“I’ve never had something this good. I keep thinking maybe I’m not… you know. The guy who deserves it.”

You press a kiss to the back of his neck.

“You’re mine,” you whisper. “That’s all that matters.”

He turns around and kisses you then, slow and deep, like he’s trying to carve the feeling of your love into his bones.

That night, you make love with the balcony doors open, the wind warm on your skin and the stars overhead watching silently. You ride him slowly, his hands gripping your hips, your name falling from his lips over and over like a promise.

After, you stay curled together under the sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

“I want the first dance to be barefoot,” he says sleepily. “In the sand. No shoes. Just you and me.”

You smile against his chest. “Done.”

“I’ll ruin your dress.”

“You’ll ruin it anyway.”

He laughs, and you feel it in your ribs.

“God, I love you,” he says again, like it still surprises him every time.

“I know,” you whisper. “And you’re not gonna mess anything up.”

You kiss him once more before sleep tugs at you both.

The beach is waiting.

And so is forever.

---

The dress is a secret.

A sacred one.

You tell Tony this with all the gravity of a person informing him about a top-tier classified operation, and he immediately takes it as a personal betrayal.

“What do you mean I can’t see it?” he says, blinking at you like you just canceled Christmas.

“It’s tradition,” you reply, sipping your coffee like you’re completely unfazed by the way he’s full-on pouting at the breakfast bar in just pajama pants and a sleep-rumpled scowl. “You’re not supposed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding.”

He leans dramatically across the counter. “You think I care about tradition? I’ve worn a tux made of nanotech and piloted a suit through a wormhole. I think we’re past the part where I follow rules.”

You raise an eyebrow. “This rule stays. You’ll thank me later.”

“I already thank you daily. Repeatedly. Often in bed.”

“Tony.”

“Emotionally. I thank you emotionally.” He grins, then tries a new tactic: puppy-dog eyes. “Just a hint? A color swatch? A vague silhouette?”

You stand, rounding the counter and brushing past him with a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “Nope.”

He watches you go, completely scandalized. “You’re cruel. This is emotional warfare.”

You laugh all the way to the bedroom.

The truth is, you already found the dress. The moment you tried it on, it was like something clicked into place. It wasn’t just a dress—it was the dress. Soft, romantic, a little daring. Off-the-shoulder, with a slit up the leg high enough to make Tony’s jaw drop. Not that he knows.

You had to physically restrain yourself from texting him a selfie in the dressing room.

Instead, you walked out of the boutique grinning like a fool, carrying a garment bag like it was treasure. And it is. It’s for you. For that one perfect moment when he sees you walking barefoot across sun-warmed sand and realizes you’ve been his long before you said the words.

But Tony Stark is not patient.

He starts trying to sneak hints out of you at every opportunity.

At dinner: “So… this wedding dress. Would you say it’s… breathable? Asking for scientific reasons.”

In bed: “If you wore the dress right now, just for like five minutes—totally not for visual testing purposes—I swear I’d be on my best behavior.”

In the shower: “You could whisper it to me. Like a little bath-time secret. Just a neckline description. Strapless? Halter? Armor-plated?”

You laugh every time.

Because for all his brilliance, Tony doesn’t stand a chance against your willpower.

You always shut him down gently. With a smirk. A kiss. A whispered, “You’ll see soon enough.”

One night, he gets especially creative.

You’re stretched out in bed, limbs tangled together, your leg draped over his hip as he runs his hands over your back. It’s late—past midnight—and the penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of city lights beyond the windows.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then the little spot just under your ear that always makes your breath hitch.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips ghosting against your skin, “if you tell me about the dress, I might just repay the favor with a preview of what I’ll be wearing underneath my tux.”

You snort. “Is that supposed to be a bribe?”

“It’s a temptation.”

You roll on top of him, pinning him down with your thighs on either side of his hips. “Temptation goes both ways, Stark.”

He groans dramatically. “You’re evil. Sexy and evil.”

You lean down, lips brushing his. “Still not telling you.”

He drags his hands down your sides. “What if I guessed? I’m very good at guessing.”

“Try it and see how fast I relocate the ring to a cereal box.”

“Cold,” he gasps, clutching his heart. “Fiancée, how dare you threaten me at my most vulnerable.”

You kiss down his chest, slow and teasing. “You’ve never been more spoiled in your life and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he groans as your mouth trails lower. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

That night, you make him forget the dress entirely—at least for a while.

You ride him slowly, hands braced on his chest, taking your time until he’s gasping your name like it’s holy. His fingers tremble on your waist as you roll your hips, and when he comes, it’s with a quiet, broken sound against your neck, clinging to you like you’re the only real thing in the world.

Later, he lies sprawled across the bed, hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, completely wrecked.

And then, still breathless: “Okay. But is there a slit in the skirt?”

You throw a pillow at him.

He laughs so hard he nearly falls off the bed.

You don’t give in.

Not through fittings, or packing, or even the night before the wedding when he texts you from his own room on the island:

TONY: just realized you’re probably sleeping in THE dress room TONY: tell it I said goodnight TONY: and that i respect its mystery TONY: but i am still thinking about it TONY: a lot TONY: it’s ruining me

You send him a photo of a folded towel shaped vaguely like a dress.

He responds with five emojis and a threat to “hack your closet.”

You fall asleep smiling.

He has no idea what’s coming.

And you can’t wait to see the look on his face.

---

The morning of the wedding arrives in layers of light and salt-sweet air.

You wake early, earlier than you mean to, the hush of the private island’s quiet settling over your skin like a soft blanket. The breeze carries through the open windows, warm and laced with distant waves and rustling palm leaves. The kind of stillness that makes everything feel holy, like the world is pausing just long enough for you to breathe it in.

You lie there for a moment in the bed alone, heart fluttering in your chest like it’s trying to keep rhythm with the moment.

He’s somewhere across the beach in another suite, forbidden from seeing you this morning—an idea that made him very vocal, very dramatic, and very hard to separate from your side last night.

Still, he’d kissed your hand before parting with a whispered, “This is the last time I kiss you as your fiancé. When I see you next, I’ll be the luckiest damn husband alive.”

You touch your ring now, smile slipping across your face like sunlight over sand.

Preparations pass in a soft blur.

You get ready in a villa filled with flowers, music playing low, the air heavy with perfume and laughter. The dress waits in the center of the room, still tucked in its garment bag. You draw the zipper down slowly, like it’s a secret unfolding just for today.

When you step into it—off-shoulder sleeves hugging your arms, the slit in the skirt slicing up your leg with just the right amount of danger—you feel like you’ve stepped into the version of yourself Tony always sees when he looks at you.

Powerful. Beautiful. His.

There’s no veil. Just sun-warmed skin, your hair loose and adorned with tiny pearl pins. No shoes. Just sand and earth and the promise of something that feels bigger than vows.

The aisle isn’t an aisle, not in the traditional sense. It’s a stretch of soft sand between two rows of white folding chairs, scattered petals, and gentle waves rolling just beyond. A simple arch draped in gauzy fabric and flowers marks the end.

But what makes your breath catch as you step out of the villa and onto the path isn’t any of that.

It’s him.

Tony’s standing under the arch in a light gray suit, the jacket open, feet bare like yours, hands fidgeting at his sides until he sees you.

And then he stops moving.

You can feel the silence ripple across the guests as you walk toward him, the music a faint background melody, drowned out by the pounding of your heartbeat. He’s not smiling at first—his face is just open. Raw. Awestruck.

Then his lips part, and you see it: wonder.

He whispers something—probably a curse word—and his hand goes to his chest like he needs to physically keep his heart from flying out of his body.

You smile through the tears welling in your eyes.

He looks wrecked. Utterly, beautifully wrecked.

When you reach him, you take his hands.

He swallows hard. “You are… you’re not real. I’m dreaming. This is a tech-induced hallucination. I died on the way here.”

You lean in, brushing your nose against his. “You’re very much alive.”

“I’m gonna black out.”

You squeeze his hands. “Not yet.”

The officiant speaks, but most of it is a blur. You and Tony are locked in your own world, fingers twined, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles. He doesn’t take his eyes off you once. You catch him wiping a tear off his cheek halfway through.

When it’s time to say your vows, you go first.

“I’ve loved you in every version of you that I’ve met,” you say, voice shaking just a little. “The broken one. The arrogant one. The one who didn’t know how to be soft. And now the one who gives me more love than I ever thought I’d deserve.”

You glance down, heart thudding. “And I promise, no matter what changes—what we build or lose or grow into—I will be yours. Fully. Always. Even on the days you leave your socks in the fridge.”

That earns a laugh from him—wet and bright.

He clears his throat, blinking rapidly as he takes out a small, crumpled note from his pocket.

“I wrote five versions of this,” he says. “And all of them were terrible. Too technical. Too dramatic. Too many aerospace metaphors.”

You giggle, and he smiles.

“But here’s what I know. You found me at my most unlovable and didn’t flinch. You held my ego with both hands and still managed to make room for my heart. You let me be afraid. And then you made me brave. I don’t deserve you. I probably never will. But I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you already believe I am.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts your hand and kisses your fingertips.

The rings are exchanged. The kiss is soft and slow, a breath shared between two people who’ve already lived lifetimes in each other’s arms. You hear applause, feel laughter against his mouth, and when he pulls back, he says, “Mrs. Stark,” like it’s a revelation.

The reception starts before you realize it.

The beach transforms into a dreamscape—tables under lanterns, long white cloths billowing in the breeze, fairy lights strung between palms. The music is slow and sweet, the kind of song that makes you want to sway in place, barefoot and drunk on each other.

Tony keeps his hand on your back like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

“Everyone here is just a background blur,” he murmurs in your ear as you dance under the stars. “I’m only seeing you.”

Later, there’s food—decadent dishes and finger foods Tony insisted on personally taste-testing four times. There are speeches, stories, clinking glasses, soft laughter.

But the moment that sears itself into your memory is when you sneak away with him to the edge of the water after dinner, hands entwined, the party behind you still glowing with joy.

You wade ankle-deep into the tide, the hem of your dress floating like sea foam.

He spins you once, then pulls you close again, foreheads touching.

“I’m not letting go of you,” he says, voice quiet. “Not for anything.”

You press a kiss to his jaw. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He hums. “I was stuck the day you kissed my forehead after a press conference and called me your ‘brilliant idiot.’”

You laugh, and he kisses you again.

The party picks up behind you. Music shifts into something louder, more rhythmic. Guests dance, barefoot and sun-warm, champagne flowing like a waterfall. But you and Tony stay at the edge of it, tangled up in each other, quietly drunk on the afterglow of forever.

This is the beginning.

And neither of you is in a rush to move past it.

----

You stay on the island for three more days after the wedding. Just the two of you.

No guests, no staff, no expectations. Just open sky, clear water, and Tony Stark with his shirt perpetually half-buttoned, walking barefoot like he owns the sand itself. (Which, to be fair, he probably does—he rented the whole island, after all.)

You wake up each morning tangled in white sheets, warm limbs and salt-crisped hair, Tony always impossibly close. Sometimes you wake to him kissing your shoulder. Sometimes he’s already halfway through building something questionable in the sand outside the villa. Once, you catch him balancing fruit on a palm frond, muttering to himself about "island physics" and declaring it a prototype for "self-sorting beach smoothies."

You don’t ask.

The honeymoon, in its island phase, is all lazy days and even lazier nights.

You swim in shallow coves, snorkel just long enough for Tony to start giving each fish an AI-generated name, and make love under the shade of palm trees with nothing but the ocean as witness. You shower outside. Eat fresh fruit with your fingers. He feeds you mango slices and gets sticky juice on your lips just to have an excuse to kiss it away.

Everything is laughter and skin and sunlight. His hands never leave your body for long.

Even when you’re just curled up reading together, your leg draped over his, he’s tracing circles on your calf like he’s memorizing it.

“Do we ever have to leave?” he asks one night, chin resting on your chest, his voice hushed and a little sleepy.

“We’d run out of wine eventually,” you reply.

He sighs. “Cruel. Reality is cruel.”

But he doesn’t resist when it’s time to move on. Because there’s more. And he has plans.

The next leg of the honeymoon is Tony-level luxury: a private suite on a cruise ship so elite it doesn’t even call itself a cruise. It’s a “floating experience in ultra-exclusivity,” as the brochure says.

You read that line out loud and Tony throws a pillow at it.

The ship is a towering marvel of design, part yacht, part high-tech resort. It sails through sapphire-blue waters, docking at beautiful ports you barely pay attention to because your suite alone is bigger than most apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Private deck. Infinity hot tub. An actual butler.

And also: paparazzi.

They find you on day two.

It starts when you're lounging on the upper deck in a red wrap and sunglasses, sipping something fruity while Tony reads something way too complicated for a man who’s supposed to be on vacation.

You lean over and murmur, “You do realize it’s not illegal to stop working.”

He blinks up. “This isn’t work.”

“You’re annotating the ship’s schematics.”

“It’s a recreational annotation.”

You roll your eyes and kiss his temple.

That’s when you hear the click. The first camera shutter. And you feel him stiffen under your hands.

You both look up. From across the water on a yacht nearby, long lenses glint in the sun.

Tony sighs.

“Showtime,” he mutters.

But you beat him to it.

You lift your drink in a sarcastic toast, wrap your arm around his neck, and pull him in for a kiss—long and slow and entirely smug. His startled chuckle vibrates against your mouth.

When you pull back, you whisper, “Let them know we’re thriving.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “I married the right woman.”

Over the next few days, the headlines go wild. The world can’t get enough of the billionaire genius and his impossibly warm, private, beautiful bride. Photos appear of you two sunbathing, laughing in the hot tub, walking hand-in-hand along the polished deck. One of you feeding Tony a bite of cake with your fingers breaks Twitter for a full hour.

Tony’s irritated, but also deeply smug.

He scowls at every new tabloid and yet brags when you’re voted “Best-Dressed Couple at Sea.”

“Do they know I didn’t wear shoes for two full days?” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone.

“Yes, and they loved it,” you say, sliding into his lap in a silky robe and stealing the device from his hand.

He grins into your collarbone.

Privacy becomes a game. You duck into quiet hallways, steal kisses in elevators, sneak into the spa at midnight because “what’s the point of wealth if not spontaneous naked steam sessions?”

Tony makes a point to surprise you constantly. Breakfast in bed with strawberries cut into hearts. A rented cinema room where he plays cheesy rom-coms and throws popcorn at your face. A private stargazing excursion where he spends the first hour trying to outshine the constellations with compliments.

“You’re glowing more than Orion’s Belt right now.”

“Tony, Orion’s Belt doesn’t glow.”

“Exactly. You’re better.”

You never stop laughing.

Even when the paparazzi catch you again during a spontaneous deckside dance—Tony in swim trunks and a linen shirt, you in a sarong and sunglasses—neither of you cares.

Because under the flashbulbs and luxury, the cruise becomes something more: a floating reminder that no matter how big the world gets around you, you’ve built something small and indestructible in each other.

Some nights, after too much wine and dancing, you curl up in bed with your head on his chest and whisper, “We could disappear. Just keep sailing.”

Tony runs his fingers through your hair. “Maybe we already did.”

You fall asleep like that. To the rhythm of the waves. To the sound of his heartbeat against your ear. To the quiet knowledge that no matter where the world chases you, you’re always home together.

And the cruise?

It’s just the beginning of your forever.

---

You’re lounging on your private deck, the sun warm against your bare skin, salt-slick and soft from the ocean breeze. The cruise ship has been everything you could’ve hoped for—quiet moments, laughter, soft silk robes dropped to the floor like afterthoughts. And this deck? It’s become a haven. No one is supposed to be able to see you here. The angles are perfect. The privacy absolute.

Or so you thought.

You’ve just unwrapped your top—tan lines be damned—and stretched out on the sun lounger when you hear it.

The faintest click.

It’s not the breeze. Not a bird. It’s sharp. Mechanical.

A camera.

You sit up quickly, wrapping your arms across your chest, heart already racing. You scan the surrounding area—your deck is bordered by railings, a few planters, and a sheer privacy screen... but past that...

Movement. Someone crouching behind a decorative privacy divider.

“Tony?” your voice is already shaking.

He’s inside, grabbing a drink from the minibar, but at the sound of your voice—tight and wrong—he’s out in a second. One look at your face, your bare shoulders, your arms clenched around yourself, and he knows.

It all happens fast.

Tony sees the photographer.

His voice goes cold and sharp. “Hey.”

The man jerks up, tries to bolt. Too slow.

Tony’s on him in three strides.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls, grabbing the guy’s arm and twisting the camera from his hands. “You broke onto our private deck?”

“I—I didn’t think anyone was out here—” the man stammers.

“Oh, you didn’t think? You didn’t think while you were snapping photos of my wife half-naked?” Tony’s voice is dangerous now. Deadly quiet. He’s already pulling up the playback on the camera, his jaw locking when he sees exactly what you were afraid of.

Tony deletes the photos one by one. But it’s not enough.

He lifts the camera. Then, with no hesitation, slams it against the deck rail. Metal and glass splinter and collapse. He kicks it over the edge, straight into the water.

The man flinches back. “That’s expensive equip—”

“I don’t give a damn,” Tony growls. “You’ll never work again. I’ll make sure of it. You violated her privacy, broke the law, and I will sue. I’ll drag your name so far down in court you won’t even get hired to photograph seaweed.”

Security’s already on its way—summoned by a Stark override Tony initiated the second he stepped outside. The man tries to protest, tries to explain, but Tony just stands between him and you like a wall, like a storm.

You haven’t said anything.

You’re standing against the deck doors now, Tony’s shirt thrown on, barely buttoned, your hands trembling as you grip the fabric closed. You can’t stop your breath from stuttering. Can’t stop your eyes from welling up.

It wasn’t supposed to happen here. Not on your honeymoon. Not in your safe place.

By the time security drags the man away, Tony’s shaking.

He turns back to you and his face crumbles. “Baby—”

You shake your head, trying to force a smile. “I’m okay.”

He steps toward you slowly, like you’re porcelain.

“No, you’re not.”

You let out a broken breath and fold into his arms, burying your face in his chest. He pulls you close, tighter than tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other around your waist. You can feel how furious he is under the surface—his muscles tense, his pulse pounding. But his voice stays soft when he speaks to you.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” you mumble.

But the feeling sticks. All day. Even after he files the lawsuit personally, gets the cruise staff involved, and makes ten phone calls to his legal team. Even after they confirm the photographer will be charged and blacklisted.

Even after all of that, you still feel... hollow.

You curl up on the couch in the suite with your knees tucked under you. You try to laugh at a movie Tony puts on, but the smile doesn't reach your eyes. You try to eat dinner, but you pick at your plate.

You feel watched, even when you know you aren’t.

Exposed. Violated.

He sees it all. Every flicker across your face. Every little way your shoulders stay tense, like you’re waiting for another camera to click.

Later that night, you’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom when he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder and meets your eyes in the mirror.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says quietly. “I know this hurt you.”

You nod, slowly. “I feel like I can’t breathe all the way.”

He doesn’t try to fix it with words. He just turns you gently, takes your face in his hands, and kisses your forehead.

“Come to bed with me,” he murmurs.

You do.

He tucks you in like something precious. Pulls the sheets around you and slides in behind you, spooning you close. His chest against your back, his breath warm against your neck. His hand rubs slow circles on your side until your body finally, finally starts to soften.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispers. “Always.”

You believe him.

But the feeling lingers like a shadow.

And tomorrow, he’ll fight like hell to bring back the sun.

----

The paparazzi are gone.

Swept off the ship like dust in a storm.

Tony makes sure of it. Not just the one who trespassed, but any “media-affiliated guest” on board who so much as asked about you afterward. Their names are pulled, their access revoked, and by the next day, it’s like they never existed.

The silence that follows feels different.

Not eerie. Not empty.

Safe.

And slowly, your shoulders begin to relax.

The deck becomes yours again. Yours and Tony’s.

You still keep a light robe tied around you when you step out into the sun at first, fingers brushing over the knot at your waist like it’s armor. But there’s no camera shutter. No strange eyes. Just wind, salt, and Tony sitting nearby with sunglasses perched low on his nose, watching you like you hung the stars.

“Hey,” he says one morning, as you pour yourself a mimosa.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

He lifts his sunglasses, brows raised slightly. “I haven’t seen that smile in a few days.”

You don’t realize you’ve been smiling until he says it.

It’s small. But it’s there.

You walk over and sit beside him, your knee knocking gently into his. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each fingertip like they deserve worship.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

“I was right here.”

“No. I mean this you.”

You lean into his shoulder and say nothing, because your throat tightens, but this time—it’s not sadness. It’s the gentle ache of relief. Of something beginning to settle inside you again.

The next few days blur together in the best way.

There are bubble baths, long ones. You pour so much bath foam in your massive suite tub that Tony jokes it’s become a marshmallow pit. You laugh as bubbles cling to your shoulders and float in your hair. He sinks in behind you, legs on either side of yours, arms around your middle.

“You’re getting soft,” you tease him, leaning back into his chest.

“You married me like this,” he replies, nosing along your temple. “Hopeless. Smitten. Foam-scented.”

You spend hours in that bath, doing nothing but touching skin and whispering things you won’t remember exactly later—only how they made you feel. Warm. Protected. Desired.

The hot tub on the private deck becomes a favorite.

It’s quiet at night, the sky above vast and dark, stars scattered across it like glitter tossed by careless gods. The water is steaming. Your bodies are bare.

Tony always pulls you close in the water, thighs straddling his, your hands sliding into his hair as the jets hum quietly beneath you. He lets you lead—lets you take your time. Your mouths meet slowly, over and over, kisses dragging like the lazy pull of waves.

His hands stay firm at your hips, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Sometimes you’re too breathless to speak. Sometimes you whisper his name and he says yours like it’s the only one that’s ever existed.

It’s slow. Intentional. Healing.

You fall asleep in tangled sheets and wake up to sunlight slanting across the room and Tony already staring at you, the back of his fingers brushing your cheek.

“Still real?” he murmurs.

“Too real. You snored.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You snored into my shoulder for two straight hours.”

“False,” he deadpans. “You dreamed it. Fake news.”

You laugh, and he grins, brushing your hair out of your eyes before kissing you good morning.

Eventually, the cruise comes to an end.

There’s no press waiting at the dock. No flashing cameras. Just a sleek private car, blacked out windows, and the quiet hum of city traffic.

Tony holds your hand the entire drive home.

When the car pulls up to the house—your house now, your shared home—it doesn’t feel like returning to real life.

It feels like stepping into the next chapter.

The front doors open to the familiar scent of cedar and warm electronics. Everything’s exactly where you left it. The art. The scattered gadgets. The throw blanket you’d always steal and Tony would pretend not to notice.

You set your bags down and stand in the foyer, blinking into the golden light filtering through the windows.

Tony comes up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, and rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Stark.”

You close your eyes and breathe him in.

“Home,” you whisper.

And it is. In every way that matters.

That night, after dinner and laughter and dancing barefoot in the kitchen to a playlist Tony swears was generated by “your exact heart-rate metrics,” you fall into bed together with limbs still warm from wine and dancing.

He slides under the covers beside you, pulling you on top of him. You kiss along the scar on his shoulder, down the line of his chest, your hands learning every curve of muscle like it’s your first time again.

He watches you, eyes soft, worshipful.

“You’re glowing,” he says. “It’s not the stars. It’s you.”

You don’t speak—you just press your forehead to his and breathe together.

His hands cradle your hips, and you move slowly, in no rush, like you have forever—because you do. You take your time, memorize every sound he makes, every gasp, every whispered praise.

Afterward, he holds you close, his breath slow and deep beneath your ear.

You draw idle patterns over his chest and smile to yourself.

You’re home.

And nothing—not cameras, not press, not the weight of the world—can take this from you.

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