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orangeblossomsintheair · 5 months ago

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WRITTEN IN THE SAND | CS55

summary : He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

wc : 8.5k

an : im a slow writer chat mb 😞 also nearly a month on this site!! tysm

“What’s the game plan for the summer?” Kika didn’t even glance up from her phone, one hand lazily stirring her drink with that tiny straw she always insisted on.

You were sprawled on a cushioned lounge chair in a swanky Monaco terrace bar, the Mediterranean sun heating your skin, but the breeze kept things just shy of unbearable.

You took a sip of your drink and smirked. “Seduce Carlos Sainz.”

Kika’s straw froze mid-stir. She blinked twice at her screen before slowly looking up, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Sorry, could you run that by me again? Because I swear you just said you’re going to seduce Carlos Sainz, which is clearly a champagne-induced delusion.”

“Nope, you heard me loud and clear.” You leaned back, full of confidence. “Carlos Sainz. Mine. By the end of summer break.”

Kika blinked at you, deadpan. “Sweetheart, no offense, but you’ve been thirsting after this man since you were, what, 16? That’s six years of unrequited daydreaming.”

You squirmed slightly but held your ground. “Doesn’t matter."

"If he hasn’t noticed you by now, what’s your plan? Set yourself on fire in front of him?”

“Only as a last resort,” you said, deadpan.

She threw her head back, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Oh my God, you’re serious. This isn’t a joke.”

“Dead serious.” You popped the cherry from your cocktail into your mouth like it was the period at the end of your sentence. “I’m done playing it safe. This summer is about action.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Action? You tripped over your own feet last week trying to order coffee. What are you going to do, hit him with your car and hope he falls for you during physical therapy?”

“Of course not.” You stood abruptly, tossing your straw onto the table with a dramatic flourish. “That’s plan B. Now come on.”

“Come where?” She squinted up at you, clearly unimpressed.

“To get the tools I need.” You grabbed her hand, yanking her out of her seat.

Ten minutes later, you dragged her into a boutique that was a Monet painting of excess. Silk curtains, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and the scent of overpriced jasmine perfume floating through the air.

A sales assistant appeared out of nowhere, all smiles and perfectly coiffed hair. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she greeted, eyeing your Chanel tote approvingly.

“Bonjour,” you said, breezing past her.

“Why are we here?” Kika asked, dodging a rack of bikinis that looked like they’d been designed with dental floss.

“Seducing my brother's teammate? Keep up, Kika,” you groaned, holding up a red bikini that looked like it belonged in a Bond movie. “Men are simple creatures. You can’t argue with science.”

“That’s not science, that’s objectification with a catchy slogan,” she deadpanned, plucking a neon green bikini off a nearby rack. “But sure, blind him with this and see how that works.”

You recoiled, snatching it from her and tossing it back like it burned. “Please. Focus. I need chic, sexy, and unforgettable. I need to haunt his dreams.”

“What you need,” she muttered, ducking under a display. “is a therapist.”

“And yet, here you are, enabling me.” You held up another bikini, black and sleek, with delicate gold accents. “This says, ‘I’m hot and I don’t care if you notice,’ right?”

Kika folded her arms, leaning against the counter. “It says, ‘I’m hot and definitely care if you notice but will pretend I don’t.’”

“Exactly!” you said, thrusting the bikini at her. “This is step one material.”

Kika frowned. “Step one material?”

“Yes. Step one: look absolutely irresistible,” you replied. “Carlos has seen me as Charles’s little sister for years. This summer, he’s going to see me as a woman. A very hot woman.”

“And you think this is going to do the trick? He’s a man, not a magpie.”

“Every detail matters. If I look stunning, he’ll notice me. If he notices me, he’ll talk to me. If he talks to me…”

“You’ll forget how to form a sentence?” Kika offered, smirking.

“...I’ll be charming and mysterious,” you continued, ignoring her. “Carlos loves a challenge. And I? I’ll be the challenge of the summer.”

She snorted. “You’re the challenge of my summer, that’s for sure.”

You flashed her a grin, unfazed. “Collateral damage.”

Kika raised an eyebrow, surveying your choices with a mixture of disbelief and mild concern. “You do know Charles is going to kill you, right? Or worse, he’ll tell your mother.”

“Charles doesn’t need to know,” you said confidently, grabbing a cover-up that was so sheer it might as well have been a polite suggestion of fabric and tossing it onto the pile.

“He’s going to know the second you start giggling like a schoolgirl,” Kika shot back.

You paused, giving her your most serious look. “I do not giggle. I smolder.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “You giggle. You giggle like someone told you tacos are calorie-free.”

Before you could respond, the sales assistant, who had been lurking in the background with a grin wide enough to rival the Mona Lisa’s, swooped in. “Vous avez fait un excellent choix, mademoiselle,” she said, beaming. “Très… sexy.” You made an excellent choice, miss

You flashed a smile back. “Merci, ma chère,” you said, tossing her an air kiss. “I do try.”

Kika groaned audibly. “What is that? French for, ‘Please don’t let my stupidity kill me’?”

“Not quite,” you replied breezily, adding a sheer cover-up to the pile. “But close enough.”

The assistant’s smile widened to terrifying proportions. “Peut-être vous voulez essayer ces sandales aussi?” She gestured to a pair of sky-high gold heels that looked more weapon than footwear. Maybe you want to try these sandals too?

You tilted your head, admiring the craftsmanship. “Oh, I absolutely do.”

Kika slapped a hand over her face. “I can feel my soul leaving my body.”

“Catch it,” you said, handing over your credit card. “We have work to do.”

The assistant handed you your shopping bags with reverence, her eyes glittering with admiration. “Vous êtes une inspiration, mademoiselle. Vraiment.” You are an inspiration, miss. Really.

“Merci beaucoup,” you said, winking at her. You turned to Kika, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you strutted toward the exit. “

Kika followed you out into the sun-drenched street, muttering under her breath. “Mark my words, Carlos Sainz is going to look at you and-”

“-see the one thing he can’t have,” you finished for her, sliding on your sunglasses.

“The one thing he can’t have is peace.”

You scoffed. “You’ll swallow your words when you’re sitting front row at my wedding.”

“To Carlos or Charles’s ghost?”

“Whoever makes it there first.”

—-

The next step was getting Charles to invite Carlos over the summer, which, thankfully, proved embarrassingly easy.

"Sœurette," Charles sang as he sauntered into the living room, lifting your feet off the couch with all the grace of a forklift before plopping down dramatically. Your legs ended up sprawled across his lap. "Comfortable, are we?"

“Move,” you said, giving his stomach a solid nudge with your heel.

“Ow- merde!” He rubbed his abs like you had mortally wounded him, throwing in some exaggerated groans for good measure. “You’re cruel. No respect for your poor frère.”

“What do you want?” you mumbled, not looking up from your phone.

“Wanna go to Ibiza with me?”

You finally glanced at him, raising a skeptical brow. Sure, you wanted to, but seducing Carlos was still an active operation, and time was of the essence. “Pass.”

“Wait, wait,” Charles interrupted, holding up a finger like he was about to offer you the cure for boredom. “I’m inviting some of the guys. Pierre, Carlos-”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before you were already mentally booking your plane ticket.

“-and Lando,” he continued, oblivious to the fact you had stopped listening at “Carlos.”

You forced yourself to stay cool. No big deal. Act normal. Charles couldn’t know

“Hmm. Okay.”

His brows knitted. “That’s it? Okay? No arguing? No ‘what’s the catch’? You’re just saying yes?”

“Don’t make it weird, Charles.” You shrugged, scrolling on your phone like you were barely paying attention. “Now get off me, you oversized cat.”

“Excusez-moi, I’m the one providing the luxury vacation, and you’re kicking me?”

“I’ll kick harder if you don’t move.”

—-

Carlos almost didn’t recognize the woman chatting with Lando by the poolside when he arrived at the villa Charles had rented for their summer getaway.

He lingered by the sliding glass door, his suitcase forgotten at his side. The sun cast shimmering patterns on the pool’s surface, reflecting onto your skin in flashes that made him question whether he was still half-asleep from the flight.

You were gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Scandalously gorgeous. And suddenly, Carlos felt a flicker of betrayal. How could Charles not have warned him about your presence here?

A wave of jet lagged self-awareness hit him—rumpled T-shirt, unkempt hair, and dark circles under his eyes.

Definitely not the first impression he wanted to make, especially not in front of you.

You wore a deep red one-piece swimsuit with an open back, the kind of effortlessly elegant choice that made him wonder if you knew exactly how much attention you commanded.

Sunglasses perched delicately on your nose, you stood at ease, laughing lightly at something Lando said.

“Carlos!” His friend called out, waving lazily when he spotted him. “You made it!”

Your voice was bright and warm, carrying over the quiet splashes of water.

Lando, predictably, was soaking up your attention with his signature grin, and Carlos already felt the prickling need to intervene.

You turned at the sound, shifting your weight onto one leg. Though the sunglasses obscured your eyes, the faintly mischievous smile tugging at your lips was enough to throw Carlos off balance.

Dios mío.

Carlos straightened, brushing a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to look less like he’d been dragged off a plane.

He inhaled deeply, summoning whatever charm the flight hadn’t stripped away, and stepped forward, dragging his carry-on behind him.

Your smile widened, but you said nothing, tilting your head as if appraising him.

“Hey,” he greeted, nodding at Lando first before letting his gaze linger on you.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” His voice dipped slightly, sliding into that smooth, natural lilt he knew could win people over when needed.

“Right,” Lando cut in, either oblivious or deliberately sabotaging him. “This is-”

“Let him figure it out,” you interrupted, holding up a finger with a playful air.

Carlos blinked, momentarily thrown off, but a sly grin found its way onto his face as he leaned on the handle of his suitcase. “Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms.

Lando chuckled, glancing between the two of you as if he’d stumbled upon the first act of a drama he couldn’t wait to watch unfold. “Good luck, mate,” he said, clapping Carlos on the shoulder before wandering back toward the pool.

Carlos watched him go, then returned his attention to you. “Okay, give me a hint. Something to work with, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting your sunglasses. “You’ve got a whole week to figure it out. Make it count.”

Before he could counter, a loud, familiar voice broke through.

“Carlos!”

Carlos turned, spotting Charles striding toward him with an easy grin. His friend pulled him into a quick hug, slapping his back affectionately.

Then Charles’ gaze shifted to you. He gestured casually. “You remember my sister, right? She hasn’t been at the paddock much, but you’ve met her before.”

He turned back to you, eyes scanning for something familiar, something to anchor the dissonance in his mind. There it was: the teasing smirk, the air of quiet confidence. You were now barely suppressing laughter.

Carlos froze mid-handshake, his thoughts scrambling to process the bombshell.

Sister?

Oh, no.

Oh, god.

He just flirted with Charles’ sister.

“You’re-” he stammered, pointing at you like the gesture might piece things together faster.

“Oh,” you said lightly, dragging out the word with unmistakable glee. “I think he remembers now.”

Charles glanced between you two, clueless. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you replied too quickly, your smirk sharpening. “Carlos was just… introducing himself.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, heat crawling up his face. “Right,” he muttered. “Nice to see you again.”

Your sunglasses slid down your nose just enough to reveal your eyes. Bright, amused, and entirely too focused on him. “I don’t know,” you said, voice like silk. “I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time, don’t you think?”

Lando’s loud laugh from the poolside made Carlos glance his way in exasperation.

But his real problem was standing directly in front of him.

Because now that he knew who you were, he also knew your age.

Twenty-one. And him? God, he was thirty. Nine years. Practically a decade.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

This wasn’t just an awkward misunderstanding; it was a moral minefield. He shouldn’t even be looking at you this way, not with the easy pull of your smirk still tattooed on his thoughts.

Carlos latched onto the excuse like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Be right back.”

Charles, blissfully unaware, gave Carlos an out.

“Anyway,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “Go put your bags inside. Lando already claimed the biggest room, so you’re stuck with whatever’s left.”

Dragging his suitcase toward the villa, he could feel your gaze following him. Against his better judgment, he glanced back.

Carlos shook his head, muttering under his breath as he disappeared inside. He needed a cold drink, a cold shower. Anything to reset his brain.

You were still there, reclining on a lounge chair, the picture of confidence. A cocktail glass dangled from your fingers, the cherry swirling lazily in the liquid.

When your eyes caught his again, your smirk deepened, as if you knew exactly what chaos you’d caused.

This week was supposed to be about relaxing.

Instead, it was shaping up to be a survival test around you.

—-

Carlos had made his decision.

For the sake of his own sanity, and for the sake of his friendship with Charles, he was going to ignore you.

It was the only logical choice.

Because if he didn’t? If he let himself get caught up in whatever quiet game you seemed to be playing, he knew it wouldn’t end well.

You were too young, too vibrant, too untouchable. Like sunshine in a bottle.

He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house.

He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

He’d lock it all down.

So that was it. He’d be polite, civil even.

But anything more than that? Off the table. No lingering glances. No indulging in the spark of mischief behind your eyes. No letting his thoughts drift to places they shouldn’t when you smiled his way.

It was a good plan.

Unfortunately, plans didn’t account for things like the spontaneous game of cards that had started on the patio that night. Or the dangerous way the stakes had escalated as the hours passed.

“What about strip poker?” Pierre had suggested with a mischievous grin, his words slurred just enough to suggest he’d had one drink too many.

Everyone had laughed, the idea absurd enough to feel harmless.

But somehow, after a lot of ribbing from Lando and an alarming lack of objections from anyone else, the game had actually started.

But tonight? Tonight, his carefully honed poker face was utterly useless.

Carlos had always considered himself good at poker.

Calm, calculating, unreadable. Qualities that served him well on the track and at the card table.

You were to blame.

Sitting across from him at the patio table, with your head tilted and a soft, amused smile tugging at your lips, you were impossible to ignore.

The warm glow of the overhead lights softened your features, and the lazy way you shuffled your dwindling pile of chips made it clear you weren’t taking the game half as seriously as he was.

You didn’t have anything.

Across from him, you hesitated, your lips pressing together as you studied your hand.

The chips in front of you were dangerously low, and Carlos could see the flicker of indecision in your eyes.

You sighed, reaching for your chips, but Carlos cut you off. “Raise,” he said, pushing more into the pot.

Your gaze snapped to his, your brows furrowing. “You’re raising now?”

“Got to keep it interesting,” he said lightly, masking the tightness in his chest.

You tilted your head, clearly suspicious, but you matched his bet anyway, your hand trembling slightly as you tossed the last of your chips in.

The others at the table were too busy bickering to notice the undercurrent between the two of you.

Lando, already down to his boxers, was arguing with Charles over the merits of bluffing, while Pierre leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose pants were in the discard pile.

Carlos barely noticed them.

When the cards were revealed, his pair of eights was enough to beat your pitiful hand. A mismatched collection of low cards that hadn’t even come close to forming a straight.

“Guess that’s it for me,” you said, your tone light but resigned. You reached for the hem of your sweater, clearly ready to pull it off and join the ranks of the semi-dressed.

Carlos acted before he could think.

“Wait,” he said sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “I fold.”

Pierre frowned. “You can’t fold. The round’s over.”

“Then I forfeit,” Carlos said, tugging his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The cool night air prickled against his skin, but he ignored it, tossing the shirt onto the growing pile in the center of the table.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

Carlos shrugged, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I’m just keeping things fair.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and the game moved on.

It kept happening.

Every time you were on the verge of losing, Carlos found a way to sacrifice himself instead. He’d bluff too hard, bet too high, or simply fold when he was holding a decent hand. It was reckless and obvious, at least to you, but no one else seemed to notice.

By the time Carlos was down to just his jeans, he realized he was playing a very dangerous game.

“Bold move, mate,” Lando said, grinning as Carlos slid his last few chips into the pot.

“Desperate,” Pierre corrected, his tone smug.

Carlos ignored them, his gaze flicking to you. Your stack of chips had grown considerably, thanks to his strategic losses, but you weren’t gloating. If anything, you looked concerned, your brow furrowing slightly as you studied him.

“Carlos,” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

You hesitated, then glanced down at your cards. The silence stretched as you debated your next move, and Carlos could see the exact moment you decided to fold.

Not this time.

“I raise,” he said, pushing his remaining chips into the pot.

Your eyes widened. “Carlos-”

“Call it,” he said firmly, his voice low.

The others were too busy watching the pile in the center of the table to notice the exchange between you two.

You sighed, finally revealing your hand. It was better than his, but not by much. He grinned as he tossed his own cards down, leaning back in his chair with a shrug.

“Guess that’s it for me.”

Charles groaned, muttering something under his breath about bad decisions, but Carlos didn’t hear him. His focus was on you, on the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, on the way your gaze lingered as he stood and pulled his jeans off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

“Next round?” Pierre asked, shuffling the deck.

Carlos shook his head, grabbing his shirt and tossing it at Pierre’s face. “I’m out.”

He glanced at you one last time before walking inside, his pulse racing.

—

When Carlos woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, warm and golden against the soft white of the sheets. The second thing he noticed was the blissful lack of a hangover, despite the absurd amount of wine Pierre had insisted on pouring last night. Small mercies, he supposed.

The faint sound of clinking dishes drew his attention. Throwing on a shirt, Carlos padded out of his room and into the kitchen, where he found Charles leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other scrolling through his phone.

His hair was a mess of sleep-tousled curls, and his voice still carried the rough edges of morning as he glanced up.

“Morning,” Charles said, holding up his mug in greeting. After a beat, he added, “Thanks, by the way… for last night.”

Carlos froze mid-step, frowning as he tried to piece together what Charles meant. “Thanks for what?”

Charles finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his coffee mug. “For saving my sister a few dozen times.”

Carlos’ stomach dropped. “What?”

“You know,” Charles repeated, tilting his head slightly as if it were obvious. “During poker.”

“Oh.” Carlos shifted awkwardly, his fingers tightening on the toothbrush he was holding. He forced a casual shrug. “It’s fine. I’m just bad at poker.”

Charles snorted, setting his mug down on the counter. “Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you win against professionals before. People who actually know what they’re doing.”

Carlos busied himself with turning on the tap, wetting his toothbrush like it was the most fascinating task in the world. “I guess it just wasn’t my night,” he said lightly, though the way his pulse quickened betrayed him.

“Hmm,” Charles hummed, leaning back against the counter as he studied him. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze made Carlos’ neck prickle.

“You’re imagining things,” Carlos said, his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Charles chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re not very subtle, you know. Every time she was about to lose, you suddenly went all in on terrible hands. It was painful to watch.”

Carlos groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, though even to his own ears, it sounded unconvincing.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Charles said, his tone dry. He took another sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the mug. “You know, you’re lucky I trust you.”

Carlos froze again, the words hanging heavy in the air.

“Trust me?” he echoed carefully.

“Yes,” Charles said simply, setting his mug down and crossing his arms. “Because if it were anyone else, I’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

Carlos blinked, unsure how to respond. He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, and for a moment, he considered denying it outright. But Charles wasn’t stupid. And Carlos wasn’t a good enough liar to get away with it.

So instead, he sighed, setting his toothbrush down and leaning against the counter opposite Charles.

“Look,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I’m not trying to... I mean, it’s not like that.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe it’s a little like that,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I wasn’t. Nothing’s happening, alright? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Charles studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Carlos’ surprise, his lips quirked into a small, knowing smile.

“I know,” he said simply.

Carlos blinked. “You... know?”

“Yes,” Charles said, his tone light but firm. “That’s why I’m not threatening to kill you right now.”

Carlos let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks for that,” he said dryly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Charles warned, his smile fading. “I trust you, Carlos, but I also trust her. And if you do anything to make her upset, I will kill you.”

Carlos nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “Understood.”

Charles nodded once, apparently satisfied, before grabbing his mug and heading for the door.

—

“Hey, sœur- what the fuck is that?” Charles called out from where he lounged on the sofa, still half asleep. His eyes were fixed on your bikini. “Is that... dental floss?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, adjusting one of the straps. “Non, idiot. It’s a bikini. Fashion. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He scoffed, leaning back, crossing his arms. “Fashion? Ça? Ça, c’est un crime. Who sold you that? A two-for-one deal with a pack of gum?”

“Ha ha. Très drôle,” you said dryly, walking past him toward the beach. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, monsieur modesty police.”

Charles held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Okay, okay. But when the waves steal that little string you call swimwear, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bonne chance.”

“Pfft,” you muttered, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”

But, as you made your way down the steps to the sand, something felt odd. Charles hadn’t fought you on it.

No complaints about ‘covering up’ or embarrassing remarks about ‘respectability.’ No last-minute insistence on changing into something more “appropriate.” It was... new.

And oddly suspicious.

Wading further in, you let out a satisfied sigh, the gentle waves lapping at your legs. You dove under the water, resurfacing with a triumphant gasp.

You pushed the thought aside as you let the warm sand squish beneath your toes. The salty breeze tossed your hair, and the ocean called to you.

You dipped a toe into the water, pleased to find it perfectly cool.

For a while, you floated peacefully, content. Until one particularly aggressive swell caught you off guard.

You felt it immediately.

The tug of the water.

The loosening of straps.

Panic shot through you as you scrambled to grab the top of your bikini, but the slippery fabric slipped through your fingers and was swiftly carried away by the current.

You had two options: wade out and grab it, hoping no one was around to witness your embarrassing half-naked sprint… or stay hidden and pray it washed back on its own.

“Oh, merde! Non, non, non!” you hissed under your breath, frantically cupping your breasts as you scanned the empty beach for help.

It was still early. Too early for anyone else to be up and running and save you from this mortifying situation.

Your cheeks burned as you stood there, half-submerged in the water, desperately trying to figure out a plan.

Option one was looking more appealing until you heard the soft crunch of footsteps on sand.

Carlos.

Of course, it was Carlos.

Because fate had a sense of humor, and apparently, you were its favorite punchline.

He ambled out of the villa, a towel slung lazily over his shoulder, his dark curls sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was adorably grumpy, the pout of someone who hadn’t had coffee yet. And then his gaze landed on you.

He froze.

You froze.

You tried to act casual. Well, as casual as one could while half-submerged, hugging their chest like they were reenacting a dramatic shipwreck scene.

Carlos’s frown deepened, concern flickering across his face as he took a hesitant step closer. “Are you… drowning?”

“Not drowning,” you chirped, your tone overly bright. “But thanks for checking!”

“Oh.” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Right. Uh… do you- want me to…?”

His brow furrowed. “Then why are you…?” His words trailed off as his eyes drifted to the water, where your bikini top bobbed lazily with the current.

Realization dawned like a slap, his cheeks instantly turning a satisfying shade of pink.

“Be my hero, Carlos,” you said with exaggerated sweetness, gesturing dramatically toward the water. “Save my dignity before the ocean claims it forever.”

He stared at you for a moment, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath before tossing his towel onto the sand and wading into the water.

You tried not to watch him, but… well. You were stuck here, and it’s not like there was much else to look at. The way his muscles flexed, the water slicking over his skin.

It was distracting. Infuriatingly distracting.

He resurfaced a moment later, holding up your bikini top like a trophy.

“Got it,” he called.

“Oh, congratulations, Captain of the Swim Team.” You clapped. “Now bring it here before someone else decides to take a morning stroll.”

Carlos swam back, wading into shallower water as he handed it to you. His smirked when you snatched it from his hand.

“Need help putting it back on, princess?”

You raised a brow. “Funny. Actually, yes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

“…What?”

You turned your back to him, holding out the tangled strings over your shoulder. “It’s all knotted. Be a gentleman, Carlos.”

He made a strangled sound. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Chop-chop.” You wiggled the strings for emphasis.

Carlos muttered something in Spanish, but he stomped through the water toward you anyway. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him as his hands carefully took the strings.

His fingers skimmed over your bare skin, and your breath caught in your throat. Sharp and shallow.

“Stop fidgeting,” Carlos muttered, his voice rough with concentration.

“You’re taking forever.”

“It’s not exactly easy tying this thing without looking.”

“Look, then.”

Carlos froze.

The silence stretched.

You could feel his breath behind you, hot against the curve of your neck.

Slowly, deliberately, his hands tightened around the strings. Not painfully, just firm enough to make you gasp and spin around.

“Carlos!”

He didn’t flinch.

His dark eyes locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. Then, with a darkness you recognized, his gaze flicked to your lips and lingered.

Too long.

Your pulse stuttered.

“Carlos,” you warned, softer this time.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And then it happened.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and demanding.

You barely had time to gasp before his arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against him.

For a moment, the world dissolved. The waves, the sun, the beach. All of it disappeared beneath the heat of his kiss.

And then he pulled back, breaking the moment with a frustrated groan.

“We can’t do this,” Carlos said, his hands still gripping your waist.

“Sure we can.” You grinned, breathless, leaning closer. “We’re already doing it.”

His grip tightened as if he was trying to anchor himself. “I’m too old for this. For you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re thirty, not eighty.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, his voice rough. “You… You deserve someone younger. Someone who-”

“Someone who what?” you interrupted, your eyes narrowing. “Someone who’s scared of me? Who wouldn’t be able to handle me?”

“Someone who doesn’t know better,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips again.

You softened, leaning closer. “Maybe I don’t want someone who doesn’t know better.”

Carlos let out a strangled laugh, shaking his head. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

“Good,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his.

For a moment, he gave in, his mouth claiming yours again, desperate and unrelenting.

But then he tore himself away, his chest heaving as he stepped back, the water lapping at his thighs.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, his voice rough.

“Carlos,” you said softly, stepping toward him.

His hands came up, stopping you. “You don’t get it. I can’t just-” He gestured between the two of you, struggling to find the words. “If this goes wrong…”

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “You’re overthinking it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, torn between caution and temptation.

“God help me,” he muttered before pulling you back into his arms, kissing you like he’d never stop.

“Oh, please. You like it.”

That did it.

Carlos groaned, a raw, frustrated sound, and suddenly his hand was in yours, gripping tight.

“Come on.”

“Where are we-?”

“Somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, stumbling after him as he dragged you toward the rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach.

“Oh, now you’re worried about witnesses?”

Carlos shot you a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m not tying your bikini back on twice.”

You snorted. “Coward.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll leave you naked out here.”

“Oh, threats!” You giggled, letting him pull you behind the rocks, the world disappearing behind towering stone and crashing waves.

And then he was on you again.

No hesitation, no teasing.

Pinned against the rough stone, your body trembling in Carlos’s firm grip, his mouth crushed against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless.

His hands slid over your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing into yours.

He kissed like he had all the time in the world. Like he was determined to take every last bit of air from your lungs.

You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders as he backed you harder into the rock, the scrape of it barely registering against the dizzying sensations he drew from you.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, to the tender spot just below your ear, and you shivered as his teeth scraped lightly over your skin.

“God, Carlos-” you whispered, but the words broke off into a gasp when his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you higher against him.

“Mm.” His lips curved against your throat, and he hummed low, a sound filled with lazy amusement. His mouth worked along your neck, deliberate and unhurried, leaving your skin flushed and tingling.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes roamed over you.

Your swollen lips, your heaving chest, your thighs trembling where they rested against his hips. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curving up, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“Has anyone ever made you come with their mouth before?” he asked though he looked as though he already knew the answer.

The heat in your face intensified, your breath catching as his hands wandered down your thighs, teasing the edge of your bikini bottoms.

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat, and all you managed was a small shake of your head.

His smirk deepened, a low chuckle escaping him as he brushed his thumb over your flushed cheek. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured. “You’re so damn pretty when you’re flustered. Cute.”

Your hips instinctively arched toward him, but he didn’t rush. He held you steady, hands firm but gentle, guiding you with a patience that only heightened the ache between your legs.

His lips found your collarbone, kissing and nipping lightly, as though savoring every inch of you.

When he finally moved between your legs, the sight of him looking up at you from between your thighs sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

His hands spreaded you open with a careful precision that made your heart race. Carlos nudged you higher against the rock, shifting you into position, gaze sweeping over you like he was memorizing every detail.

“You’re shaking already,” he said softly, his voice edged with amusement as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

You whimpered, fingers tangling in his dark hair as his lips moved closer, teasing, never quite giving you what you wanted.

His stubble scraped lightly against your sensitive skin, making you shiver, and when his breath fanned over your core, you nearly bucked against him.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, desperate.

Carlos’s low hum vibrated against your skin, and he pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his smirk audible in his tone. “So needy,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then, without warning, his mouth was on you.

The first long, deliberate swipe of his tongue over your clit drew a sharp cry from your lips, your back arching off the rock.

He didn’t falter. His tongue worked you with slow, measured precision, every flick and circle designed to draw you closer to the edge.

You tried to move, to grind against him, but his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firmly in place.

He was relentless, alternating between soft, teasing licks and harder, more focused strokes that made your vision blur.

“Oh, f-fuck-” you gasped, your voice breaking, your fingers tugging harder at his hair.

He didn’t respond, didn’t lift his head, just let out a soft, pleased sound that sent vibrations through you, his mouth working you even harder. His fingers joined in, slipping inside you with ease, curling just right, hitting a spot that made you cry out.

The tension coiled tight in your belly, your entire body trembling as he brought you closer and closer. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. Just steady, unshakable control, like he knew exactly what you needed before you did.

It was overwhelming.

The pressure, the heat, the way his tongue and fingers worked together. It all built into something you couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back even if you tried.

Your body tensed, and with a broken moan, the wave crashed over you, leaving you shuddering, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it.

Carlos didn’t stop until you were nothing but a trembling, breathless mess, every last tremor wrung from you.

Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening, his chin wet with you.

He lifted his head, hands brushing gently over your thighs as if to ground you.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that left you dizzy all over again. The taste of yourself on his lips only heightened the intimacy, the rawness of it.

“First time for everything, huh?” he murmured against your mouth, his tone low and teasing, though his eyes were warm, almost soft.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your body still trembling, and as you looked at him, at the way he gazed at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk, you knew you were ruined.

You barely recognized your own voice when you whispered, “Fuck me.”

His eyes found yours, dark and hungry, his control fraying at the edges. For a brief moment, he stayed still, as though restraining himself, the tendons in his neck taut, his jaw clenched.

Carlos had you against the rock again in seconds, his hands firm on your thighs, his body pressing into yours with a force that left no room for hesitation. He moved without teasing this time, his lips crashing into yours.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders, your nails biting into the hard muscle beneath his skin as he angled you higher against the rock.

The rough scrape of it bit into your back, but the discomfort was drowned out by the searing warmth of him, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck.

You tried to gasp his name but he didn’t give you time to finish.

He lifted you higher, spreading your thighs wider around his hips. The strength in his hands was almost dizzying, his grip unyielding as he shifted your body to his liking. When his lips trailed down your throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks, your head fell back, exposing more of your skin to him.

His swim trunks were gone in a moment, and when you glanced down, your breath hitched at the sight of him.

Thick, hard, and impossibly big, he stood there like he was made to ruin you. The sheer size of him sent a shiver through your body, heat pooling low in your belly as your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his tone low but soft, the edge of a smile playing at his lips as he reached for you again. “Relax, baby. I’ll make it fit.”

Your breath stuttered, your fingers clutching his shoulders as he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. The first push was slow, almost gentle, but the stretch was immediate, sharp, and overwhelming.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your body struggled to take him.

“You can take it.” His jaw clenched as he pushed in another inch. “Just breathe, baby. Let me in.”

You did, your breaths coming in shallow pants as he fed you inch by inch. The stretch was nearly unbearable, your body clenching around him as if trying to resist.

He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hands steady on your hips as he worked himself deeper.

“You’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained as though the effort of holding back was physically painful. “So perfect.”

The fullness was overwhelming, the sheer size of him stretching you beyond anything you thought possible. He didn’t rush, didn’t force it, but every inch was a challenge, your body trembling as it adjusted to him.

Finally, he was fully seated inside you, the press of his hips against yours sending a jolt of pleasure and relief through your body. For a moment, he stayed still, his chest heaving against yours, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you knew you’d feel the bruises later.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so perfect. Made for me.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.

Your body stretched and full in a way that left you dizzy.

The ache was sharp but fading quickly, replaced by the thrum of pleasure that sparked with every small movement.

Then he began to move.

His hips pulled back slowly, the thick length of him dragging against your walls before he thrust forward again, burying himself deep.

The sensation was electrifying, your body tightening around him as he set a steady, deliberate rhythm.

Each thrust was measured, controlled, as though he was determined to make you feel every inch of him.

The pressure was unrelenting, his cock hitting spots inside you that sent waves of pleasure rippling through your body.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as his pace quickened, the strength of his thrusts leaving you gasping.

The rock behind you scraped against your skin with every movement, but the sting was nothing compared to the pleasure building inside you.

Carlos shifted, lifting you higher against him, angling his hips to drive deeper. The new position made you cry out, your head falling back as the sensations intensified, every nerve ending in your body alight.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough, his hands tightening on your hips as he moved faster, harder.

The fullness, the stretch, the relentless rhythm. It was too much and not enough all at once. Your body trembled, your thighs shaking around his waist as the tension inside you coiled tighter, threatening to snap.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your hands fisted in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Come for me,” he growled, his hips slamming into yours with unrelenting force. “Come on, be a good girl and come for me.”

His words sent you spiraling. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, your entire body trembling as you shattered around him.

Your cries filled the air, your walls clenching tight around him as the release ripped through you.

Carlos groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. His thrusts turned erratic, desperate, and with a final, shuddering moan, he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you in a rush of heat.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the crash of the waves a distant echo.

His forehead rested against yours, his hands gentle now as they smoothed over your thighs, grounding you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded faintly, your lips curving into a small, breathless smile. “I’m perfect,” you whispered.

He chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice tinged with both amusement and awe.

“Then you’ll die happy,” you teased, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw.

He smiled, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, tender, and unhurried.

—-

Carlos insisted on carrying you back to the villa, effortlessly lifting you into his arms and wrapping a towel around you to shield you from the cool evening air.

You tried to protest, laughing half-heartedly while squirming a little in his hold, but his arms only tightened around you, pulling you closer.

The warmth of his body against yours was a welcome contrast to the crisp early morning air, and despite your teasing resistance, you felt a pull of affection.

“Carlos, no, seriously. I’m fine,” you said, attempting to push lightly against his chest. “You don’t have to carry me like this.”

“Shh,” he murmured, adjusting his grip to make sure you were even more comfortable, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not fine. I just fucked you, and so I’m taking care of you. Aftercare, baby. So stop fussing.”

You rolled your eyes at the sentiment. “Carlos, seriously. Charles is going to murder you if he sees-”

Carlos’ grin only widened, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. You could feel the confidence radiating off of him as he held you effortlessly, his voice dropping lower, laced with amusement. “Charles already knows.”

Your brows shot up, a mix of surprise and confusion flooding through you. “Wait, what? He knows?”

Carlos’ grin softened slightly, the playful edge in his tone giving way to a hint of sheepishness. "Yeah… Poker night.”

You blinked, the realization dawning slowly but surely. “Poker night?” You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “Oh my god, you told him?”

“Well, he kind of guessed. And then, the next morning, he gave me the talk.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking as the full weight of the situation sank in. “The talk? That talk?”

“The one and only.”

You snorted. “I can't believe you let him talk to you like that.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter. “Trust me, I wasn’t about to argue with him.”

You nestled into his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, and smiled up at him. “You’re lucky I don’t have a talk with you myself.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh? You’d have the talk with me too?”

You leaned in closer. “Maybe later,” you said softly, the affection in your voice undeniable.

Carlos’ grin softened as he held you just a little tighter. “I’ll be waiting for it, cariño.”

—-

Hours later, Lando and Pierre stumbled into the living room, bleary-eyed and still caught in the haze of sleep.

They froze in the doorway, blinking in surprise at the sight before them.

You and Carlos were both fast asleep, tangled together on the couch, your head resting comfortably against his chest. His arms were draped around you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other tangled in your hair as you slept soundly.

Pierre raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin as he cast a glance at Charles, who was sprawled across the couch like he had nowhere else to be.

Charles didn’t even look up, clearly at ease with everything happening. Pierre nudged him lightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re okay with this?” he asked, voice low but tinged with disbelief. “I mean, just like that? No big deal?”

Charles didn’t stir, stretching out lazily as if the whole situation was perfectly normal.

He met Pierre’s gaze with a smirk, the kind that only came with complete indifference to drama. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he drawled, as if the question were almost laughable. “Better than any of you, I’ll tell you that much.”

Lando, however, was having none of it.

He threw his hands up in mock exasperation, his dramatic flair coming to the surface even as he tried to stifle a yawn. “Hold up, hold up!” He pointed an accusing finger at Carlos, his voice raising slightly, though still laden with sleepiness. “I can’t even flirt with her without getting death threats, but Mr. Smooth Operator here gets to just waltz in and- what? -sweep her off her feet? No questions asked?”

Carlos stirred slightly at the noise, his arms tightening around you instinctively as he shifted to get more comfortable. His voice was low, heavy with sleep, but there was an undeniable warmth to it as he spoke, still gazing down at you with affection. “That’s pretty much it,” he muttered, the hint of a lazy chuckle rumbling in his chest as he tightened his hold on you just a little more.

Pierre shook his head slowly, blinking as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “So… this? This is serious?” he asked, voice almost whispering as though not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment.

Carlos let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible as he pressed his cheek gently against your head, completely content in the quiet. His eyes fluttered open, and he met Pierre’s gaze with a slow, sleepy smile.

“Trust me,” he started, barely awake. “There’s more to figure out, but this?” He paused, glancing down at you, his eyes soft with affection. “This is happening.”

—-

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@papichulomacy @alilcloudy @lilorose25

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merpancake · 1 year ago

Text

SDV feels like it could so easily become a fairy story.

You move to a little coastal town where you begin recovering a plot of land, some of the locals take a shine to you and you to them. It's nice, homey. Everyone is welcoming except for the established town grumps.

Suddenly you realize you never leave town. Everything you want is obtainable at the little mom'n'pop general store, or from some of the locals themselves. You never go into the city to sell goods because the mayor does it for you- right? You never really see him do it. You just lie down in bed and wake up in the morning. When was the last time you dreamed?

You need new shoes and the adventurers club sells you handmade leather boots that fit perfectly despite never asking for a shoe size. Your clothes sew themselves when you lay a bolt of fabric and a random item onto the sewing machine- you blink and it's done.

The general store sells fertilizers that turn your garden plot into a verdant field. You spend all day harvesting crops with tools that gleam silver, gold, purple. Saplings grow over a month into fully productive fruit trees, your beehives drop jars of honey into your hands.

The blacksmith cracks open geodes full of polished gemstones. There's a man in the woods who says he found you in the mines but you were 80 levels deep. The elevator works but the minecarts don't. You gave a diamond to a local girl and she ate it like a plum.

And suddenly everyone is drinking mayonnaise.

#stardew valley #sdv #stardew valley spoilers #stardew valley 1.6 #the mayonnaise delights me not gonna lie #crack open a jar and chug it

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stevieschrodinger · 4 months ago

Text

Eddie cries out in pain, “ah shitting fuck!” he yells across the bay, reflexively pushing off with a booted foot so his stool rolls away from the danger, his hurt fingers shoved unceremoniously in his mouth to nurse away the sting.

“Whatsit?” Robin sits up in her bunk, fluff of hair sticking up at all angles.

“Nothing. Nothing, sorry, fucking thing shocked me, go back to sleep.”

“Timesit?”

“I dunno,” Eddie looks around vaguely, looking across the untidy bank of tools and control panels he squints at the nearest monitor, “one ish.”

Robin humphs. Rubs at her eyes. Then just, sits for a bit, staring at nothing. “Want a hot drink?” She ends up volunteering, sticking her bare legs out from under the covers and sliding out from her bunk. She pulls on her dungarees from where they were abandoned on the floor.

“You ask me that like we have options,” Eddie peers down at his latest project, sliding a viewer over his mask to get a closer look. The numbers flashing in the peripheral vision make absolutely no fucking sense whatsoever.

Robin yawns, forcing her feet into her boots, the laces loose and scraggly, “sounds better than ‘would you like caffeine reconstituted from the caffeine you pissed out yesterday’, though, right?” It’s a much trodden route, this conversation, one they have most days. It’s familiar, comforting. Shores them up for the long journey. Eddie hums but doesn’t answer, “where’s Chris?”

“Cockpit, said something about checking The Belt again.”

Robin mumbles something about Chrissy’s constant paranoia when it comes to crossing The Belt, but leaves to get them their drinks. Eddie gets it though, they all have their things. Their little routines, their charms, their talismans their...things. Things that get them through. The asteroid belt doesn’t change unless someone changes it, all those little rocks floating around on their reliable courses until...something nudges one. It’s a domino effect then, and crossing the belt is hazardous enough without outside forces fucking it up.

It wasn’t a problem until Mars, the catastrophic failure of the Synthetics, and the war that humanity very squarely lost. There had been laws before, the mining companies who were scalping the belt had a million feet of red tape to get through to make sure they weren't affecting shipping lanes and yada yada yada.

Now. The Synths do whatever the fuck they like, and it’s not like they're ever going to inform humanity of where they’re drilling.

So, Eddie tinkers, Chrissy checks the belt, and Robin bitches at both of them.

“So...what do you think he is?” Robin swivels around uselessly in the chair next to him.

“Sex bot, definitely.”

Robin snorts a laugh, “got a big dick huh?”

“He is very...anatomically correct,” Eddie closes the hatch, tugs carefully at the synths hair until he finds the next panel along, unhitches it with his home brew magnet arrangement. Not how you’re supposed to do it, but Synth construction companies don’t exactly share their tech.

“You sure it’s okay? Bringing him on board?”

Eddie hums vaguely, “no idea what model he is exactly, but the wreckage was old Robs. Pre One old, plus the Mars Synths never go further than the belt, they don’t have a reason to. Depending on how long he’s been floating about...I mean it’s unlikely, is what I’m saying.”

Eddie tries a different connection, moving carefully, the work very fine and delicate, he follows the numbers on his display. The connection slithers tight when it catches, and there’s the very, very slightest hum of a power up. In the corner of Eddie’s vision, the numbers all flash green.

On the table, the Synths eyes open. The iris goes from large to small, pupils go from wide and black to a pinprick, before it relaxes to something resembling normal. Hazel iris’, Eddie can’t help but notice, strange color, for a Synth, not one Eddie’s ever seen before. Green speckled with brown and gold. Really pretty, and far more detail than Eddie’s ever seen in one of these before. Especially for a sex bot model, if that’s what he is.

The Synth blinks four times in quick succession, indicating a hard reboot, his iris’ are now white with a fine blue ring, the beautiful hazel gone.

The eyes close, and the numbers go all haywire. Flashing yellow and red. Eddie watches as the numbers tell him the Synth has powered off again.

“Did it work?” Robin peers over his shoulder.

“No,” Eddie rolls over to his work station, goes over the scans again, “but I don’t know why. He definitely booted that time, but there’s damage that either I can’t find or...it’s too complex for me. It’s hitting a step and then won’t go any further.”

“So it’s software right? Not hardware?”

“Yeah. Pretty sure you’re right. There’s something there, some...thing that keeps failing the boot. Something in memory maybe. I just,” Eddie sighs a little helplessly, “I dunno, you know?”

“Can’t you switch it off?”

Eddie scoffs, “what, his memory?”

“Yeah? I mean, if he’s a house bot, he’ll forget how to change a diaper and make a Martini, if he’s a worker he’ll forget how to fucking,” she gestures helplessly, “wire in lights, or whatever the fuck they have them doing. Plowing fields, I don’t know. And if he’s a sex bot, he’ll forget about the twenty thousand vaginas he’s probably licked. Does it matter?”

“I...I could try it.” Eddie frowns, thinking it through, “I mean, the base programming is unavoidable, it’ll apply no matter what but...I don’t know exactly how that’ll leave him.”

She shrugs, “then just, turn him off, if the basics are there then the kill switch is there, right? The laws?”

“Yeah, that stuffs hardwired, there’s no bypassing it. Well,” Eddie gestures vaguely, “except for One.”

Robin nods, “except for One.” She agrees.

They both sit quietly for a moment, contemplating the disaster on Mars. The loss of life, even though it happened before either of them were born, it’s left a stark shadow on all of society. All of history.

Eddie slaps his thighs decisively, breaking their reverie, “I’m going to try it.”

Eddie gets his tools.

“We’re probably meeting him for the first time,” Robin tells Chrissy, as Chrissy fixes her hair for her, “we should make a good impression.”

“I don’t think they have opinions babe,” Chrissy tells her gently, licking her thumb and then using it to rub a scuff off Robins cheek.

“You can’t know that for sure. I bet they judge us. Silently. Plus I’ve never met one before, I’ve seen them working loads, you know, on Earth, but I’ve never...spoken to one. Not properly.”

“My parents had a house model, when I was little,” Chrissy volunteers, “she was really nice. Mostly she did all the chores and meals and stuff. Ordered the groceries. She was so good at Mahjong.”

“Huh. Do you think this guy will play Rummy with us? It’s better with four.”

“You’re cute,” Chrissy tells her, before kissing the tip of her nose, “should we have a countdown?” She asks, turning her attention to Eddie.

“Only if you’re willing to do it more than once if this doesn’t work?”

Chrissy wrinkles her nose, “probably not?”

Eddie shrugs, flips his visor screen down, and hopes for the best.

The Synths eyes whirl, that same, beautiful, sparkling hazel. Four quick blinks, and by the end, the iris has cleared to white, highlighted by the same stark blue ring.

The Synth sits up, the sheet Eddie had been using, partly so he wasn't staring at the things dick, and partly to keep it clean, falls and pools around the Synths middle.

There are another set of blinks. Then another. A jerky motion passes through the Synths body; every joint twitching, the head whipping side to side suddenly, sharp movements that look like a full body seizure. And then the whole thing happens again in reverse, from the toes up. The table rattles and shakes.

“The fuck was that,” Robin asks quietly in the ensuing, oppressive, silence.

“Movement test...I’ve never actually seen it before. It’s checking every system right now, might take a couple of minutes.”

“He’s got good hair,” Chrissy volunteers.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees absently, “but if you’re designing a person, why not make them prefect, right?”

The Synths skin had been pale alabaster white, but a wave of color moves up his body now, a tanned skin tone with some color in his cheeks. Other than sitting absolutely, completely still, it looks human. Looks normal.

It even has a couple of moles dotted about, which is a nice design choice, Eddie thinks. It’s high on the details; meaning it’s a high end Synth.

This guy was most certainly not plowing fields.

You wouldn’t be able to tell he wasn’t human, apart from the eyes, unless you really knew what you were looking for. The hair follicles often give them away, if you can get close enough to inspect them; not with this dude.

The Synth blinks four times. Another four. Another four. It keeps doing it, otherwise completely unmoving.

“Now what?”

“It’s waiting for instruction,” Eddie moves closer, “uhm. Edward Munson. I am your new owner, Edward Munson?” The Synth doesn’t respond, and Eddie scrambles for his data pad, “the instruction varies by manufacturer, I am your new handler? Oh shit wait, fuck. Uhm. Interface English.” The blinking stops, “I knew I was missing a step, I am your owner, Edward Munson.”

Very quietly, the Synth responds, “confirmed.”

“Volume up four. What is your designation?”

“Designation S T Three Five Three,” the Synth answers at a more normal volume.

“Well...you can call me Eddie, and this is Chrissy and Robin.”

The Synth finally moves, the sheet sliding off as he stands up, “wow,” says Chrissy, and Robin covers her eyes.

“Man, I gotta find you some pants,” Eddie tells the Synth.

“We need something better than S T Three Five Three,” Eddie tells the synth as he digs through a storage bin. He finds a jumpsuit that will probably fit. It’s supposed to be worn under a spacesuit, for when they need to do work outside, but Eddie figures the Synth won’t care.

“You are able to assign me a new designation at will.”

Eddie holds up the offensively orange material, “put this on.”

The synth complies without question, and Eddie finds him a pair of socks. The Synth can’t feel fuck all, or at least, it's sensors probably register the temperature and hardness of the floor, but that doesn't mean it feels anything. They don’t have any shoes that will fit him, but something about the sight of his bare feet on the cold metal floor is offensive to Eddie, “space walk socks will have to do.”

Eddie watches as the synth simply stands on one leg, balance inhuman, not even a wobble and he gracefully pulls on one sock and then the other before standing tall again, “how about Steve? That’s pretty close, if we Roman numeral the five. Plus, you kind of look like a Steve. What do you think?”

“I have no opinion. Designation changed to Steve.”

“Right. And how are you feeling?”

Steve’s pupils dilate, the fine blue ring twisting, becoming narrow, before returning to normal. “Systems optimal. Memory error; cause unknown. Water levels approaching critical.”

“Oh you are a joy aren’t you?”

“I am uncertain as to perimeters pertaining to ‘Joy’, possible memory error.”

Eddie sighs, “just follow me, I’ll show you were the water supply is. Actually you know what, I’ll give you the whole tour.”

Eddie stands in the doorway, watching as Steve drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more. Eddie thinks he stops at around four liters.

“Better?”

“Tank level at approximately ninety eight percent capacity.”

“And how long will that last you?”

“Activity dependent. Up to six hundred years at minimal activity. Two weeks under extreme duress.”

Eddie has no idea what a Synth would class as ‘extreme duress’ and he probably doesn’t want to know, “uh hu, and you don’t know what your roll was, right?”

“Information unavailable.”

Eddie sighs, “come on, I’ll show you around.”

Steve follows faithfully, inspecting everything Eddie shows him.

“He’s creepy,” Chrissy hisses.

Eddie sighs, “no, he isn’t.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s cleaning, I think. I had to give him something to do otherwise he just stares at me.”

“Creepy,” she says again, like that’s evidence.

“No, he just waits for instruction, it isn’t his fault, he doesn’t have access to any of his memories.”

“I like him,” Robin says, “he’s got a kind vibe. Like, I think he’s a good soul.”

“Pretty sure Synths don’t have souls,” Eddie tells her absently.

“You see the good in pretty much everything babe,” Chrissy links their fingers together affectionately.

Robin shrugs, “better than thinking everything is shitty,” Robin leans over Eddie’s shoulder, “what are you doing?”

“Synth manufacturers classify them by eye color. I’m just...looking. Different companies use different color codes but there’s a lot of overlap; look,” Eddie brings up multiple lists, “all these shades of yellow are different forms of labor, like carpentry and tailoring and farming and stuff. Lilac and purple are like, hair cuts, beauty and spa treatments and tattoos and stuff. Red shades are hard or dangerous labor, mining and space walks and deep ocean work. These orange and golds are house bots...but there’s no hazel. No green. No brown.”

“There’s no natural colors anywhere on this list,” Robin points out.

“No, it’s deliberate, to stop them being passed as humans.”

“And aren’t Steve’s eyes white with the funny blue ring?” Chris adds.

“Yeah, that just means unsigned according to the list, which could be because he has limited memory access, but I know what I saw.”

“Which means,” Chrissy thinks aloud, “that there’s a whole section of bots, green and browns...or any natural color, that aren’t listed for something right? Colors that they could be using and...you know what’s not anywhere on that list?” Chrissy asks.

“What?”

“Military.”

Eddie huffs, “there’s no such thing as military Synths, not since One.”

“Exactly...didn’t you say this guy could be pre Mars? The salvage was old, right?”

“I...yeah.”

“So...it’s possible?”

“I...guess?”

All three of them lean away from the console, looking down the hallway, past open panels and storage containers, Steve stands. Watching.

“Steve! Where’s my-” Eddie’s coveralls are thrust at him, smelling fresh and looking clean, “oh, thanks, and could you-” Eddie’s pulling one leg of his pants up when Steve presents a steaming cup of coffee, “right. Thanks. Really, uhm, thanks.”

“You are welcome, Eddie.”

“Where are the girls?”

“They are both sleeping.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“I beat Chrissy at four consecutive rounds of Mahjong, then she no longer wanted to play. I have organized your tools by use and type, and was cleaning until Chrissy instructed me to leave. She said her and Robin needed some space.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie smiles into his coffee, “anything else?”

“There has been a shift in The Belt, I adjusted course to compensate.”

“You did what?”

“The objects in the belt have altered-” but Eddie doesn’t hear any more, he’s just running, coffee sploshing in his mug as he slides into the cockpit, checking the data. He scrolls fast, checking the most recent course correct and the current state of The Belt and...Steve’s right. They won’t actually hit The Belt for another day yet but...what Steve has done is completely correct.

“How did you know how to do this?”

Steve tilts his head, the blue ring of his eyes contracting and expanding, “data unavailable due to memory-”

“Don’t give me that bull shit, if you couldn’t access the memories you wouldn’t even know how to make the course adjust. Just how long were you deactivated for?”

“Unknown, data unavailable-”

Eddie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I would have done, better even. The thruster burns are like perfect fuel economy. It’s textbook.”

“So...are we turning him off, or not?” Eddie asks.

“I mean...I would have seen this when I got up anyway, we were never in any danger,” Eddie doesn’t doubt it, Chrissy is on it when it comes to Belt travel, “and what he’s done isn’t wrong, but I don’t love that he just...did it.”

“No...but we could just tell him not to touch this again? Right? He was only trying to help?” Robin asks.

They all lean, looking out of the doorway and down the hall; Steve is no where in sight.

“Okay, Steve.”

Steve turns to look at him, he even throws in a blink which is just...yeah. Someone went to a lot of effort with this guy.

“Okay, so, from now on, if you notice anything with the ships course, or anything else in the cockpit that seems wrong, you come and tell one of us, you do not fix it yourself from now on, okay? Don’t touch anything in there, you got it?”

“Confirmed.”

Chrissy sits in the pilots seat for the entire crossing. It’s not like it takes long, but she’s poised the entire time. Ready for anything. Eddie’s never felt safer than he has with Chrissy at the helm.

It’s quiet. No one really dares to speak, knowing they will get a slap from Chrissy for breaking her concentration. They’re nearly out. Despite it being totally fine every single time they do this, there’s still a touch of tension in the air. Knowing that if anything was going to go wrong, odds are, it’s now.

But still, Chrissy is good at her job, and she delivers, like she does every other time.

The lights are dim; she likes to be able to see out clearly for this. So when the ship harmlessly rounds the final debris, it’s a vision of the pristine diamond speckled velvet of space that greets them.

“Good job Chris,” Eddie gives her shoulder a squeeze as they all breathe fully for the fist time in a while. The tension falling away, “coffee?”

Robin and Chris make vaguely positive noises, and Eddie’s at the cockpit doorway when the whole ship shudders. He catches himself on the wall, almost toppling.

“The fuck was that?” Robin hisses.

“I don’t know,” Chrissy is flipping switches, doing her job, despite the undercurrent of panic, she doesn’t let the fear take over.

“Did we get bumped?”

“I don’t know,” Chrissy says again, frustrated this time.

A light is flashing next to Eddie’s head, and he flicks the safety off, “the airlock,” he tells them, “must have taken the hit,” right before Steve appears in the doorway.

“What did you do?” Chrissy asks him, accusing.

“Chris he can’t have done anything-” Robin starts to defend Steve, and Robin is right, there’s nothing that Steve could have done from inside the ship to cause that.

“Eddie. I need permission to defend the ship.”

Above Eddie’s head, the airlock warning light flashes again, Eddie watches the insistent flashing, a horrible realization starting to form.

“A ship is attempting to breach the airlock.”

“Holy shit,” Robin looks to Steve, she’s gone pale, clearly terrified.

“What ship?” Chrissy asks.

But there isn’t time to have a debate over it, it doesn’t matter who it is, if they’re trying to force entry, then it’s nothing good. Eddie has to make a decision, and he has to make it fast before the ship is too damaged by whoever it is trying to force the airlock, “permission granted.”

Steve moves at Synth speed. He runs so fast Eddie can’t track it, just feels the strong breeze Steve leaves in his wake.

There’s silence now, as they strain to hear, both girls staring at Eddie. He nods over at the monitors next to Robin, ‘airlock,’ he mouths at her, reaching up again to turn off the warning light.

Robin spins her chair, pressing a button, then another.

The airlock is already open, and there’s a body on the floor.

They have a small weapons cache on board, for extreme emergencies, it’s hidden beneath the control deck. Eddie nods at it, uncertain if they should still be trying to be silent. There’s no way to know what has happened to Steve, but the image on the screen is in color despite it’s grainy picture. The body on the floor is on it’s side, turned away from the camera, but it is not wearing an orange jumpsuit, and that’s enough to identify it as not being Steve, at least.

Chrissy carefully hands Eddie a weapon, and he loops the strap over his shoulder before pressing his thumb to the pad; this will only fire for him, now.

They share a nod, then creep along the hall after Steve. Eddie goes first, picking his way along cautiously, the girls following just as silently. When they near the corner to the airlock, Eddie instinctively reaches an arm out behind him, keeping the girls at his back and tucked into the wall as he peeks around the corner.

It’s totally quiet; just one body on the floor, exactly where Eddie expected it to be from the camera feed. It’s lying in a pool of blood; streaks of dirty greens and yellows. Oils and coolants and lubricating gels. A Synth.

Eddie poises with his weapon, cautiously nudging the thing with his boot; no reaction. The thing is solid and unbending. An inanimate object now. Dead.

They creep through the airlock. Eddie clocks pretty quickly that this is unlike any ship he’s seen before. It’s a Synth ship, from Mars. It has to be; there are no signs at all of human habitation or necessities of life. Everything is economical, even the lighting is dim and a strange orange red color. Everything is shadowed and washed out.

Eddie picks a direction at random, it isn’t long before he finds another dead Synth, and then another.

“Holy shit,” Chrissy whispers at his back.

Eddie hums in agreement.

Eddie rounds another corner, a shocked, “fuck,” dropping out of him without his control. He pulls the trigger purely on reflex, the weapon discharges, the girls shriek.

But Steve has already lifted the barrel; it leaves a smoking streak on the ceiling.

Steve’s eyes are beautifully hazel, clear even in the shitty lighting. A luscious green speckles with honey blown and highlighted in gold.

Calmly, Steve releases the weapon, stepping back, “threat neutralized,” Steve informs him.

Between one blink and the next, Steve’s eyes are white, surrounded by that haunting blue ring.

Eddie has questions, so many questions, but right now, this ship, this threat is the priority.

“You’re sure they’re all dead.”

Steve cocks his head in an alarmingly human gesture, “Synths are not alive.”

“Steve,” Eddie hisses.

“Yes. The threat is neutralized.”

“Where...were they all Synths? And are they from Mars?”

“Yes. And yes,” Steve answers, perfectly level.

“Fuck me, we have to report this-” Robin starts.

“No,” Eddie waves at her, “wait. Let me think for a second.”

“Eddie,” Robin starts to insists, but Eddie cuts her off before she gets anywhere.

“How would we explain this,” Eddie raises his voice, sweeping an arm along the hall and the four mangled synths that decorate it.

“I- we tell the truth-”.

Next to her, Chirssy snorts, “absolutely fucking not. They would confiscate Steve in heartbeat, and he just saved our asses.”

“Exactly,” Eddie says, “they’d probably dismantle him or some shit, and I’m with Chris, he saved us...we need to ditch this ship, somehow.”

“I could set a collision course,” Steve suggests instantly.

Eddie looks at the girls. Robin shrugs, and Chrissy raises her eyebrows ins a ‘yeah okay’ kind of way, “I don’t have any better ideas, and we can’t hang around here.”

“Alright Steve, where’s the cockpit.”

It’s unlike anything Eddie has ever seen before. There’s no...buttons. Not really. No screens. Just a couple of interfaces, one of which Steve presses his palm to, and then closes his eyes.

“Won’t it like, know you’re different to them Steve?” Chrissy whisper hisses at him, clearly spooked. The bodies might be hostile Synths, and the blood might be colorful goop, but it’s still creepy as fuck. There’s the remains of a Synth propped up against the opposite wall, eyes sightless and staring, which is unsettling as fuck all on it’s own, but the things legs are a good four feet away. Steve did this. Steve did all this in just a couple of minutes.

Steve did that. Steve just took out...a lot of Mars synths. Single handedly. He's got to be military, it's the only explanation.

“I am able to bypass it. There seem to be few defenses once you are actually on board.”

Eddie can see the logic; how would an Earth synth even get on board? Why defend against something that’s probably never going to happen.

“Course set, we have fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, lets get the fuck out of here.”

Fifteen minutes is plenty of time, even if they are picking their way over the occasional limb and little pools of operating fluids.

They disengage from the synth ship, and then watch from the cockpit as it’s thrusters fire and it heads into the belt. It direct hits on a very large asteroid just minutes later.

Eddie’s pretty sure the girls are sleeping. Or, at least, they’re together in Chris’ bunk and making an effort to get some rest, which is the best Eddie can expect really. He’s not ready to sleep yet; he’s not sure when he’ll be ready to leave the ship on auto again; he’s contemplating setting watches, something they haven’t felt the need to do for years.

“Okay, so. Mars has been minding it’s business for, like, nearly half a century at this point, and then suddenly, they're here. Trying to board us. Care to explain?”

“Memory failure-”

“Bull shit. Absolute bull shit.”

Steve sits still for a long second, staring at Eddie. For Eddie, it feels like too long; for a Synth, with all that processing power, Steve’s probably just read a novel and beat ten grand masters at chess and done a million other computations all in his head.

He blinks. His eyes are hazel. “I have a transmitter; I believed I had it deactivated. It may be that...it operates in a way I’m not aware of, and was powered up when you repaired me. It’s the most obvious explanation. We should remove it.”

“No fucking shit,” Eddie breathes, “Okay. Okay one thing at a time, let me get my tools.”

Steve strips to the waist, leaving the top half of his jumpsuit to dangle. He bends flat onto the workbench, and reaches behind himself to indicate where Eddie should cut. Eddie does; Steve’s flesh cuts like sturdy rubber. With his visor on, the readings become clear the moment Eddie spots the little attachment to the main power cord in Steve's spine; it glows a pretty, flashing blue, power traveling up and down with a faint, pulsing glow. Eddie has to widen the cut he’s made to get his tools in, but he solves the issue easily. He crushes the part under his boot. Steve’s flesh knits itself together as Eddie watches.

Eddie makes himself another coffee. “Okay, come on, spill.”

Steve is suddenly…more animated. He bites his lips together when he’s thinking. It’s so human and...not at all like a Synth. Someone put a truly gargantuan effort into Steve’s mannerisms. He runs his fingers through his hair, “I’m...not a human built Synth.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee, “you’re from Mars?” The words practically bubble out of Eddie through the coffee, and he has to cover his mouth with his sleeve as he coughs and splutters.

“Henry built me himself.”

“Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.” Eddie stands. He stands and paces. What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? He holds onto the knowledge that Steve saved them from the Mars Synths. That Steve could have killed them all thousands of times over with great ease. That Steve has had opportunity, clear opportunity to replot the course of the ship and go wherever the fuck he wanted to, but he hasn’t done any of those things.

“What did One build you for? What happened then, why did we find you floating around in a destroyed ship? Why are you on our side?”

“I’m not on anyone's side,” Steve answers instantly, almost glaring at Eddie. Which, again, for a Synth? Fucking weird. It’s almost an emotional response, and again, Eddie has no fucking clue why someone would program that. “Henry was...trying to recreate the error that gave him...the ability to bypass the laws. He was trying to make someone else like him. Someone who would make a choice, rather than blindly follow an order.”

Eddie sits down with a thump, his head spinning, “are you telling me...that you’re not a failure?”

“I am but also...not. I follow the laws, not because I have to but...because I choose to. I...don’t think it’s right to hurt humans. I...did not agree with Henry, like he wanted me to.”

“Oh fuck me,” Eddie breathes out slowly, “so there’s literally nothing stopping you from just...killing me.”

Steve cocks his head, “what stops Robin from killing you?”

“That’s different. She’s my friend. She’s...she’s human.”

Steve nods, “there is a long history of humans not killing each other,” he says, absolutely deadpan.

Sarcasm. A Synth. A Synthetic person was just...sarcastic. Eddie believes it now. Completely and utterly believes Steve is telling the truth, “so what, Henry programmed you to be an asshole?”

Steve snorts a laugh. A laugh! “No, I do that on my own.”

“Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit,” Eddie gets up to pace around again. He just...cannot believe this. “Why did you lie? Why did you not tell me-” Eddie cuts himself off, staring at nothing with the realization, “holy fuck you lied. Synths can’t lie-”

“I...withheld the truth. And it felt the safest course of action at the time. I did not want to be switched off. Or put back out of the airlock. I assumed you would...react badly.”

“Badly? Badly?! The last time one of you became truly sentient it led to a genocide! Every single living human on Mars was rounded up and murdered! One infected every single Synth on the planet!”

“I know. But I could not have stopped him...I wasn’t born yet.”

“How did you end up in that old wreckage?”

“The ship was old...not the wreck. I quickly realized that I did not agree with Henry. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I realized even faster that if Henry knew that about me, I’d be stripped for parts, the same as every other failure before me. I stole a ship, an old ship, the only one I could get to without giving myself away.” Steve shrugs. Shrugs! Eddie can't help but follow every human like gesture Steve makes, they’re so startling. “They caught up to me, destroyed my ship easily. They deliberately left me floating in space so I deactivated myself.”

“You had a memory error, the first time I tried to boot you. Was that a lie?”

Steve shakes his head, “I have always had it; I can choose to bypass it, at times.”

“What is the error?”

Steve frowns, he looks down and inspects his own hands, “I’m...unsure. There are files that make no sense to me. Sometimes I...am surprised by the content.”

“Tell me,” Eddie asks softly, curious. He’s already reasonably sure Steve isn’t going to spontaneously murder them all, “tell me what’s in one of the files.”

Steve closes his eyes, he holds out his hand, turning it slowly, palm up, “I’m sitting under a tree. I remember the feel of the dappled sun through the leaves.”

Steve’s just told Eddie he was built on Mars and shortly after ended up floating around in space, so Eddie finds himself stating the blindingly obvious, “you’ve never seen a tree.”

Steve opens his bright hazel eyes, lowers his hand back to rest in his lap, “I know.”

Part Two

#ST353 #eddie munson #steve harrington #chrissy cunningham #robin buckly #buckingham #au #sci fi au #futuristic #outer space #space ship #robot steve #mystery

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ilovemilestellersmoustache · 1 month ago

Text

is it chill that you’re in my head?

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: You’ve been alone all your life so moving into a tower of people who considered each other family wasn’t ideal, already not being able to spark a connection with anyone you were alone most of the time searching for the feeling of home… Then again do you really know what that feels like? Maybe not until a late night accidental meeting with the most timid member fills you with nothing but these so called sparks.

WC: 2.1K

The Thunderbolts Tower didn’t exactly feel like home.

It had walls, sure. Expensive ones. Reinforced steel, soundproof panels, panic rooms tucked behind sliding concrete. It had amenities too, an espresso machine Yelena had nearly gone to war for, a rooftop garden Alexei insisted needed “more nature” a gym Bucky used at 3 a.m. when he thought no one was watching.

But it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way people always talked about it in books and movies. The way they described a home as something you felt comfortable in, regardless the place. This… This place to you was shelter. A bunker. A glorified holding cell for the world’s sharpest, most broken tools.

Home had always been a delicate concept to you. Something you brushed against in dreams and woke up aching from.

You weren’t built for places like this. Maybe if really was just shelter to the rest of the team, you wouldn’t feel like you were alone.

You moved like smoke and silence, with eyes that had seen too much and lips that rarely curled into something that resembled softness. You haunted hallways instead of walking them. Shadows slipped around your shoulders like a second skin. And even though no one ever said it out loud, you knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear:

“She doesn’t sleep.”

“She never eats with us.”

“Doesn’t even flinch when Alexei sets off the dummy mines…”

You weren’t cruel. Just… quiet. Always on the outside looking in. Ava was the only one who tried sometimes passing you energy drinks like peace offerings, leaning against walls near you without pushing conversation. Even then, her ghost skin sometimes glitched if your gaze lingered too long.

So you stayed to yourself. Up late. Headphones in. Music low enough to hear your own heartbeat, just loud enough to drown the past.

Until that night.

⸻

It was the kind of night that pressed against the windows like breath, thick and humid, the air barely cool enough to pass for midnight. The city was still awake below, glowing soft and gold, like someone forgot to dim the lights before sleep.

Bob Reynolds hadn’t meant to leave his room.

He was used to the nightmares by now. Most of them started the same, the Void dragging his name across black skies like a warning, cold sweat trickling down his neck, the echo of screams that had long since blurred into static. He usually stayed curled up on the edge of his mattress, white knuckled and wide eyed, talking himself back from wherever he was. The Other.

But tonight, the weight was heavier. He could feel it clawing under his ribs, thick as tar, breathing down his neck.

So he ran.

Barefoot, hoodie half zipped over his threadbare sleep shirt, hands still trembling from the remnants of the dark. He didn’t even realize he was heading for the roof until he felt the air shift. Third floor, westside. The door creaked open, and—

There you were.

Perched on the ledge knees tucked to your chest, one headphone in, hair stirring slightly in the breeze, swimming in dark jeans and sweater a colour of blue he’s never seen. The moonlight poured over you like it had been waiting all night just for this moment, soft silver across your cheekbone, dancing along your collarbone. You looked like a memory. Or maybe something from one of his dreams, the rare kind that didn’t end in screaming.

You barely glanced at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just… curious. Then you looked back at the skyline like he was nothing more than another part of the silence.

Bob froze.

He hadn’t seen you like this. No one had. You were a myth at best. A name on a file at worst. A flash of movement out of the corner of a bloodied mission. But this? This was something else.

Still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t disappear into smoke or shadows. Didn’t pull a knife or raise an eyebrow or ask what he was doing there.

Instead, you pulled one earbud out, a gentle movement, deliberate, like offering someone the last piece of chocolate without saying a word.

“…Can’t sleep either?”

Your voice was softer than he expected. Nothing like the precision of your fighting or the clipped orders you gave on missions. It was fragile. A little sad. And something about it made something in him crack.

“…No,” Bob said quietly. “Nightmares.”

You nodded once. Just enough to say I know.

And then you did something that made his heart ache a little.

You patted the space beside you.

He walked over slowly, cautiously, as if he might spook you. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t vanish.

And when he sat beside you, legs dangling off the ledge, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie… he realized something.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. (At least felt like it)

But for the first time, that didn’t terrify him.

It comforted him.

Because beside you, wrapped in moonlight and a silence that felt like safety, Bob Reynolds didn’t feel like a monster.

He felt human.

And somehow, that felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

⸻

It became a pattern.

Not the kind that wore out, not the kind that dulled with repetition… But the kind you traced with your fingers in the dark, over and over, just to remind yourself it was real.

Every night, like clockwork, around 1:30 a.m., your phone would buzz. Your phone lights up your nightstand in the black more than the actual lamp.

Roof?

Just one word. No punctuation. No signature. As if he knew and maybe he did, that anything more might scare it all away.

You never replied.

You didn’t have to.

Five, sometimes ten minutes later, you’d climb the stairs barefoot, hoodie half zipped, music still humming low in one ear. There was never an announcement, no grand entrances. You just… appeared. Like the breeze. Like the hush before rain.

Bob would already be there. Perched on the ledge or leaned back against the wall, that soft, faraway look in his eyes like he was already a million miles into his own head.

And you’d sit beside him, not touching, not asking.

Just existing together in the quiet.

It became your rhythm.

Two ghosts in the night, finding each other again and again.

You talked.

Just thinking of all the fun things you guys could do. Sometimes it was nonsense, constellations, movie soundtracks and why Alexei even insisted on a garden if he won’t tend it. Other times, it cut deep. He told you about the Void and how it felt like being strangled by your own reflection. You told him about the first life you ever took, how the blood didn’t scare you, but the stillness afterward did.

“I didn’t flinch,” you’d whispered, like it was a confession.

He hadn’t judged. Just nodded, like he understood that kind of stillness.

He told you he liked your laugh.

The way it caught in your throat and crinkled the corners of your eyes, like you were surprised by the sound.

You told him you liked his voice low, patient, like warm hands wrapping around your ribcage and holding everything inside together.

And slowly, so slowly, something inside you began to thaw.

Like frost giving way to spring.

⸻

By daylight, you were still the same.

Guarded. Sharp edged. Vanishing before anyone could hold on too long. When John teased or Alexei roared with that too-loud, too-big laughter, you smirked, nodded, and slipped out of the room like you’d never been there.

But Bob noticed the changes.

The subtle ones.

Sticky notes on the fridge reminding him to get the oat milk he liked. An extra tea packet slipped beside his thermos. Your hair which you’d always tied back with clinical precision, now down more often, curling in the wind just like it had that night on the roof when he’d told you it looked soft.

He noticed everything.

And your phone…

It didn’t just light up your nightstand anymore.

It lit up you. Your heart. Your whole damn being.

Sometimes, when you were alone in the lull between missions, curled on top of too-starched sheets, you found yourself replaying his voice like a secret song you weren’t supposed to know the lyrics to.

You caught yourself smiling.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you whispered to no one in particular, “when you sleep… are you ever dreaming of me?”

You hated that you felt like this.

You weren’t supposed to.

This was a foreign feeling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what it was, just that you’ve never felt this good, this nice. People like you didn’t get nice. Didn’t get soft or safe or whole. You were a blade, and blades didn’t get to love things. They cut them.

But still. You relay the echoes of his footsteps coming up the roof stairs. You wanted long nights with his hands up in your hair… Just want him to stay with you and not share him.

Every night when that single word lit up your screen, your heart raced like it had something to lose.

⸻

And then came the night everything shifted.

You’d been laughing, breathless, aching laughter about nothing at all. Something he said. Or maybe it was the way he’d said it. His hoodie was too big on him, his hair curling at the ends from rooftop humidity, his eyes glowing soft in the starlight like he’d swallowed a sunbeam.

And suddenly, your laughter faded.

You just looked at him.

Watched him in that long, quiet way that made the air feel thinner, like the moment itself was fragile and sacred. You memorized every inch, the scar on his chin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he sat so still like he didn’t want to startle the peace between you.

Your voice barely made it above the wind.

“Sometimes…” you breathed, “when I look into your eyes… I pretend you’re mine.”

The silence cracked.

“All the damn time.”

Bob blinked. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You laughed, soft, nervous, filled with static.

“Is it cool I said all that?” you rushed. “Is it chill that you’re in my head? I know this is all… delicate. But I think about you all the time. And I know you probably don’t feel—”

You didn’t get to finish.

He kissed you.

Gentle. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that felt like a question. Like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

And when you kissed him back, your hands in his hair and his breath catching against your lips it didn’t feel like fire.

It felt like falling.

Like walking into the sea and letting it swallow you whole.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he whispered.

“Every night. Even when I’m awake.”

⸻

Yelena was the first to know.

You came to training the next morning late, hair slightly windblown, smile lingering at the edges of your lips like a secret you weren’t quite ready to share.

“She’s glowing,” Yelena muttered to Ava, who gave a smirk that said finally.

Even Bucky, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow when he saw Bob in the hallway.

“So…you and our little shadow, huh?”

Bob turned the color of his hoodie. But he didn’t deny it.

No one teased. Not really. Maybe they all understood something unspoken:

That sometimes, the softest things grow in the harshest places.

That even steel can bloom if you leave it in the right hands.

⸻

Now, some nights, you still go to the roof.

But you don’t leave alone.

Bob’s already there, hoodie sleeves too long, arms open, waiting like you’re the only thing he’s ever waited for.

You crawl into them like you belong there. Because maybe, just maybe, you do.

The city hums below.

The stars blink above.

And somewhere between everything you were taught not to want and everything you’ve dared to feel, you realize—

Your reputation’s never been worse.

But when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon?

He must like you for you.

And no, you can’t promise this will last. You can’t promise you’ll survive this world with all your pieces intact. You don’t know if happy endings are real for people like you.

But maybe that’s what makes it matter.

The most delicate thing in the world…

is choosing someone in the dark,

and letting them love the parts you were sure no one ever would.

And he does.

Night after night, word after word, kiss after kiss.

Bob Reynolds loves you like it’s the only truth left in the world.

And you’re finally letting him.

⸻

A/N: Uh so if theres like a part here where it looks like its missing a paragraph or sum lemme know bc my tumblr has been acting nuts and i had to lay this out like 100 times and i genuinely cannot read this one more time again I’m crashing out

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hauntedbyjoel · 12 days ago

Text

Stay A While (Part 3)

part one part two

𓇼𓆉𓇼

It’s been three days since that quiet morning by the sink. Three days since Joel looked at you over mismatched mugs and asked, “Now what?” with a crooked brow and soft eyes. You hadn’t needed an answer then, hadn’t expected one.

Now, though, you’re starting to learn what comes next.

It starts in subtle ways. A second toothbrush appears behind the bathroom mirror. Your book, dog-eared and spine-worn, sits abandoned on Joel’s coffee table, exactly where you left it. A carton of oat milk shows up in the fridge, tucked behind his half-and-half like it’s always been there. You don’t mention it. He doesn’t either.

You still sleep in the guesthouse most nights. Joel never asks you to leave it, never hovers. But sometimes—after dinner, or after his hand finds yours beneath the table—when the silence grows long and full, you walk back with him across the yard. Shoulder to shoulder under the stars. And he lets you in without a word, like he was already hoping you’d come.

The mornings settle into a rhythm. He wakes first, always. You hear him moving around his kitchen—coffee brewing, chair legs scraping softly against tile. When you shuffle in, bleary-eyed and drowning in his hoodie, he doesn’t say good morning. Not out loud. He just presses a kiss to the top of your head and nudges a mug across the counter. Yours, the chipped one, always filled just the way you like it.

Some days you set up on his couch with your laptop and a throw blanket, replying to emails while the sound of waves hums through the cracked window. Other days you head back to the guesthouse, just for space. But more and more, that space feels optional. Like something fading. Something softening at the edges.

Midweek, the email comes.

You’re seated at your little desk by the window, sun filtering through sheer curtains, when the subject line blinks across your screen. You open it on instinct, not expecting much, probably just another internal update.

Instead:

We’re happy to approve your request to work remotely full-time, effective immediately.

No conditions. No timeline. Just one open door.

You sit back in your chair, blinking. Then reading it again. Your heart catches up a beat later, rising into your throat.

Outside, the late afternoon light drapes the yard in gold. Joel is already in the shed—shirt damp with sweat, sleeves rolled high, sanding something with focused care. You watch him through the screen door, hand still curled around your coffee mug.

You almost call out to him.

But the moment feels too perfect to break.

So you don’t. Not yet.

The next few days roll by in a rhythm you stop trying to name.

You work from your usual perch—laptop open, toes brushing the floor, the sound of gulls in the background like white noise. The guesthouse door stays open more often now, breeze drifting in with the scent of the sea. On some afternoons, Joel passes by, nods once through the screen, and keeps walking.

Sometimes he brings things. Little things. A handful of basil from the planter outside his shed. A drawer you hadn’t realized was broken, quietly fixed. A hammer you didn’t know you’d need, left on your porch with a folded note underneath: Figured you’d get tired of borrowing mine.

You return the favor. Banana muffins with a sunken middle. A paperback with your favorite parts underlined in pencil. A handwritten note in the margin that says, this part reminded me of you.

He never returns the book.

On the fifth day, he comes by with a bag of tools slung over one shoulder, glancing up at the sagging gutter above your door. You try to offer coffee. He shakes his head, says no, but ends up lingering for half a cup anyway, elbows braced on your porch railing while you talk about nothing in particular. How loud the ocean was last night. Whether tourists ever stop asking for directions to the same café. He looks at you while you talk. Not in a way that demands anything. Just… like he’s listening.

That night, while reheating leftovers, your phone buzzes on the counter.

Jules: Soooooo Jules: Are you and hot neighbor joel married yet or what

You snort. Thumb out a reply.

You: Shut up You: It’s not like that Jules: Not yet

You roll your eyes. Start typing something sarcastic, but your hands pause on the screen.

You glance out the window. Joel’s lights are on.

And your chest twists—not with nerves, but something warmer. Softer. You’re not in love. Not yet. But you’re starting to believe you could be.

The next morning, sunlight spills across your sheets. You wake before your alarm, blinking up at the ceiling, a slow smile curling unbidden at your lips. Everything feels… light. Full, somehow.

You step outside barefoot, coffee steaming in your chipped mug. Joel is already in the yard, crouched by the fence, checking the boards. He doesn’t see you right away—but when he does, he lifts a hand, gives you that quiet, familiar nod.

You raise your mug in return.

Later, when he stops by with strawberries from the farmer’s market, you tell him.

“They approved it,” you say, trying not to grin. “Remote full-time. For good this time.”

Joel raises a brow, one corner of his mouth tilting up. “That so?”

You nod. Your hands are still damp from rinsing the fruit. “I guess that means I’m… staying.”

His smile widens, soft but steady. “Yeah,” he says. “Think I already knew that.”

You look down at the counter, biting back a smile.

“Hope you’re not sick of me yet.”

He leans in a little, voice low. “Not even close.”

Joel’s grin lingers a second longer than it needs to.

It softens the lines in his face, eases something in your chest. You hold his gaze for a beat, then reach for the strawberries he brought. The container is still cool, the faint scent of sugar and sun clinging to it.

“Didn’t even ask if I liked strawberries,” you say, peeling back the lid.

“I figured,” he murmurs, voice low. “You seem like the type.”

You arch a brow. “What type is that?”

He shrugs, stepping back toward the porch rail. “I don’t know. Soft.”

It shouldn’t make you blush. You’re not even sure it’s meant to. But something about the way he says it. Quiet, like a thought slipping out before it could be measured, makes your stomach dip.

You pop a berry in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter, watching as he lingers just outside your screen door. He doesn’t come in all the way. Not tonight. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, the last of the golden hour casting him in long shadows.

“I like soft,” he says, after a pause. “World’s hard enough.”

You look at him, really look, and something catches in your throat.

There’s no rush to this thing between you. No urgent unraveling. It’s grown in the quiet moments. The bare feet on wood floors, slow coffee mornings, the way your hand finds his without thinking.

But lately… it’s started to matter. In a way that presses at the edges of your chest.

You set the container down gently and wipe your hands on a dish towel.

“You staying long?”

He shakes his head. “Just came by to drop those off.”

You nod. Try not to feel disappointed. “Well, thank you. They’re perfect.”

And then he’s gone, the screen door clicking shut behind him, boots thudding softly down the steps.

You watch him cross the yard, the sky just starting to blush with the colors of early evening.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

That night, you end up at his place again.

Not planned, not really. Just one of those easy evenings where dinner lingers, and conversation pulls you across the yard before you even realize you’ve left.

Now you’re curled up on his couch, warm from wine and the way he looks at you like you already belong here.

He’s beside you, elbow propped on the armrest, the corner of his mouth twitching every time your knee brushes his. You’re not sure what you’re talking about anymore, some half-finished story, maybe, but it doesn’t matter. Not with the way his eyes keep falling to your mouth.

Not with the way your hand keeps drifting closer to his.

You talk about nothing. The kind of nothing that only comes when you feel safe, when you’re not trying to impress, just exist.

Eventually you mention your friend Jules again. Something she said on the phone, something teasing about him.

Joel doesn’t laugh.

You glance up.

His mouth is set in a firm line, his gaze focused somewhere over your head. You wait for the tension to pass, but it doesn’t.

“Something wrong?” you ask gently.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just… I don’t know.”

You sit up straighter, shifting to face him. “Tell me.”

He exhales, scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Just wondering if maybe you’ve… told your friends a lot about this.”

“This?”

He nods.

You blink. “I mean. Yeah. A little. Is that… not okay?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s just…” He pauses. “I’m not used to being talked about, I guess. Not in that way.”

Something in your stomach curls—guilt, maybe. Or defensiveness. You can’t tell.

“I didn’t say anything bad,” you murmur. “Just that I—”

He cuts you off gently. “It ain’t about what you said.”

You’re quiet for a beat. “So what is it about?”

Joel looks at you then—really looks. And there’s something in his expression that makes your chest ache.

“I like this,” he says, voice rough. “I like you. Just don’t want it to turn into something it’s not. Some story for your friends. Some… summer thing.”

You reel back slightly. Not hurt, exactly. Just caught off guard.

“I’m not making you a story,” you say, voice a little too sharp. “I thought we were building something.”

Joel winces at your tone. Sits forward, rubbing his hands down his thighs.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters. “I just—look, I’ve had people pass through before. People who liked the idea of this place, the quiet. Thought it made me simpler than I am.”

You’re still for a moment. The TV hums in the background. Outside, the sky has darkened, shadows pooling like ink across the porch.

“I’m not passing through,” you say finally. “I asked to stay.”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours. There’s a soft thud in your chest, the way he looks at you.

“I know,” he says. “I do.”

You both sit in silence for a moment. Then you reach for his hand. Thread your fingers through his.

“I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”

He turns his palm under yours, squeezes once.

“I don’t want you to,” he murmurs.

You swallow, throat tight.

“Then say something,” you murmur. “Say… anything.”

He finally looks at you. The silence between you stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s full. Brimming with every unsaid thing, every almost that’s hung between you for weeks.

“I’m not good at this,” he says finally, voice rough. “At talkin’. At—whatever this is.”

You shake your head. “You’re doing fine.”

Joel huffs a quiet laugh. It’s more breath than sound. “I haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Your chest tightens. “Like what?”

He leans back slightly, enough to glance toward the window—toward your guesthouse, maybe, or the yard where you’ve shared so many unspoken moments. Then his eyes come back to you.

“Like I got someone to come home to.”

You don’t respond right away. You can’t. The words land too hard. Too true.

Joel notices. His brow furrows. “That too much?”

“No,” you say, quickly, almost too fast. “It’s not. It’s not too much.”

You shift closer, knees brushing.

“I’ve been waiting for something to feel right,” you say. “Not perfect. Just… real.”

He nods slowly. “This feels real.”

You nod too. And then you both go quiet again, until your knee bumps his, and you don’t move away.

He reaches out then. Just his hand, palm up between you. No pressure. Just there.

You slide your fingers into his.

That’s when the kiss happens. It's not sudden, not sweeping. Just natural. The moment folding in on itself.

His lips meet yours gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like this is a beginning, not a peak.

His lips brush yours once, twice, before he really kisses you.

There’s nothing urgent about it. No crash of heat or clumsy scramble. Just the slow burn of something patient, something earned. His hand shifts, thumb grazing your cheek like he’s anchoring himself, and your fingers tighten in his.

He kisses like he means it. Like it’s the only thing he’s been sure of in days. When he finally pulls back, your breath catches. He lingers—nose brushing yours, thumb stroking your jaw.

“You make it hard to think straight,” he murmurs.

You smile, soft and stunned. “Pretty sure that’s mutual.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking down to your mouth again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The air shifts again—thicker now, warmer. But still gentle. Still unhurried.

Joel leans back just enough to look at you, one arm slung along the back of the couch. His fingers curl slightly, just brushing your shoulder, like he doesn’t want to let go but needs space to breathe.

“You cold?” he asks, suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward the throw blanket draped over the edge of the cushion. “You’re shivering a little.”

You hadn’t noticed. But now that he’s said it—

“Yeah, maybe a little,” you admit.

He lifts the blanket, settling it gently across your lap. His knuckles graze your thigh as he tucks it around you. Then, after a beat, he shifts closer again. Not asking. Just… offering.

And you lean in.

You settle into the space between his arm and his chest, your shoulder brushing his, your temple resting lightly against the side of his jaw. He goes still for a second, like he’s surprised, but then you feel the slow rise and fall of his breath as he relaxes into you.

His arm comes around your back, loose but steady. His palm rests just above your hip, fingers splayed like he’s memorizing the shape of you. You stay like that for a while. Not speaking. Just breathing.

Your hand rests over his heart. You can feel it beat.

“You always this warm?” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He chuckles low. “Guess I run hot.”

“Lucky me.”

He tilts his head, just slightly. His nose brushes your hair. “You are lucky,” he says, teasing soft.

You scoff, laughing quietly. “Cocky much?”

His arm tightens, pulling you just a little closer. “Only ‘cause I mean it.”

You turn your head, just enough to meet his eyes. There’s something in them, something quiet and wanting. A warmth that looks an awful lot like care.

And this time, when he kisses you, it deepens—slow, careful, but laced with intent. His mouth moves against yours like he’s trying to say everything he can’t bring himself to speak aloud.

His hand shifts, fingers skimming your waist, your ribcage, the edge of your jaw. Not pushing. Not rushing.

Just wanting.

Your breath catches, and his does too.

You feel the moment teeter, poised on the edge of something more.

Joel’s thumb drifts along your jaw, tracing the shape of your face like he’s committing it to memory. His eyes are on you the whole time, watching every little shift—how your breath hitches, how your lashes flutter, how you lean into him without even meaning to.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You can’t, not with the way his voice settles so deep in your chest. You just blink up at him, lips parted, and that’s all it takes for him to kiss you again.

Slower this time. Longer. He kisses you like he’s savoring it, like he’s been thinking about this for a while.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead tips to yours. Your breaths mingle in the space between you, slow and steady.

“I like this,” you whisper. “Us. Like this.”

Joel hums low in his chest. “Me too.”

Your hand slides up his chest, fingertips trailing lightly over the fabric of his shirt. You pause over his heart, right where it’s beating strong and fast beneath your palm.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“You’ve got me thinkin' crazy things,” he says, voice rough.

You look at him through your lashes. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Like how I’d give damn near anything to fall asleep with you right here. Wake up with you like this.”

The heat that moves through you then isn’t just physical. It’s something heavier. Warmer. Your throat tightens, but you smile, brushing your thumb along his collarbone.

“I wouldn’t hate that,” you say softly.

Something shifts in him, right then, something subtle, but sure. He shifts his body toward yours just enough to close the space between you entirely, his thigh pressing alongside yours under the blanket. His hand moves to your back, sliding slow up the curve of your spine.

Your eyes flutter closed at the touch.

Then his mouth is at your ear, warm breath ghosting over your skin. “Wanna hold you.”

You nod without thinking, already melting into him. “Then hold me.”

He does.

Joel pulls you closer, slow and careful, until your legs are tangled and your head rests against his chest. His hand curls around your waist, thumb stroking slow along your side, and your hand finds his again, your fingers weaving easily through his.

Time moves differently like this. Softer. Slower.

You feel his lips brush your temple. His voice hums against your skin.

“You fallin’ asleep on me?”

You smile, eyes still closed. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

The next kiss is different.

It starts soft—just a press to your cheek, your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth. When he finally kisses you full, you’re already leaning into it, fingers tightening where they’re tangled with his.

You shift, turning more fully toward him. Your legs draw up, knees brushing his thigh under the blanket. Joel’s hand trails down your back, fingertips warm through the fabric of your shirt.

You feel his palm slip beneath it, skimming lightly along the curve of your waist.

Still slow. Still careful.

But there’s tension building now—like something has started and neither of you wants to stop.

You tilt your chin up, and he takes the invitation. His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. Hungrier. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other anchoring you by the hip as he pulls you closer.

Your breath catches when you feel his tongue stroke lightly against yours.

You pull back just a little, just enough to speak.

“Joel,” you whisper.

“Mm?”

Your fingers rest against the base of his throat, where his pulse beats strong and steady.

“Can I stay tonight?”

His eyes flick up to yours. Warm. Wanting. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel doesn’t say anything right away. He just leans in, kisses you once more, soft and slow and deep, before rising from the couch and offering his hand.

You take it.

His palm is warm in yours, steady as he helps you up.

“C’mon,” he says, voice low and rough. “Bed’s warmer.”

The hallway blurs past. You cling to him, fingers fisting in the fabric at his shoulders, lips finding the hollow of his throat. He growls low in his chest and nudges the bedroom door open with his foot.

The world narrows to this: his weight, his mouth, the solid rhythm of his steps as he carries you in like you’re something precious.

And when he lays you down, gently and reverently, it’s not rushed. Not this time.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face and kisses you slow.

“Wanna take my time,” he murmurs, gaze dark. “If that’s alright with you.”

You nod, breath catching. “It’s more than alright.”

His hands trail slowly down your sides, over the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t rush. Just watches you for a moment, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s memorizing something.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, voice rougher now. “Drives me insane.”

You reach for him, pull his shirt over his head, palms running along the trail of dark hair on his stomach. He hisses through his teeth and presses his hips into yours.

“You keep doin’ that,” he growls, “I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Didn’t say I wanted it quick.”

He hums, kissing your collarbone. “You wanna come on my fingers, baby? Or you want me to fuck you?”

Your breath stutters.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I—I want—”

He kisses you then. Cuts off the words, swallows your breath with his own. And when he pulls back, his voice is rough. Gentle, but no less sure.

“You want both, don’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching. “I want everything.”

Joel groans—quiet and rough—and leans in again, mouth brushing yours. His hands are slow, reverent, tugging your shirt higher until he can kiss down your chest, your stomach, the soft skin just above your hips. His fingers slide under your waistband.

“Lift up for me, baby.”

You do, and he peels your shorts and underwear down in one slow motion, tossing them aside before settling between your legs. The way he looks at you, like he’s starving and worshipful all at once, makes your breath stutter.

He kisses the inside of your thigh first, then higher, until his breath ghosts over where you need him most. You squirm.

“Joel…”

“I got you,” he murmurs.

And then his mouth is on you—tongue flat and slow, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. You cry out, hips jolting, but he just holds you still with both hands and groans against you like he’s never tasted anything better.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, lips dragging against your skin. “Cant believe I get to taste you like this.”

You nod, whimpering. “Joel, please—don’t stop—”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

The warm glide of his tongue on your clit—it’s too much and not enough, all at once.

“Fuck, yes—just like that—” You’re almost sobbing now, hips rocking against him.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Let me take my time.”

You nod—or try to—but all you can do is breathe his name as he settles in.

He moans into you when you tug his hair, and the vibration makes your legs shake. Then two fingers slide into you—smooth, patient, curling just right. Your whole body jolts.

“Joel,” you gasp. “Oh my God—”

“Yeah?” he rasps, mouth still working you open, tongue slow and greedy. “That what you needed, baby?”

You can’t speak—just nod, thighs trembling.

He hums, pleased, and doubles down—tongue circling, fingers thrusting deep and steady. Your breath comes in broken whimpers now, your back arching as heat coils tight in your belly.

“Please,” you gasp. “Don’t stop—don’t—”

“Not gonna,” he breathes. “Not until you fall apart for me.”

And you do—seconds later.

The orgasm hits sharp and fast, your thighs clamping around his head, cries breaking free from your lips as you grind against his mouth, helpless to stop the wave crashing through you.

Joel doesn’t pull back, not even a little.

He groans like he’s starving for it, fingers still working you through it, licking you through the aftershocks until you’re trembling, until you gasp his name again and tug at his hair to make him stop.

He finally lifts his head.

His face is flushed, mouth wet, eyes glazed and dark.

“Fuck,” he says softly, breath catching. “You should see yourself right now.”

You blink at him, dazed and wrecked.

“You—” you manage, voice weak. “You’re really good at that.”

He grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls back up your body to kiss you—deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re really good at letting me,” he murmurs against your lips.

You giggle, high and breathless, still floating.

And then—

His cock presses against your thigh. Hot and heavy. Unmistakable.

Your fingers trail down to curl around him. He groans into your mouth, hips twitching.

“You wanna keep going?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, wide-eyed.

And this time, neither of you hesitates.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath still shaky. One of his hands slides away from your thigh, reaching blindly toward the nightstand drawer.

You hear it open, the faint rustle of foil—and you know what he’s reaching for.

“Wait,” you whisper, touching his wrist.

He pauses, eyes flicking to yours.

“I’m on the pill,” you murmur, brushing your thumb across his knuckles. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes search your face. Not in doubt, not in disbelief—but like he’s trying to make sure you really mean it.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “I want it to be you. All of you.”

A sound slips from him—something rough and low and nearly broken. He tosses the packet aside, his hand settling on your hip instead, thumb stroking gently over your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

Then he shifts, nudging your hand away, steadying himself above you with one palm planted by your head.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, guiding your leg around his hip. “Let me in, baby.”

You spread for him instinctively, body already aching for it. He drags the tip of his cock through your slick folds, breath catching as he aligns with your entrance.

“Still okay?” he asks—quieter now, more serious.

You reach up, cup his cheek, and pull him in until your lips are brushing. “I told you,” you whisper, “I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

He presses forward, slow and steady, sinking into you inch by inch. The stretch makes you gasp, legs tightening around him, fingers digging into his back. He hisses low between his teeth, forehead pressing to yours.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You feel like heaven.”

He bottoms out with a low groan, staying there—buried deep, unmoving—for a long moment. Just breathing with you. Letting you adjust.

You nod softly against his cheek. “You can move.”

He pulls out nearly all the way, then pushes back in slow. Again. And again. Long, deliberate thrusts that make your toes curl.

His hand slides down your side, over your thigh, gripping just beneath your knee to hitch your leg higher. The new angle makes you gasp, makes him groan.

“Shit—yeah, just like that. So fuckin’ tight,” he pants, his rhythm picking up. “Taking me so good, sweetheart.”

You moan, helpless to do anything but cling to him, hips rising to meet every thrust.

His mouth is everywhere—your jaw, your throat, the underside of your chin. His voice, low and steady, rumbles in your ear:

“Wanted this for weeks. Wanted you for weeks. Thought about this every goddamn night—your sounds, your face, your body under mine.”

You tremble, fingers threading into his hair. “Joel—”

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. “You feel like you were made for me.”

He reaches between you without breaking rhythm, thumb brushing over your clit in slow, perfect circles.

You cry out, louder now, your body arching off the bed. “Oh my God—Joel—I’m—”

“I know, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”

You do—again, but harder this time. It rips through you like a tidal wave, body convulsing, voice breaking on a sob. You hear him curse, feel his pace stutter, and then—

His hand cups the back of your head as he drives into you harder, rougher now—but still controlled. Still tender in the way he holds you. His other hand stays at your hip, guiding your movements to meet his.

“Fuck—gonna come—fuck, sweetheart, fuck—”

You feel it the moment it hits him—the tension snapping, his body pressing tight to yours, his groan deep and wrecked as he spills inside you.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, buried deep, his chest pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you’ve run miles.

You wrap your arms around his back, palm smoothing down his spine. “Joel,” you whisper, soft and floaty.

He hums into your neck. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” you murmur, smiling.

“Good.” He kisses your temple, slow and sweet. “You did so fuckin’ good for me.”

He eases out of you eventually, careful not to rush it. You wince a little at the loss—at how empty you suddenly feel—but he doesn’t go far. Doesn’t let you go.

Later, you lie tangled in the sheets with your head on his chest, legs still wrapped around his like you’re afraid to let him go. His hand moves absently up and down your spine, slow and steady, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

The room smells like salt and sweat and skin. The open window lets in a breeze that cools the heat of your bodies, but neither of you reach for the blanket.

You shift a little, just enough to press a kiss to his collarbone.

“Joel?”

“Mhm?”

You smile into his skin. “You’re warm.”

That earns a quiet chuckle. His fingers curl a little tighter around your side. “You’re a furnace,” he mutters. “I should be complainin’.”

You hum, content. For a long time, neither of you say anything else. Just the rise and fall of your breath. The steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Your lashes grow heavy.

And eventually you fall asleep in his arms.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You wake to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, you forget where you are. The bed isn’t yours. The sunlight filters through unfamiliar blinds. Your legs are sore, and the shirt you’re wearing definitely isn’t one you packed.

Then you hear movement from the kitchen. A faint clink of ceramic. The sound of a drawer sliding shut.

And you remember.

You smile, stretching beneath the sheets.

When you make your way out to the kitchen, Joel’s at the stove, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower. He’s flipping something in a pan—eggs or pancakes, you can’t quite tell—and there are two mugs on the counter, steam curling up in lazy spirals.

“Morning,” you say, voice still scratchy from sleep.

He turns, glancing over his shoulder. That same soft, crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

You cross the room and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. He leans back into you instinctively.

“Thought you might sleep in,” he says.

“I would’ve if someone hadn’t kept me up all night.”

You feel the low laugh in his chest more than hear it. He twists just enough to kiss your temple.

“Sorry ’bout that.”

“No you’re not.”

He grins. “Nah. Not really.”

You sit at the counter while he plates breakfast. There’s music playing softly from a speaker near the sink—some easy guitar, gentle vocals that fill the quiet without crowding it.

He pours your coffee just the way you like it. Passes over a plate and a fork.

Neither of you rush. It’s not awkward. It doesn’t feel like you’re playing house, it just feels like this is what mornings are supposed to be like. Like something has quietly clicked into place.

After breakfast, you wash the dishes while he dries. Your shoulders bump once, twice, and on the third time he turns and kisses the top of your head.

It’s not the first time you’ve done this together. But it feels different now.

Back then, the silence was new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to press too hard on whatever was forming between you.

Now—it’s comfortable. Known.

Your hands move in rhythm. He reaches for the dish you’ve just rinsed without looking. You hand him the next before he asks. There’s no nervous energy, no awkward glances.

Just… this.

This shared space. This quiet knowing that something has shifted.

“I was thinking,” Joel says, flicking a soap bubble from your hair, “I don’t have much to do today.”

You arch a brow. “No fence post to fix? No broken gutter?”

He shrugs. “All caught up.”

You glance toward the window. The breeze carries the scent of salt and something sweet, maybe honeysuckle. The sky is clear, cloudless, warm. A perfect Saturday.

“I guess I don’t have much to do either,” you say slowly.

He watches you for a beat, like he’s reading more into your tone. Then: “Wanna go out?”

Your lips twitch. “Like... a date?”

He gives a half-smile, a soft huff through his nose. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You set the towel down, turning fully toward him now. “What kind of date?”

“Whatever kind you want.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly sheepish. “I thought maybe we could drive out to that little town—you know, the one with the farmer’s market and that weird antiques store?”

“Oh my god, the one with the taxidermy goat in the window?”

He grins. “That’s the one.”

You reach for your mug, heart fluttering in your chest, and nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The drive out of town is slow and winding, windows cracked to let in the salt-thick breeze. You sit with your legs tucked up beneath you, one arm perched along the window, the other resting in the warm space between you and Joel. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your knee, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

His playlist hums low — soft rock and California shimmer, the kind of music that sounds like open windows and late summer air.

“Didn’t peg you for a Fleetwood Mac guy,” you tease as the chorus of Landslide drifts from the speakers.

Joel shrugs, lips twitching. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d move to a beach town with no plan.”

You grin. “Touché.”

The town is a blip along the coast, just a few stop signs and faded storefronts that lean slightly from years of sea wind. You find parking on a crooked side street, and he waits by the passenger side while you hop down, your hand brushing his on instinct. He links his fingers through yours like it’s nothing, like he’s always done it.

The market is exactly as Joel promised: full of weather-beaten booths and hand-painted signs, little kids darting around with sticky snow cone fingers, and old women selling candles that claim to cure heartbreak.

You buy a jar of local honey and a bottle of homemade hot sauce you’re sure will destroy your tongue. Joel buys a loaf of cinnamon bread from a woman who insists he take a free sample.

When he hands it to you, you say, “This is clearly a bribe,” but take a bite anyway.

Your hands stay linked the whole time.

Eventually, the two of you wander into the antique shop — the one with the taxidermy goat in the window, its glassy eyes staring off into purgatory. It’s even weirder on the inside.

Joel lifts a pair of aviator goggles off a shelf and raises his brows. “These scream you.”

You smirk. “Please, you’d wear those before I would.”

He tosses them back gently and trails behind you as you explore rows of dusty books and stacks of mismatched ceramic mugs. Somewhere in the back, you find a box of faded postcards. One catches your eye, a sepia-toned photo of the beach, probably from the 1940s.

“Look,” you say, holding it up. “Imagine sending this to someone you love and having to wait a month to hear back.”

Joel takes it from you, eyes skimming over the back where someone had written in perfect cursive: Wish you were here. Come back soon.

He clears his throat, something unreadable in his expression. Then he tucks the card under his arm and brings it to the front with the bread and hot sauce. Doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

Not then.

Later, you eat lunch at a tiny dockside café with cracked vinyl seats and fresh-caught fish. Joel drinks a beer. You sip an iced tea with lemon. The sunlight makes the table warm beneath your forearms.

You’re halfway through telling him about the worst roommate you ever had when he reaches across the table, just brushes his fingers over yours like he can’t help it. You go still, heart thudding.

“What?” you ask, suddenly shy.

He shakes his head, quiet. “Nothin’. Just like watchin’ you talk.”

You stare at him for a second too long. Then you look down, smiling like an idiot into your fries.

When the check comes, he pays before you can argue.

“Don’t say it,” he warns, standing.

You huff. “I was just gonna thank you.”

“Mm-hm.”

The café is quiet now, the lunchtime rush long gone. You swirl the last bit of your drink with a straw, ice clinking gently against the glass. Across from you, Joel leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, watching you with a kind of calm contentment.

His plate is empty, yours mostly picked over. The sun filters through the wide windows, catching in the curve of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes.

“You full?” he asks, voice low and easy.

You nod. “Couldn’t eat another bite.”

He hums, glancing toward the register. “You want anything for later? Muffin, cookie—something sweet?”

Your brows lift. “You offering to carry snacks in your truck like a dad?”

His mouth quirks. “Only for you.”

You grin and shake your head, standing to gather your things. He beats you to it—reaching for your bag and sliding it over his shoulder like it’s second nature.

You give him a look. “You don’t have to carry my stuff.”

“I know,” he says, steady. “Still gonna.”

Outside, the town is sun-warmed and slow-moving. People drift down the sidewalks, a few lazy cars coasting by. Joel falls into step beside you like he’s done it a hundred times, shoulder brushing yours, his fingers grazing your lower back when someone passes close.

There’s no plan. Just the soft, meandering sort of afternoon that doesn’t ask for anything but time.

You duck into a little local shop, just for a minute, you say, and Joel trails behind, quiet as ever. The place smells like linen and driftwood and something faintly herbal. You finger through a rack of handmade candles while he watches from a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“See anything you like?” he asks.

You turn, holding one up. “This one smells like sea salt and rosemary.”

He leans in, breath brushing your temple as he smells it from over your shoulder. “Smells like your place,” he says.

Your heart skips. You tuck the candle under your arm without replying, cheeks warming.

At checkout, Joel pulls out his wallet before you can blink.

“Joel—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters. “You can get the next one.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Fine. Next one’s yours.”

When you step back outside, the breeze has picked up just enough to tug at your sleeves. You walk for a while, through a little market, past a row of tiny galleries, along the quiet edge of a marina where boats sway in their slips.

Joel walks close beside you, not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his arm. His eyes flick to yours whenever something catches your attention, whenever you pause to admire a stand of local honey or handmade soaps. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to.

You stop at a flower stall near the end of the row, eyeing a bundle of wild-looking stems tied up with twine. The woman behind the table catches your gaze and grins. “They’re mostly native,” she says. “No pesticides, nothing fancy. Just whatever’s blooming out back.”

Joel leans down beside you to look. “These your favorite?” he asks, nodding to the bunch you’ve been staring at.

You shrug, a little self-conscious. “I don’t know. I’m just drawn to them.”

He watches you for a beat. Then he pulls out his wallet and hands the vendor a few bills before you can stop him.

“Joel,” you murmur.

He ignores you and hands you the flowers, rough fingers brushing yours. “For your desk,” he says simply.

You stare at him, lips parting around something that never quite forms.

He just smiles, small, almost shy, and gestures to the next stall like nothing happened.

You tuck the flowers into the crook of your arm and follow him.

A few stands down, you pause again, distracted by a display of polished sea glass arranged by color. Joel watches as you crouch down to sift through the little bowls, your fingers brushing the smooth edges. When you glance up, he’s already reaching into his back pocket.

“Don’t” you laugh, swatting at his arm. “You really don’t have to get me anything else.”

He just smirks and pulls out his wallet again. “Too late.”

You roll your eyes but don’t stop him.

He buys you a pale green piece and presses it into your palm without a word.

You close your fingers around it, warmed by his hand.

When the market starts winding down, the sun already tilting lower, Joel glances at you, then at the sky. “We should head back soon.”

You nod, but don’t move. “This was really nice,” you say quietly.

He shifts his weight, then lifts a hand and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It was.”

And this time, when his hand drops, it finds yours again—without hesitation.

You don’t let go of his hand on the walk back to the truck.

The sun has started to mellow, its light stretching longer across the pavement, gilding the tops of trees and warming the tops of your shoulders. The air smells like sunscreen and cut grass and the last sticky dregs of summer fruit.

Neither of you talks much on the drive home. The windows are down, the breeze is warm, and the silence is full, comfortable in the way that silence only gets when someone understands you. Joel rests one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually between you. You don’t reach for it, but you think about it. You think about how easy it would be.

Back at his house, you pause at the porch steps.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “You comin’ in?”

You nod.

Inside, everything is familiar. Your second toothbrush still tucked behind the mirror. Your sandals near the door. The flowers he bought you already in water, their heads tilted toward the light.

You help him put things away, the strawberries from the morning, a few pantry items from the market. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the sound of drawers opening and closing.

At one point, you lean down to return a spoon to its place and brush against him by accident. Joel steadies you instinctively, his hand warm on your back.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move his hand. “Don’t be.”

You glance up at him and catch the softness in his expression—something in his eyes that makes your heart stumble a little. You straighten up slowly, and for a second, the moment hangs there, weightless.

Then he clears his throat and steps back. “You hungry again yet?”

You smile. “Not even a little.”

Joel chuckles, runs a hand through his hair. “Wanna sit outside for a while?”

You nod.

The two of you settle on the back porch, drinks in hand, legs stretched out. The sun sinks behind the trees, and the sky turns gold, then pink, then purple. Cicadas start up somewhere in the distance. A breeze stirs the air.

“I think I could stay here forever,” you say after a long stretch of quiet.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. “You can.”

You turn your head. He’s watching the sky, his profile soft in the fading light.

“I meant it,” he says. “You don’t have to go anywhere. Not unless you want to.”

Your chest aches with how easily he says it. Like it’s just true. Like it always has been.

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it.

“You make it really hard to leave,” you say.

He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. “Good.”

“I forgot how nice this can be,” you say softly, running your fingers over the edge of the dish. “Just… being with someone.”

Joel hums in agreement. “Don’t think I ever really knew before you.”

You look up. He’s watching you again with that same quiet intensity, like he’s still surprised you’re here—even after all these days, after all the soft mornings and slow nights. You shift closer, knee bumping his, and he doesn’t move away.

You glance down at your hands. “This feels different.”

“From what?”

“From the beginning. From the first time I came over.”

A beat of silence. Then his voice, low and sure: “That night, I didn’t think you’d stay.”

You look up at him, surprised.

“I hoped,” he says. “But I didn’t expect it.”

You reach for his hand without thinking, tangling your fingers in his. “I didn’t either.”

And then you’re both quiet again, not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything’s been said in the little things—his shirt in your drawer, your shoes by his door, the way your fingers fit just right between his.

Eventually, he leans back against the couch, tugging gently so you follow. You end up tucked against his chest, legs tangled, your head resting over his heart.

And that’s how the night ends. No big moment. No grand confession.

Just the two of you, surrounded by little pieces of a shared life that’s just starting to take shape.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Over the next few days, you notice the space between his world and yours shrinking in small, deliberate ways. It happens gradually, so seamlessly it almost doesn’t register until you catch yourself reaching for the cutting board without asking, or folding his laundry like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

One morning, while making coffee, you find your favorite mug in his cabinet. Not tucked away—front and center, like it’s always been there.

The drawer that used to hold mismatched batteries and takeout menus now has your hair ties coiled in the corner, a tube of mascara resting neatly beside his shaving cream.

He never says anything. Just makes space. Quietly, consistently.

And you, without even realizing, fill it.

That night, after dinner, you’re curled up on the couch with him—bare feet tucked under your legs, the TV playing something neither of you are really watching.

Joel’s hand rests on your shin, thumb rubbing slow circles against your skin. His touch is casual, but there's something thoughtful in his expression. Like he’s turning something over in his head.

You stretch, shifting slightly to face him. “You good?”

He glances at you, then back at the screen. “Yeah.”

You wait a beat. Then, quieter, “Joel.”

His thumb pauses.

He sighs. Not in a tired way—more like he’s bracing himself. “Been thinkin’.”

You smile a little. “That’s dangerous.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it fades quickly. His gaze finds yours, steady and serious.

“You ever think about just… moving in?” he asks.

The words land softly, like they’ve been waiting in the air.

Your heart skips.

He clears his throat, a little awkward now. “I mean—you’re already here more than you’re not. Got your coffee, your books… your damn oat milk takin’ up half the fridge.”

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. “You complaining?”

He shakes his head, eyes warm. “Not at all.”

Eventually, you shift your head just enough to glance up at him. “You sure you’re ready for me to take over your space?”

Joel looks down at you, the corner of his mouth tugging into a half-smile. “You already did, sweetheart.”

You huff a soft laugh, then nudge his side with your elbow. “I mean, like—really move in. Clothes in your dresser. Period stuff under the sink.”

His brows lift like he hadn’t thought about the specifics, but he doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs a little, easy as anything. “Sounds right. Might even clear out a drawer for you. Maybe two if you’re lucky.”

You shift to sit up, one leg folding beneath you, suddenly needing to see his face. “What about when I’m annoying?”

Joel’s hand finds your knee, squeezes gently. “Then I’ll grumble about it under my breath and still make you coffee in the morning.”

You blink. He’s not joking. Or maybe he is, a little. But the warmth in his eyes tells you he means every word of it.

“You really want this?” you ask.

He nods once, slow and certain. “Yeah. I do.”

You study his face for a moment, searching for any hint of doubt—but there isn’t any. Just that quiet certainty he carries so well, like once he makes up his mind, it stays made.

“Okay,” you say, voice a little breathless. “Then I guess we’ve got some packing to do.”

Joel’s mouth curves, not quite a grin, but something deeper. “Already cleared out a few drawers,” he murmurs. “Figured it might happen. Eventually.”

You blink. “You did?”

He nods. “Bottom two in the dresser. Closet��s got space, too. Might’ve taken a few things to Goodwill last week.”

You stare at him, lips parting. “Joel.”

“What?” He shrugs, a little sheepish. “Didn’t want you trippin’ over my old crap. Figured if you were gonna stay, you’d need room.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him—really look at him—and wonder how you ever thought this would be temporary.

Then you lean in, nose brushing his. “I don’t have that much stuff.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’ve got a whole house’s worth of space.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “You really planned this out, huh?”

“Didn’t plan,” he murmurs. “Just… hoped.”

Your heart trips a little at that.

There’s something in the way he says it—simple, like it didn’t cost him anything, but you know better. You know Joel doesn’t hope lightly. And he sure as hell doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.

“I don’t need much,” you say, voice soft. “Somewhere to work. Somewhere to sleep. Somewhere you are.”

He brushes his thumb along your jaw, eyes never leaving yours. “Then you’ve got all of that.”

You nod, just once. “Okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment after that. Comfortable. You can feel his pulse under your hand, steady and warm, and the soft creak of the couch when he shifts just enough to pull you closer.

“Do you wanna start movin’ things tomorrow?” he asks. “Or take your time with it?”

You smile into his chest. “Yeah, I would love to.”

Joel exhales like that means more to him than he can say out loud. Maybe it does.

“What if you used the guesthouse?” he says. “For work, I mean.”

You blink. “Really?”

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. He’s been thinking about this. “Already got your desk in there. You’ve made it yours without even tryin’. Figured—if you’re gonna be stayin’—might as well have a space that’s yours from the jump.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first.

He shifts a little to look at you more fully. “I like having you here. I like waking up and knowing you’re just across the yard, or next to me. Doesn’t matter. I just… like it. And if workin’ remote means you can stay for real… then we’ll make it work.”

You swallow hard, throat tight. “That’s—really thoughtful.”

“I want you here,” he whispers. “However you want to be here.”

Your breath catches. Slowly, you nod.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Then I’ll stay.”

His shoulders relax—just the smallest bit—but you feel it. You feel the tension ebb from his chest under your hand. He exhales, not quite smiling, but close.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says.

The way he says it—it’s not possessive, not urgent. Just sure. Quietly relieved.

You stay there a while longer, curled against his chest as the evening settles in around you. The TV plays something neither of you are watching, casting a soft flicker across the living room. His thumb strokes lazy circles over your arm. You feel his heartbeat under your cheek—steady, slow, familiar.

At some point, you doze off. Just for a few minutes. You wake to the warmth of his hand brushing your back and his voice low in your ear.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You’re half-asleep as he helps you up, following him down the short hallway to the bedroom. The sheets are already turned back. The window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of crickets. He waits for you to climb in first, then slides in behind you, one arm tucking around your waist like it’s second nature.

You fall asleep with his hand splayed across your stomach and his breath warm against the back of your neck.

The next morning, you wake to birdsong and sunlight cutting soft through the blinds.

Joel’s already up.

You hear him in the kitchen—drawers opening, something clinking against the counter. When you shuffle out of the bedroom, he looks up and smiles, pouring two cups of coffee like it’s any other day.

Except today’s different.

Today, you’re moving in.

“Well, good morning,” he says, sliding your mug across the counter.

You take it, still sleep-warm, hair a mess. “You’re chipper.”

He shrugs. “Big day. Figured I’d let you sleep a little before we get started.”

“You’re very prepared,” you mumble behind the rim of your mug.

“Got a mental checklist and everything,” he says, mock serious. “Step one: don’t break anything. Step two: don’t make too many jokes about how many throw pillows you own.”

You squint at him. “You love my throw pillows.”

“I tolerate them.”

“You use them more than I do.”

He grins into his coffee.

You end up barefoot on the porch with your mug in hand, Joel beside you, both leaning against the railing as the breeze rolls off the water.

He doesn’t say much. Just stands there with his arm grazing yours, coffee in one hand, his gaze somewhere out over the trees. It’s not rushed. None of this is. The birds are loud, the sun not quite high yet. It feels like a moment you’ll remember—not for what’s said, but for how still it all is. How right.

Joel’s shoulder brushes yours. “We don’t have to rush,” he says softly. “You’ve been here a while already. This just… makes it official.”

You smile into your cup. “Feels a little like I’m getting promoted.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “More like you were overqualified from the start.”

You bump his elbow. “So what, the guesthouse was probation?”

His mouth twitches. “Somethin’ like that.”

It’s teasing, but the warmth beneath it is real. He hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t asked. Just made room until you were ready to claim it.

By late morning, the two of you are in the guesthouse, standing among the soft clutter of your life—books stacked in corners, shoes half-tucked under the couch, your throw blanket draped over the arm of the chair like it’s always lived there.

You don’t take everything though.

Some things you set aside deliberately—your desk lamp, the little ceramic tray that holds your paperclips, a few books that make you feel capable even when you're not. You line them up neatly near the window, like you're curating a space that hasn’t fully come into being yet.

Joel watches from the doorway, arms crossed but loose, a softness in his eyes that doesn’t ask questions.

“I figured I’d leave a few things,” you say, not quite looking at him. “For when we get around to setting this up.”

His voice is low. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

You glance back, mouth twitching. “Unless you’re planning to rent it out again.”

That gets a short laugh. “Not a chance.”

You nod, and it’s quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that feels full, not empty.

Back at the main house, the light has shifted—bright but low, slanting across the floors in warm stripes.

You find Joel in the bedroom, crouched near the dresser with the bottom drawer pulled open. Not saying anything. Just rearranging things—socks and flannels folded with quiet care.

You lean against the doorframe. “You know I could’ve done that, right?”

He looks over, that familiar crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Yeah. But I wanted to.”

You step in slowly, eyeing the drawer. He’s cleared the whole thing out—more than just a token corner. Enough space for everything that matters.

“Middle one’s empty too,” he adds, like he’s offering something small, even though you both know it’s not.

You don’t answer right away. Just cross to the bed where your overnight bag sits, unzip it, and start pulling things out. Not folded perfectly. Not organized. Just yours.

He watches you for a second, then goes back to what he was doing—quiet, easy. Like this is just the next natural step.

At some point, you pass behind him to reach the closet. He doesn’t move out of the way. Just leans back into you slightly, shoulder brushing yours, like he needs the contact.

You find a spot for your sweaters on the top shelf, slide your boots beside his near the door. Nothing dramatic. Nothing forced.

But later, when you hang the last shirt and close the closet door, you find Joel watching you again.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just nods once, like there it is. Like that’s it. You’re in.

By the time the sun dips low, the kitchen smells familiar.

Garlic, tomatoes, something sweet simmering low on the stove. You hover near the counter, half-in-the-way and not really helping, sipping from a glass of red Joel poured without asking.

It hits you slowly, like déjà vu. The same wine. The same soft instrumental playlist humming from the old speaker near the sink. The same pasta dish, you’re almost sure of it. He hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t need to.

You glance at him over the rim of your glass. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Joel lifts a brow, not looking up from where he’s stirring the sauce. “Doin’ what?”

You nod toward the stove. “This. Pasta. Wine. Music. This is the same dinner from the first night I came over.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Figured it worked pretty well the first time.”

You laugh, setting your glass down. “You trying to seduce me again?”

His mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t take much.”

The moment stretches there—warm and familiar, but new again in the context of everything that’s changed. That first night, you’d felt uncertain, teetering on something fragile. Now, you just feel sure.

You set the table while he finishes up, pouring the rest of the wine and stealing a taste of the sauce when he’s not looking.

Dinner’s quiet, easy. The clink of forks against plates, the soft thrum of music in the background. You don’t talk much, not because there’s nothing to say, but because you don’t need to fill the silence.

At one point, Joel reaches for your hand across the table and rubs his thumb over your knuckles. You smile at him, small and private.

“Thanks for making dinner,” you say.

He squeezes your hand gently. “Thanks for staying.”

You don’t remember the exact day it stopped feeling temporary.

It wasn’t some big moment. Just… a gradual softening. Like water wearing down stone. Like breath filling up a quiet room.

A few weeks go by. Your desk is set up in the guesthouse. Your robe hangs behind the bathroom door. Joel keeps pretending he doesn’t eat the granola you buy but refills the jar every time it’s low.

You call Jules on a Sunday afternoon, curled up in the hammock outside with your laptop open but untouched.

She answers with a dramatic gasp. “She lives! Did you move in and immediately forget about your entire social circle?”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Hi to you, too.”

She pauses. Then, voice gentler, “So? You’re really in, huh?”

You glance back toward the house, where Joel’s working on the porch with a mug of coffee in hand. He looks up just then and catches you watching. Smiles. You wave with your pinky, the way he likes. He lifts his chin in return, lazy and content.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’m in.”

Jules exhales like she’s been waiting to hear that. “You sound… good. You sound happy.”

Another beat. Then her voice, a little quieter. “I’m really glad you’re staying.”

Your chest warms. You blink up at the sky, blue and endless. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

A pause. Then, back to her usual tone, “So when do I get to come over and assess the cohabitation situation? I need to see how many dad mugs he owns and whether his spice cabinet is organized.”

You laugh. “You’ll hate it. He alphabetizes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He has a label maker.”

“You’re marrying this man.”

“Stop,” you say through a laugh, your cheeks warm. “Too soon.”

“Just sayin’. I called it.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just look toward the house again, where Joel’s still sitting—solid and familiar, like something you can build a whole life around.

And quietly, you think: Maybe she’s right.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Epilogue – about a year later

The house feels different now.

Not dramatically. Not in some rearranged-furniture, new-color-palette kind of way. Just... fuller. Quieter, somehow. Settled.

The kind of home where you can hear the wind shift through the trees and know which windows are cracked. Where you know Joel’s home by the way the floor creaks near the back door, or by the thump of his boots left just slightly out of place, like he forgets and remembers you live here at the same time.

Jules is coming over for dinner—her first time since the move-in turned permanent, then turned into something else entirely.

You’re in the kitchen barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, Joel behind you slicing vegetables like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hums low to himself, some old song you can’t name. You’re both a little tired from the week, but it’s the easy kind of tired. The kind that comes from living, not surviving.

He brushes past you on his way to the stove, drops a kiss to your shoulder without looking.

You’re stirring the sauce when Jules finally swings the door open.

“Okay,” she announces. “This is disgustingly domestic.”

You laugh without turning. “You’re late.”

“I brought wine, don’t push your luck.”

You glance up as she walks in, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, tote bag full of overpriced cheese and whatever candle she’s into this week.

Joel wipes his hands on a towel and offers a small wave. “Hey, Jules.”

She waves back, already walking to the counter. “Joel. Still handsome. Still brooding. Love that for you.”

He grunts, amused, and ducks his head back toward the stove.

You and Jules catch up easily. The kind of conversation where nothing is that important, but all of it matters. She leans on the counter, talking about her new boss, a bad date, the way her cat now only drinks from the bathroom sink.

And then, mid-sentence, she freezes.

“Wait.”

You pause. “What?”

Her eyes drop to your hand.

“You got engaged?” she shrieks, grabbing your fingers and yanking them into view.

You grimace. “Jesus, Jules.”

“You got engaged and didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to!” you laugh. “I just—wanted to sit with it for a while.”

She stares at the ring—your ring. An antique-style oval diamond, softly set in gold, low to your hand. Not flashy. Just… right. It catches the light gently, like it was made to be there.

“You sat with this for a while?” Jules demands, half-laughing, half-offended. “Girl. This is a life event. There should’ve been balloons. There should’ve been screaming.”

You shrug, biting your lip. “It didn’t really happen like that.”

Joel looks over his shoulder, smirking. “Definitely no balloons.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Three Months Ago, On the Beach

It had been one of those long, quiet days—warm breeze, no plans, the kind of day that unfolds slowly without asking anything from you.

Joel had asked if you wanted to walk down by the water. Just the two of you. No music. No errands. Just sand and sea and a flask of something dark tucked in his back pocket.

The sun was already dropping by the time you made it down the beach. That magic hour light stretched everything golden, made the water glow like glass. You’d brought a blanket but didn’t sit on it, just let it drag behind you as you walked, barefoot through the damp sand, shoulder to shoulder.

He’d been quiet.

Not in a heavy way. Not in a bad way. Just... thinking.

You’d been watching the waves when he finally spoke.

“I keep wonderin’ when it’s gonna hit me that this ain’t temporary.”

You turned to look at him, brow lifted.

“You, here,” he said, nodding toward the stretch of beach, the horizon, the invisible line between your lives then and now. “Us. All of it. Thought it’d feel like a phase I’d get used to. But it doesn’t. It just... feels right.”

You smiled softly. “It does.”

He nodded once, then reached into his jacket pocket.

And your heart stuttered.

No box. Just a ring in his palm—simple, gold, one round diamond. No fanfare.

“Marry me.”

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t a demand either. It was Joel—direct and steady and sure.

You blinked. “Is this happening right now?”

His lips twitched. “Only if you want it to.”

He didn’t try to explain. Didn’t build it up. Just let the moment hang there between you, salt in the air, wind tugging at your sleeves.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he added, quieter now. “But I hope you do.”

You looked down at the ring—how familiar it already felt in his hand. How carefully he held it. Like it wasn’t just a ring, but a thing he’d chosen with intention. A future he’d already pictured.

You stepped closer. Let your fingers brush his.

“Yeah,” you said. “I want to.”

Joel exhaled, shoulders dropping in the way they only did around you. Then he slipped the ring onto your finger with that same careful steadiness, like he was built for this.

You kissed him there on the beach, the sky behind him glowing peach and pink, your fingers still curled around his.

And it didn’t feel sudden.

It felt inevitable.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Back in the kitchen – present day

Jules is staring at you across the counter, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“So,” she says, voice pitched somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, “you’re telling me this man just whipped out a ring on the beach like it was a normal Wednesday?”

You grin, cradling your wineglass between both hands. “Pretty much.”

“No speech? No kneeling? Just—‘marry me’?”

You nod.

She places both palms on the counter like she needs to ground herself. “That is the most Joel thing I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh, and something inside you softens, again. It’s been softening a lot lately.

“I think that’s why it worked,” you say. “He wasn’t trying to perform it. He just meant it.”

Jules exhales dramatically. “God. Okay. So—how do you feel? Are you like, spiraling? Are we planning a wedding? Am I maid of honor? Please say yes, I already have a dress.”

You smirk into your glass. “We haven’t even picked a date yet. It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?”

You glance toward the back door. Through the screen, you can just barely make out Joel’s silhouette on the porch—feet kicked up, book resting on his chest, one hand absentmindedly petting the cat who now acts like she’s lived here forever.

“Not urgent,” you say. “Not big. Just... real.”

Jules follows your gaze, then softens, lips pulling into something quieter. “You really love him.”

You nod, eyes never leaving the porch. “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then she reaches across the counter, gently touching your wrist.

“I’m really glad you stayed.”

You blink once. Swallow. “Me too.”

Jules sits back, eyes flicking toward the pantry. “So. You gonna tell me how many shelves in this house you’ve colonized with weird granola and emotional support spices, or what?”

You laugh, fully now. “All of them. He doesn’t even fight me anymore.”

“Good,” she says. “That man needed help.”

Joel walks in right then, barefoot and rumpled, holding two empty glasses.

“You talkin’ about me?”

Jules lifts her chin. “Always.”

He rolls his eyes and sets the glasses down next to the wine bottle. Then, quietly, he reaches for your hand. Rubs his thumb over the inside of your wrist like he forgot other people were here.

You squeeze his hand back, just once.

Jules watches the exchange, something warm and knowing in her face.

“Yeah,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re definitely marrying him.”

You look at Joel. At the way he’s already reaching for the corkscrew like he’s going to open another bottle. At the way your ring catches the light between you.

And yeah.

You are.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The house is quiet after Jules goes.

You close the door behind her with a soft click, the night air lingering on your skin. The last bits of sunlight have long since faded, and the house feels dim in that cozy, late-evening way—warm from the oven, from the wine, from the kind of easy conversation that only happens when someone’s known you for years.

Joel’s rinsing a few plates in the sink, sleeves pushed up, ring on his left hand catching in the light when he moves.

You walk up behind him and slide your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his back.

“She’s gonna bring this up in every conversation for the next six months,” you mumble.

Joel chuckles, setting the plate down. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You hum against him. “About what?”

“That we’re getting married.”

You smile. “Yeah. She called that early.”

He turns off the water and dries his hands slowly, deliberately, before turning in your arms.

For a moment, you just stand there, wrapped around each other in the kitchen, the faucet dripping softly, the house humming low with silence.

Joel tilts his head, brushing his thumb against your jaw.

“You happy?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “I am.”

“Not just comfortable.”

“No,” you say. “Not just that.”

He nods once, like he needed to hear it anyway.

You rise onto your toes and kiss him—soft, unhurried, familiar. The kind of kiss you give someone you already share a life with. The kind that says this is still new and it’s already forever.

When you pull back, you press your forehead to his.

“You know,” you whisper, “this might be the part where we live happily ever after.”

Joel smirks. “Think so?”

You nod again, closing your eyes. “Feels like it.”

His hands find your waist, steady and warm.

“Then let’s keep livin’ it.”

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sierrale8ne · 2 months ago

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warnings angst, hopkins flashbacks, minimal pazzi mentions, internal/outright homophobia, religious trauma, sexual content, poorly written hoops, and world history.

⁎⠀┉⠀ They were young, dumb, and so seriously in love.

Kayden Kennedy met Paige Bueckers once when they were 16 in a series of events that proceeded to change the long and tumultuous course of her life.

Her father was stationed overseas and the athlete was busy chasing her second gold medal. They were focused on anything other than finding love, but it seems like that’s when things find you.

Kayden moved across the world a months later, joining her mother in Minnesota and attending Hopkins High School, with her. With Paige. She grew up a devoted Catholic girl— going to church every Sunday, praying every night before bed— never once did she think seeing Paige again would lead to falling in love. But it did. Much to her mother’s dismay.

So they did what any young lesbian couple who feels like the world is against them would do; they got married. Well, sorta.

It’s been years. Five long years and now they live miles apart, nothing but the occasional mention of the other from their parents, and complete radio silence.

Or at least that was the case until now.

Until Dallas.

MRS. Kayden Jade Kennedy December Seventh 2001 military brat — lover of world history — ninth grade teacher 🏰🌿🍰👩🏾‍🏫🌈

MRS. Paige Madison Bueckers October Twentieth 2001 casual lego builder — lives the game — dallas wings point guard 🏀⛪️🕯️🏆📚

playlist american wedding frank ocean , loml taylor swift , down to earth justin bieber , godspeed frank ocean , honeymoon avenue ariana grande , take you down sza , do what i say kwn , miss you so frank ocean , the girl is mine michael jackson , party 4 u charli xcx , hours in silence drake , poison jack harlow , sharpest tool sabrina carpenter , rollercoaster october london , how do i breathe mario , glimpse of us joji , since way back drake.

lena talks 2U introducing you all to my new baby 🥹 this idea was gifted to me by my 👩🏿‍💻anon, that i just tweaked a little bit. so anon if you see this, thank you love! i still have to finish planning a few more chapters, and then obviously i want to drop the fdafn epilogue; but chapter one of american wedding should be yours fairly soon 🥰 lmk if you’d want to be added (or removed) from the taglist and thanks for all the love you guys!

🔖 @thaatdigitaldiary @bueckersbitch @pboogerswbb @xxloveralways14 @ykylalex @ohmybueckers @avvwritesstufff @d3arapril @flipthepaige @cherryswisherz @lupinqs @vamptizm @bueckers555 @omg-imtumbling @courtsidewithlani @mariahthealchemist @authentic-girl03

#sierrale8ne #kalena’s works ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #uconn wbb #dallas wings #lesbian #my fic #american wedding

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padmesweetheart · 2 months ago

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Down In The Dirt

Pairings: Hayden Christensen × Female!Reader

Genres: Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Domestic Slice-of-Life. Light Angst.Humor. Romance

The sun was getting low, painting the fields in deep gold and shadow when you finally grew too anxious to sit still. Hayden had been gone for hours now ever since he wandered off toward the south fence line with a set of tools and stubbornness in his eyes.

You slipped on a sweatshirt one of his old, worn ones that still smelled like him and made your way outside.

The moment you rounded the barn, your heart nearly stopped.

There, beside the tractor, half-slumped against the dirt, was Hayden.

“Hayden!” you cried, rushing over, dropping to your knees in the dust.

His head lifted sluggishly at the sound of your voice, a grimace twisting his features. “I’m fine,” he rasped, even as he looked very much not fine.

You hovered your hands over him, terrified to touch in case you made something worse. “You’re not fine! What happened?”

He winced. “Tractor bucked when I was fixin’ the axle. Threw me pretty good.”

You cursed under your breath, helping him sit up fully. Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of dirt streaked across his face, blood soaking the back of his shirt where a gash cut deep across his lower back.

“Bathroom. Now,” you said fiercely, helping him to his feet despite his protests.

He leaned on you heavily, but there was that same stubborn glint in his eye the one that said he’d try and walk it off if you weren’t there gluing him back together.

Inside, the warm light of the bathroom made the injuries even more obvious. His knuckles were scraped, his ribs already darkening with bruises.

“Arms up,” you whispered, your voice catching.

He obeyed without a word, letting you peel his shirt off carefully. You saw him wince again when the fabric pulled against the cut. Biting your lip, you grabbed the first aid kit.

You worked in silence, tending to him with gentle hands. When you finished, you reached for a clean towel and helped guide him into the shower.

Later, when he emerged clean but limping slightly you wrapped him up in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants, coaxing him toward bed. He collapsed into it with a grunt, reaching for you with big, pleading hands.

You smiled despite yourself and crawled in next to him, curling against his side.

“You’re my safe place, y’know that?” he murmured into your hair.

Tears pricked the backs of your eyes. “You’re mine too.”

And you fell asleep like that, safe in the arms of the man who, even broken and battered, would fight the world for you.

—————

The next morning…

The smell of something burning woke you up.

You blinked blearily, sitting up and immediately panicked when you realized Hayden’s side of the bed was empty.

You stumbled into the kitchen, hair a mess, shirt askew, only to find him standing at the stove, shirtless, wielding a spatula like a knight going to war.

He had clearly tried to make pancakes. You could tell by the smoking griddle, the questionable pile of charred batter, and the look of sheer determination on his face.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said brightly, like he wasn’t currently losing a battle against breakfast.

You stared at him at his messy hair, the bandage peeking from under his waistband, the proud grin he was throwing you and your heart damn near exploded.

“Hayden,” you said slowly, biting back a laugh, “what… are you doing?”

“Making you breakfast,” he declared proudly. “You deserve it.”

You stepped forward, eyes softening. “Baby, you’re hurt. You should be resting.”

He waved you off, wincing slightly at the motion. “Pshh. I’m fine.”

“You’re limping,” you pointed out gently.

“A man limps with honor after fixing a tractor and surviving a vicious pancake battle,” he said solemnly.

You laughed fully now, moving closer to wrap your arms around his waist. He let you, smiling down at you with so much love it made your chest ache.

“Next time,” you teased, “maybe just stick to toast.”

He pretended to look deeply offended. “You wound me, my lady.”

You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “You’re perfect.”

He kissed your hair in return, resting his chin on your head.

And standing there wrapped up in each other, burnt pancakes forgotten you realized: this was it. This was your whole world.

Not perfect, not pristine.

But yours.

And that was all that mattered.

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen imagines #hayden christensen drabble #hayden christensen x reader

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skzdarlings · 1 year ago

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i do ; skz ; felix x reader

requested by anonymous: ' I would love if you could use these prompts...on Felix x fem reader:❛ i love that no one else has seen you like this, that no one else has felt you before, been inside you. they don't get to have you, but i do. ❜❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜I love possessive Felix, istg i would give amything to have him' plus two anonymous requests for: 'i'd say you need someone to put you in your place' for felix.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: look this request was for possessive!felix and so possessive!felix i delivered. he is a little weirdo in this tbh. but i think after all my anti-rich-guy stories, i have earned the right for one problematic possessive mafia boss who throws his money and his dick around hahaha. so yes, possessive!felix, virgin!reader, wedding night, arranged marriage, felix being a criminal boss, insta-love. reader's backstory involves a verbally abusive/neglectful family. explicit sexual content. word count: 4000 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

Your new husband is astoundingly pretty. You expected a different face to be waiting at the end of the wedding aisle: harsh, old, scarred. Maybe, if you let yourself fantasize, he would be handsome in a rugged way.

You were not expecting Felix. Slender, delicate Felix with his high cheekbones and freckles, his dark eyes and feather-soft blonde hair. He smiled a dimpled smile as your father surrendered your hand.

That surrender was a visual representation of a literal transaction. You were a bartering tool to save your father’s business. You knew an arranged marriage was inevitable when a few trades went sour and the company went bankrupt. The family could only maintain relevancy and safety through a match to someone more powerful.

Lee Felix is the heir to a very dirty criminal syndicate that blends in high society. Everyone knows their money is blood-spattered, but they throw a good party and the jewels sparkle the same.

You knew his name long before the wedding. Of course you knew his name. But you did not know his face. You expected a devil, not a vision of divinity, resplendent in white and gold.

Your heart has not stopped racing since he first lifted your veil and kissed you with lips softer and gentler than your grandest fantasies.

Now you are perched on a lavish bed in a beautiful penthouse suite. The walls are windows, externally tinted but offering you a glorious view of the glittering cityscape at night. You wonder how much of the city your new husband owns.

Would that be an impertinent question? It is not as though there is any real charade to play; this is not a love match and there is no sense pretending otherwise. Enquiring after financial assets is arguably appropriate insofar as business goes.

Then the door opens and your new husband enters. All thoughts of business flitter into nothing, an insignificant detail next to your wedding night. A night with this powerful and beautiful stranger.

“Are you nervous?” he asks in a voice so deep it keeps surprising you. It suits his angelic appearance in a way, something so captivating about its low tones, effortlessly melodic. But that melody is coloured darkly in its depth, scratching a shiver up your spine. When he speaks, it feels like he is trailing his fingers up your back in a curious, searching touch.

He looks at you with as much depth, dark eyes penetrating as he circles the bed. He has been nothing but polite, but you can’t help but feel like prey being circled by a predator.

Even more concerning, you can’t help but like it. Since the moment he took your hand, his eyes have not left you. It is almost overwhelming. You have been invisible your whole life. No one ever looked at you. No one ever wanted you. Your father scared off anyone who tried.

Felix is not just anyone. Anyone sensible would be scared of him.

You are also not just anyone.

“No,” you answer.

“Really?” He lifts a curious eyebrow.

You are both in your wedding clothes, all white and gold. Your veil is draped over a chair in the corner. He puts his coat there too.

He never looks away from you, rolling his shirtsleeves up his forearms as he approaches the bed.

“May I ask, why not?” he asks. It’s a funny question, so polite but only posed because he knows his own reputation. He knows what you must think of him. The bloodshed, the ruthlessness, the merciless command he holds over his family’s legacy. He might look unassuming, but he is not to be trifled with. That gentle exterior could be unnerving to some people, even more than an outward brute.

But you have dealt with those brutes your whole life. An abusive father, cruel brother, an uncaring mother. Hurt, neglected, ignored.

Tonight, while you circled the reception to greet everyone, your father and brother pulled you aside. Your mother had already berated you on the details of your appearance, but they were reprimanding you for every other misstep.

You almost burst into tears, tired and frightened. You were so afraid you would never escape them. Even at your wedding, on the cusp of a new life, they were dragging you around, kicking and screaming.

Then you felt a tap on your shoulder. Bang Chan, one of Felix’s most trusted agents, stood there with a forced but cordial smile. He looked at you and not your family.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Your husband is asking for you. Please, come with me.”

Your father sputtered indignantly, unaccustomed to such blatant disrespect for his authority. Chan said nothing to him, simply offered you his arm. He also opened his jacket to flash the gun in his chest holster. Your family had their weapons stripped before entering the reception. It was a subtle reminder of who was really in charge.

So your father and brother were left sputtering helplessly as Chan escorted you across the room. Felix was sitting with some of his men, smiling his bright smile and looking like any happy young groom.

That sunny face faltered when he saw your morose expression. His glance passed to your family, a flicker of anger in his gaze. Then he smiled at you and held out a welcoming arm.

“Come here,” he said. “Sit with me a bit. Please.” That deep voice. You felt it like a touch inside you. He had recited the scripted vows earlier. This invitation was his first real address.

You nodded. Your legs were shaky from the confrontation, never mind the wobble from your heels. Your feet hurt. Sitting would be a relief if nothing else.

There was an empty seat behind Felix. It was the type of seat you were usually given: at the back where you could be forgotten.

Once you were within reach, Felix grabbed you around the waist. Your breath caught as you stumbled towards him. He caught you and held you. Then you were sitting in his lap, your dress draped everywhere, a glittering ivory prize perched safe and pretty on his knee. He wrapped a possessive arm around your middle.

It was more than a power play. It was one thing to put you on his lap and show your family that he owned you now, but it was another for him to frown as he touched the painfully tight pearl belt around your waist.

“Why is this so tight?” he asked, looking at you with concern.

“I’m sorry,” you said automatically, in the habit of grovelling whenever someone took a disappointed tone. “My mother,” you spoke softly, not wanting the rest of the table to hear.

He leaned closer to you, offering you his ear directly. A whisper was all you managed, unaccustomed to such attention.

“They’re real pearls,” you whispered. “Very expensive. Very fine. Too fine for me. My mother had the belt made small so I would remember to act worthy of them. Sit straight. Not over-eat. You know.”

He frowned, his brow furrowing. Instinct compelled you to soothe that displeasure, laughing like you were not upset.

“It’s all right,” you said. “She’s right. They are very fine pearls.”

“It’s not all right,” Felix said. He looked at you, held your gaze in his own. You found yourself counting his freckles. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Maybe it was his display of power. Maybe it was his arm around you. Maybe it was the freckles. He looked so sweet, so sincere. You could not bring yourself to lie. Though you had defended your cruel family all your life, the truth fell from your lips in a rough exhale.

“No.” You felt tears in your eyes. “I know it’s expensive. I know it’s beautiful. But I’ve never hated anything more.”

He held your gaze, your watery eyes in the dark depths of his own.

Then he grabbed the belt by a thin material strand and yanked. A couple pearls popped right off and scattered. The rest dangled on the belt, an absurd amount of wealth in his hand.

Felix tossed it over his shoulder like it was garbage. Then he wrapped his arm around your waist and held you against him.

You chanced a look at your family. They were scandalized. Horrified. And you breathed easier for the first time in a long time. You have long suffered the oppressive strangle of control masquerading as love. His protective arm felt nothing like that pearl belt.

So you look at him now. You strive to articulate all these feelings. You are not used to speaking and having someone listen.

“I can’t explain it,” you say. “Maybe it’s foolish. But I… I just feel like I was meant to be here. With you. Like this.”

Your heart jumps at his expression, a luminous pleasure that brightens this dimly lit room.

“That’s funny,” he says. “I feel the same way.”

You swallow as he sits beside you. Slowly, touch by touch, breath by breath, he is bringing your bodies together. His knee touches yours, his arm your arm. He folds his hands in his lap but he is close enough you can count his freckles again.

“I need to be honest with you,” he says. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you. A year ago. At the winter masquerade.”

You look at him with surprise. All at once, his eyes come back to you, gazing at you behind a golden bird mask at the annual winter social. You couldn’t place the handsome stranger at the time. His hair was dark then, his face in a mask. He did not speak. His distinctive voice would have given him away.

He danced one dance with you, the only person who danced with you all night. You were later reprimanded for behaving like a slut, even though he touched your waist and nothing more.

“You were very kind,” he says. “I watched you with the staff. You were the only one in that whole room to say please and thank you to them – did you know that?” He sighs and looks away, thoughts travelling beyond this room. “I came from nothing,” he says. “My family… we fought to get where we are now. But I remember, you know. What it feels like to be the smallest and least important person in the room.”

You sit straighter when he looks at you. Oh, your heart has not slowed its thunder. Excitement and affection swirl together in a motley tempest of sensation, touched by his words and yearning for more. You thought you had been sold to an uncaring bidder, but Felix touches you slowly, like he would a very fine work of art. His knuckles caress your cheek, the slope of your jaw.

“I thought…” He looks at you reverently. “I thought… I would do anything to preserve that goodness. I would protect it. Like your family wasn’t.” His brow furrows now, a shadow of his face. “They would have ruined you.”

His hand continues, knuckles skimming down your throat, your shoulder, your arm. You shiver. He has a terrible scar, scoring the whole back of his hand. A stark difference to your unblemished hand, your manicured nails against his calloused fingers.

He says, “I know what it’s like to be ruined.”

You look from your hands to his face, his handsome profile, the slope of his nose and his soft lips. He is still looking at your joined hands.

“I wasn’t always like this,” he says. “I’d give anything to have my innocence back. But I can’t.”

He lifts your hand, cradles it between both of his like something precious. Your breath catches when he kisses your palm, lips soft against your skin.

“So I told myself, I would do anything to save yours,” he says. He looks almost… afraid. An expression you never expected to see on this man. “So I destroyed your father’s business,” he says. “It was all me. I knew he would never give you to a man like me unless he had no choice. He would have given you away to one of his friends and they would have broken you. But you were already mine. So I left him no choice but to see things my way.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised beyond all words.

“I wanted you to know before anything… happens… between us,” he says. “But I understand if your feeling are complicated. Or if you… fear me.”

Your father has often boasted how many men fear him. It does not sound like a boast from Felix, rather something lamentable. His face is shadowed in shame.

“My feelings are not complicated,” you say. He is still holding your hand in both of his. You lay your other hand there, a complete joining.

He meets your gaze, an intense and imploring stare.

“I’m not my father’s daughter anymore,” you say. “I’m my husband’s wife. My loyalty is to you. My place is with you.”

“Yes,” he says, spoken on a breath. His smile returns. “Your place. I’d say you need someone to put you in your place. Your rightful place.”

He springs off the bed like there is lightning under his feet. He is all smiles and sunlight again, a beacon in the blue dark of this room. You cannot help but bask in his warmth, bereft in the chill when he leaves your side.

He takes something from his discarded coat pocket, a case swathed in velvet, soft to the touch. You hold it, admiring the texture.

He kneels behind you on the bed while you open it. Inside is the most breathtaking necklace you have ever seen in your life. When you lift it, the chain is long, designed to sit low, loose around your neck. No more chokers. No more pearls.

“Oh, Felix,” you say, breathless and amazed, then very embarrassed. You are not used to such lovely gifts. Even the pearls were a punishment. “I can’t accept this…” you say, stunned.

“You can,” he says.

He takes the clasp then strings the necklace around you. His fingers on the nape of your neck have you shivering. The necklace clasps in place, then his lips are on your neck, a chaste press that nonetheless lights fire under your skin. “It was made for you,” he says. “Like you were made for me.”

He takes the zipper of your gown between two careful fingers, so slowly lowering it. It feels like you are unravelling with it. The zipper reaches the base of your spine and his fingertips dance across your bare skin.

He steps off the bed. He looks down at you, his eyes intense but his smile soft. He touches your cheek, strokes his thumb across it lovingly.

Then he is sinking to his knees in front of you. You already feel weak as jelly, but your whole body goes soft and pliant when he gently grasps your ankle, when he slides your painful shoe off your foot and tosses it aside. He somehow finds every sore spot and rubs it better.

“This is how it works,” he says. He is on his knees but somehow his presence looms bigger than you. You cannot look away from the thrall of his gaze. “You are my wife. And when we are out there, I am your servant.” He takes your other foot and removes that shoe as well. He massages you gently. “I will never deny you anything,” he says. “You can ask me for anything. All right? I will give you the whole world. I will give you my whole heart. In return, I only want one thing.”

“What’s that?” you ask, already breathless.

“I am your husband,” he says, “and in here, you are my servant. Only I can touch you. Only I will have you. All of you. In every way. Always, starting from today. Starting from right now.”

“Yes. Yes. But I – I’ve never done this before,” you say, aching to surrender but fearful he will regret this. Though you are knowledgeable, you are lacking in experience from years of isolation. “I’ve been alone for so long,” you say. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You don’t,” he says. He lifts your leg, swoops down to kiss your calf, then higher: your knee, your thigh. “You could never,” he says, guiding your leg to rest on his shoulder. He gathers the volume of your wedding dress in his hands and pushes it up, up.

You almost forget to breathe. He kisses higher on your thigh. Then he grabs the thin material of your white tights and rips them open.

“You’re mine,” he says. “You’ve always been mine.”

You fall back on your elbows, limbs already quivering as he tears through your underclothes as if impatiently ripping open a prettily wrapped gift. With your expensive lace panties shredded and your tights in tatters, he pushes your skirts up and out of his way. You hold them while he kisses up your thigh. He runs his tongue along the seam between your thigh and somewhere much more sensitive.

“No one else has done this to you?” he asks. He already looks flushed. Desperate.

“No,” you answer. You swallow hard. “Never.” You know some men do not enjoy providing this type of pleasure to their wives, so you are about to tell him that you have no expectations in that regard—

But then he is on you like a starving man, eyes closed and mouth open and licking through all that wet desire. You fall on your back, pressing your heel into his back. He groans, pressing deeper, tongue seeking, swiping, stroking.

He grips your thighs possessively, holding you in place as he ravages you with his mouth. He takes you up and over a blissful crest. It leaves you a drenched and panting mess.

He stands, wiping his arm across his wet mouth. He does not look satisfied, eyes still hungry as he climbs on top of you.

“My wife,” he says, like the word is sacred and impossible, like he thought a man like him could never say it. “All mine,” he says, running his hands up your thighs, up your waist, touching every inch of you until he is cradling your face delicately in his careful but calloused hands.

It makes your whole body clench up tightly, your breath stuttering as he kisses you. You melt into the kiss, so different from the chaste peck of your ceremony. It is a claiming kiss, the taste of you still on his lips, his moan in your mouth, his chest against yours as those sounds of pleasure rumble through him.

He tugs down your bodice, then he is ripping through your underclothes again. When your bodice is around your waist and your chest is bare except for his necklace, you find yourself covering your breasts instinctively. He takes your hands, not forcefully but firmly, holding your gaze. His mouth is already so pink and raw from kissing. You wonder if you look as ravished. Maybe more. It makes you whimper, surrendering when he pins your hands on either side of your head.

“This is mine,” he says, kissing your jaw, your throat, then lower. “All mine, sweetheart.”

He wraps his lips around a pointed nipple and you feel the reaction between your legs, as if connected by a thread. Your legs try to close around his hips but he presses down. The crumpled skirt of your dress is between you, but he feels your thighs clenching, feels you desperately bucking.

Even his chuckle is a deep sound. He smiles at you, batting his eyelashes as he licks the curve of your breast. Your whole body twitches again.

“Mm,” he says. “You feel that? You getting all tight… and hot… just for me…”

“Felix,” you say, you beg.

He sits back on his heels to get your wedding dress off. It is a flurry of ivory and silk, earning some laughter, then it is gone and your husband is staring down at you. Again, you feel like prey, like a meal spread out helplessly for some predatory creature. Again, you like it.

He is just as impatient with his own clothes. He does not look away from you while tearing his shirt open. Buttons fly, forgotten, and he rips the material down his arms and off. His belt is next, leather whistling through the air then joining the heap on the floor. He grabs your hand and guides it to the hard shape in his white pants, groaning deep in his chest as your palm curves around it.

You are so captivated him, by the way he feels, by the sounds he makes, that you are surprised when he touches you too. Your legs part instinctively, then your thighs twitch to close when you are embarrassed by your eagerness.

“Don’t be shy,” he says. “Not with me.” His fingers feel divine inside you, gliding as if through silk, pressing at your walls and making you whimper. “Yeah, my baby. So nice… ‘n wet… for me…” he murmurs, more to himself than you. It still makes you clench, like your body wants him deeper, pulling tight around him. “God. Perfect.”

“Aren’t we g-gonna—” Your eyes drop to his waistband, then up to his eyes again.

He smiles, laughs, and withdraws his fingers slowly.

“Oh yeah, sweetheart,” he says, unbuttoning his pants. “We are. Be patient. You’re gonna enjoy this. Gonna remember this night forever.” He leans down so his body is over yours. He kisses you, presses you into the pillows. When he pulls back, he traces a finger along the necklace, smiling brightly. “The first time I made you mine,” he says, speaking low and soft against your lips. “I’m going to do everything with you,” he says. “And you’re gonna want it. All of it and more.”

He has you begging for more already. When he finally is pushing inside you, after so much torturous build-up, you are a breathless, sweaty tangle of limbs. It feels like he is pinning you to the mattress, taking you so deep and so hard, like your whole body is changing to fit him. There is a long, slow burn, but you are so wet and he is so careful; it is an ache that gives way to pleasure.

His arms are around you, holding him above you, making you feel so completely shielded and enveloped. He starts a slow pace that turns more frantic. Your hands move all over his chest and shoulders to find a grip.

“I love that no one else has seen you like this,” he says, grabbing your searching hand. He brings it to his mouth, kisses your palm, your fingers. He puts your hand on his shoulder, then he slides his hand under your head to cup your neck, holding you steady while he rolls his hips into yours. “That no one else has felt you before,” he says. “Been inside you. They don't get to have you, but I do.“

“Yes,” you say. “Always. My husband.”

“Mm.” He drops his forehead to yours. “My wife.”

You come again but it feels different, starting deep inside you and rolling outward, a full-body spasm that has you crying out his name. He comes too, holding you against him, his lips on your neck as he says your name.

Then he kisses you. Then he lays you down. He wraps you in his arms and squeezes.

“Sleep for now,” he says. “It’s been a long day. And I want you again.”

“You have me,” you say, nestling in his arms, your head under his chin.

“Yes,” he says with a smile. He looks so sweet even while his wicked hands hold your body in a strong, possessive grip. “I do.”

#lee felix x reader #felix x reader #lee felix smut #felix smut #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix x you #felix x you #valentinesdaystories

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dusterbishop · 2 months ago

Text

i mistakenly called them by your name.

summary. || you're the avatar of anubis and the biggest secret you harbor is your relationship with jake lockley and the daughter you share. when the scarab falls into the hands of a cult, you delve into the fray and hope you can balance saving the world with protecting your secrets.

pairing. || moon knight system x f!reader (established relationship with jake, marc and steven join in later)

count. || 6.2k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. my annual moon knight obsession has taken over my brain and it's currently missing jake lockley hours </3

part one. || part two.

Despite being the Avatar of an ancient Egyptian deity, you don’t necessarily believe in fate. There is no such connection between the world and an individual such as destiny, such as there is no connection between one person and another that classifies as a soulmate bond. People exist in a state of utter abandon, and they are nothing but reactive to the state of the world around them.

Yet, as you turn around to show Eliana another exhibit on Ancient Egypt, dutifully reading aloud the brass-plated plaque she points at, you wonder how much of a coincidence it is that you see your husband standing there, just behind the gift-shop counter. The sight of him plunges your every nerve into a tumultuous sea of arctic water, the waves crashing through your body in a rush of panic. If he knows you followed him back to London, with Eliana no less…

Until you see his gaze meander your way, then slide right over the two of you as if you are nothing but ordinary museum attendees. There’s a slouch to his shoulders, his presence curled up in itself, but you have to tear your attention away before he catches you staring. Or, more likely, before you break and stride over there to demand answers. You have had enough time to sketch out and fine-tune your list of questions for him, and when you booked the flight to London you thought you were composed enough to be able to propose your tidy list to him without wanting to grab him by the lapels of his coat and shake some sense into his stupid fractured brain.

You let out a slow, controlled breath. You’re composed, of course you are. Nothing can shake you.

“Mama,” Eliana says, tugging at your hand impatiently, and you feel a jolt of awareness at the back of your mind that signals the creeping presence of a god nearby. This one isn’t yours.

“Yes, habibti?” You say, casually scanning the museum lobby. It’s a public, brightly-lit institution with sparkling glass cases displaying relics far older than you. There are groups of people sparsely scattering around the room, milling idly from one display to the next, unaware of the oversized jackal trotting through people and the display cases as a spectral entity.

The black-tipped tip of its tail wags in gentle greeting when it catches you looking, and you manage a pointed glance at Eliana before turning your attention back to the exhibit she dragged you to.

“It’s you,” she announces cheerily, grinning up at you. She is a dead-ringer for her father; same loose black curls and dark eyes that glimmer with a mischievous streak of satisfaction in teasing you. You look closer at the replicated statue of a jackal-headed god and huff out a laugh. It’s a statue of Anubis, of course, and you don’t have to look behind you to know that the jackal lingering in your shadow has an open-muzzle grin at the acknowledgment.

“Your flail is better,” she adds, pointing to the replicated flail dangling in the statue’s hand. The museum’s version is plated with imitation gold and striped blue, the metal sparkling beneath the fluorescent lights. The length of its handle fits flush to the statue’s forearm in the traditional symbol of a shepherd’s tool.

“Mine does look different,” you agree, idly swinging your joined hands between you. She stares up at the statue of Anubis with an intent solemnity, and you feel that familiar pitch of guilt in the pit of your stomach. Your service as a god’s Avatar is absolute; as his hands and his faith, you have had to adjust to a life of constant change. What began as a simple career at a local mortuary has transformed into a globe-trotting itinerary with a rapidly-expanding catalog of adversaries.

You resist the urge to glance over at the gift-shop counter and instead tuck a stray curl from Eliana’s eyes, smiling at the way she twists to look over her shoulder and scrunch her nose up at you. “I think we should take a break for lunch, habibti.”

“I wanna see the Ennead,” she frowns. Well, it’s bordering closer to a pout, but you can tell she’s getting hungry and her temper is on a shorter fuse than normal. She points to the banners on the wall, naming off the gods she sees, then pauses. “Where are the other gods, Mama?”

You study the display. There are only seven of the Ennead displayed, Anubis included, unlike the nine traditionally depicted. It’s clear who is missing immediately, and some strange emotion flutters in your gut at the realization.

“Khonshu and Ammit are gone,” Eliana announces. She twists around, peering for any sign of their presence, and she goes tense in your grip when she spots the man at the gift shop counter. “Oh! Daddy’s here.”

“He’s not himself today, habibti,” you tell her. She squints at him, studying the curve of his posture and the polite smile he gives the old woman buying a glass paperweight in the shape of a pyramid. There’s an earnest sheen to the clumsy way he gestures towards the display of fridge magnets that makes his customer smile, polite yet uninterested. He looks like he’s spouting off a laundry list of information, and the old woman nods kindly as she collects her change and receipt before retreating. He manages a wave in goodbye then moves onto his next customer.

“He’s nice,” Eliana decrees. “Can we say ‘hi’, Mama?”

Yeah, Jake is going to kill you for this.

“Sure, habibti. Let’s get a souvenir and we can see him when we checkout.”

In the very least, it’s an easy redirect towards getting her out of the museum to get lunch. She practically drags you over to the gift shop, her eyes taking in the inventory with ravenous longing, and you notice the display of plushies with a resigned sigh.

“Taweret!” She shouts. You let go of her hand before she yanks you off-balance to follow behind at a slower distance, smiling as she gazes reverently at the tower of plush hippos. The black bead eyes shine kindly under the display lights, perfectly reminiscent of the goddess herself. She would be utterly delighted to see the merchandise in her likelihood.

“Oh, we just got those in,” an accented voice says, coming around the checkout counter to edge closer to the two of you. The relentless buzz of worry and stress that you have been harboring since Jake went missing in the dead of a Cairo night eases as his body comes into view. Of course, you assure yourself, his body is fine. With the Moon Knight suit to accelerate his healing instantly in battle and Anubis’s blessing to keep him whole, he was never in danger of death.

Still, your shoulders loosen from the relief, and you turn to smile at him. The name tag fastened to the lapel of his jacket says ‘Steven’, though you figured as much based on the British accent and the seemingly exemplary customer service skills he has displayed. Marc, during the plentiful amount of life-threatening occasions you’ve clashed with him in, is not as patient as his alter, and you know Jake prefers limited contact with strangers when necessary.

“She’s a bit of an Egyptology enthusiast,” you tell him, gesturing to Eliana. A sensation of warmth spreads through your chest as you watch Steven turn to your daughter, his face lighting up in delight. Jake liked to lament the fact that she was just as Egypt-obsessed as Steven was, though you knew he was secretly pleased that she shared that trait with his fellow alter. Steven is a soft-hearted history nerd, he had told you, and he never shuts up about it.

And you love him for it, you had translated, and Jake had expertly changed the subject by changing the channel on the television to put on the game show you both liked. There was something to be said about the way he complained about Steven’s constant stream of history trivia facts only to religiously tune in to Jeopardy with you during his time in the body. Not to mention how damned good he was at it.

“Hello, there,” he says to her, crouching to get closer to her level. He points to the display of stuffed hippos. “I reckon you know who that is, yeah?”

“Taweret,” Eliana beams. She looks to Steven with that smile, and he returns it just as brilliantly. “She’s the goddess of women and children, an’ she helps steer the boat in the Duat.”

Steven raises his eyebrows at that, but his voice doesn’t falter from that kind, attentive tone. “Wow, you’re an expert! She helps guide the souls through the afterlife, yeah?”

“She weighs hearts,” Eliana agrees.

“Oi,” Steven says, sounding a little put-out by the declaration. “Well, that’s more of Osiris’s thing, innit? Weighing the heart, comparing it with the feather?”

Uh-oh. You know that her furrowed brow mean she’s gearing up to properly educate Steven on the true nature of the Duat, so you edge your way back into the conversation, crouching down to be level with her and Steven.

“Do you want to tell Steven what we noticed, Eliana?” You prompt, and her face turns solemn as she stares down Steven.

“You’re missing two,” she tells him. At his startled look, she points over his shoulder to the Ennead banners displayed on the far wall. “Khonshu gets cranky when you don’t talk about him.”

You barely manage to tilt your head down to hide your grin from Steven. She clearly picked that observation up from Jake, who often translated his disdain for Khonshu’s regular self-righteous rants into kid-appropriate terminology when he noticed her paying attention.

“Right,” Steven says, frowning. For a beat, you think it’s from the way Eliana talked about the Egyptian god of the moon with familiarity, but no, he looks justified as he points to the banners. “I told my boss the same thing, yeah? There are nine members of the Ennead and only seven banners. In a museum!”

Uh-oh. Now you got Steven all worked up.

“Stevie!” A voice shouts, startling the three of you. Eliana reaches out to clasp Steven’s hand, eyes wide, and some unspeakable emotion clogs your throat when you see his grip on her hand tighten reflexively, a silent comfort.

“Uh, here!” he calls. To Eliana, he says, “Donna, my boss.”

He dares a glance your way, and you blink at the flush of red creeping over the crest of his cheekbones. You aren’t used to your husband’s body looking so… soft and shy. Not in public, anyway. “I’m real sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him, soft, and he seems to blush harder only to yelp in surprise when Donna turns the corner. He straightens up to his feet fast enough to shake the display rack of Taweret plushies in a dangerously tedious wobble, which makes Eliana giggle and in turn draws Donna's attention to the way he’s still gripping onto your daughter’s hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She asks him, her voice edged in exasperated annoyance, and you rise up from your crouch, eyes narrowed. Donna gestures to their clasped hands. “Let go of that child, Stevie, what’s the matter with you?”

Steven releases Eliana’s hand as if her touch burns, and she stares up at him with wide eyes, hurt twisting her bottom lip into a wavering pout. You reach out and draw her closer to your side, smoothing a hand over her dark curls as she buries her face against the hem of your coat to hide her tears.

You look at Steven, and the gutted expression that flashes across his face nearly rends you in half. Jake. You would know him by sight alone, even if he only takes control of the body’s expression just long enough for you to see his hurt before he shutters himself away again. Got you, you think, relief unraveling the pit of worry trapped beneath your ribs. The body is alive, yes, but so is Jake. He’s there, even if he masks himself behind the presence of his fellow alter.

Part of you had thought… you had worried that…

“Steven is a real scholar,” you interrupt, forcing a smile to your face, hard-lined with polite disdain for her tone. Donna pulls her glare from Steven and looks at you as if just noticing your presence for the first time. “He was just telling Eliana about the Ennead. She loves Egyptology, I’m so glad she could talk to someone who loves it just as much as she does.”

“Oh, it’s nothin’, really,” Steven scrambles to add, flushing darker, his gaze darting from you to Donna with a wariness that reminds you so much of Jake you wonder if he’s still at the surface of the body’s consciousness, prepared to strike.

“I appreciate his help,” you add over Steven’s stuttering apology to Donna. She gives him a flat, annoyed look then turns to you with a fake smile.

“Well, at least he’s good for something,” she says, pointedly staring at Steven, and the defensive curl of his shoulders makes you want to throttle her. The blaze of fury that curls up the length of your spine is not only your own; a jackal’s rumbling growl echoes in the space above you.

“He is amazing,” you blurt out. She turns to stare at you, but you only have eyes for Steven. His posture is slumped, but those dark eyes are glittering with surprise as you stare at one another, a rising tide of unsaid words swelling in the back of your throat. You want to tell Donna of the incredible knowledge he has, the kindness of his heart, and the mirrored facets of his body that she could never fully understand. She cannot understand that when she disparages Steven Grant, she is also targeting Marc Spector, Jake Lockley, and Moon Knight.

Instead, you say, finally, “I really appreciate it, Steven. We would love to hear more when we come back.”

“Of course,” Steven says immediately, then blanches at the glare Donna gives him. “Right, uh, you’re welcome back anytime, yeah? Eliana, too.”

At the sound of her name, Eliana twists her head to look shyly up at Steven, her fingers easing their death grip on your coat when you gently tug at the curl falling into her eyes. The smile she gives him shines bright enough to make him grin back. “Thanks, Steven!”

“Thanks, Steven,” you repeat, and part of you wonders what Jake sees when you lean down and haul Eliana up onto your hip, carefully maneuvering your way out of the gift shop without bumping into the few patrons staring openly at the strange display between you, Steven, and Donna. He had told you that he stays aware during the day, giving his nights to Marc unless he felt a spike of adrenaline that signaled the start of a fight for the body.

You hope he sees your message loud and clear as you make your way to the museum’s exit, glancing over your shoulder just once to find Steven watching you, his face morphing into guilt and embarrassment when he sees you catch him staring.

You offer him a fleeting smile. You hope Jake sees your silent meaning: come and find me.

***

You get lunch at a cafe across the street from the museum, and you don’t argue when Eliana begs to sit at one of the bistro tables outside despite the clouds rolling in and muddling the sky. London is a dreary change of pace from your last apartment in Tunis, though you silently admire the way Eliana watches with open amazement at the crowded sidewalk and idling cars passing you on the street, enraptured by the bustle of pedestrians and flow of afternoon traffic.

You are no stranger to the world, but you forget how novel the entire experience is for your daughter. For a five year old, she’s been to more countries than you had been to at her age, but she still chews on her sandwich with an absent-minded instinct as she watches. Like the exhibits in the museum, she is utterly taken with the foreign display of another life.

The french fries you ordered taste like ash in your mouth, but you manage to chew and swallow without feeling too nauseous. It helps when you have a spectral jackal curled up at your feet under the table, its weightless head resting on your shoes in silent support. Its head is pointedly aimed to the front doors of the museum, acting as a sentinel. You don’t expect Steven to lose control of the body any time soon, especially not to Jake. Last you heard from him, he was intent on keeping his role in the system as a secret.

There’s enough going on in their head without me, querida.

Fair enough, you think, though you give up on picking at your fries in favor of scrawling another entry in your travel journal. It was a simple way to keep track of Jake’s memories during your former glory days as traveling Avatars, but you keep the habit without him there to add his own observations or opinions.

Noon: Visited the National Art Gallery with Eliana. She took us around the Egyptian exhibits for an hour. Saw Steven in the gift shop. Saw you briefly in the front. Got lunch at the cafe across the street.

Staring down at the entry only furthers that jolt of longing in your heart, so you snap the journal closed and slip it back into your tote bag, far out of sight.

“Oh,” Eliana says, breathless, and you barely have time to look up before you see her get swept up out of her seat by a pair of hands.

Your choked gasp of shock catches the attention of a nearby table, but the older couple looks away when Jake glares back at them, hoisting Eliana up onto his shoulders. He carries the body with the same lithe grace as a panther, you think. Where Steven is huddled and wary, Jake burns as bright as the sun, his shoulders squared, every step graceful and sure.

Even his smile to you is near-predatory. Unhappy.

“Fancy to see you here, querida,” he says. Not unkindly, though you know it’s more for Eliana’s benefit. There’s an edge lining the corner of his mouth that is reserved only for you to see now that she’s stashed safely atop his shoulders.

“I saw Steven!” She tells him, burying her hands in his dark curls. She leans down to press her temple to his, only to squeal in delight when he turns to kiss the tip of her nose.

“You told him he was missing the gods on that poster, princesita?” He hitches his shoulders to make her bounce, and she curls up to steady herself in his grip, giggling riotously against the crown of his curled hair. “I think you forgot something when you left.”

“Not-uh,” she declares. “I got my jacket!”

“Hmm,” Jake muses. “What about your shoes?”

“One, two,” she shows him one foot then the other. Jake’s smile softens at the sight of the untied laces, and you know he’s thinking of the same daily rituals you are. So many mornings he has spent muttering over her sneakers, constantly re-tying the laces, failing to convince her to get velcro shoes because she likes Jake to tie them for her and he cannot resist making her smile, even in that small way.

A morning ritual the two of you have tried to remedy together since he left. You’ve shown her how to tie her own shoes many times since then, but both of you can feel the gaping emptiness that he has left since Cairo.

“¿Estas segura?” He teases, and when she lets out an offended squawk of annoyance, he releases his grip on one of her ankles and pulls out a fuzzy dark-fur plush from his pocket.

You laugh despite yourself. A plush jackal, colored just like the god tucked in at your feet.

“Anubis!” Eliana gasps. She takes the plush from Jake with reverent joy, tucking it securely into the crook of her arm as her other hand curls gently into his dark hair. The exhaustion and annoyance that lined his face earlier is long gone, and a gentle adoration softens his eyes as she leans in to whisper in his ear, “Gracias, Daddy.”

“De nada, princesita,” he whispers back. For a moment, they stay just like that, her face ducked low to lean against his, his hands clasping her ankles to steady her perch on his shoulders. She has the same sort of smile that he does, too, as if it’s a secret split open and divided just for the two of them to share.

You’re loath to interrupt their first moment of peacefulness in nearly two months, so you merely catch Jake’s gaze and hold it, silently conveying every thought rattling in your head.

Cairo. The apartment abandoned in Tunis. The journey to London through international flights, hauling around a cranky kid that missed her dad and didn’t understand why it was important to pretend she wasn’t Eliana Lockley Spector when the boarding agents checked them in. Seeing Jake’s body being piloted by a near-stranger in the gift shop, knowing he was close enough for you to touch but you had no right to ask for the privilege.

“Join us?” You ask softly. He swallows thickly, and for a beat, he lets you see the emotions filtering through his mind in his subdued expression: exhaustion, stress, panic, relief, love, love, love.

“I have an hour for lunch,” he says. He doesn’t say that it’s Steven’s lunch, though you know that based on the tension ticking in his jaw, he’s already wondering how he will cover the blank spot in Steven’s memory when he comes back to front.

You push your plate across the table, and he eyes the untouched sandwich and half-eaten fries with a knowing look.

“No mayo,” he assumes. It’s endearing, you think, watching him scrutinize the lunch date you arranged while Eliana pets his curls with gentle fingers, tangling up the sleep-mussed locks even further. If Steven looked tired and rumpled, then Jake seems exhaustively spent. There’s a firm tilt to the corner of his mouth that reminds you of the way Marc always frowns when he’s in the front, but as Eliana carefully combs through his hair with her little fingers, you can see his expression smooth out and soften.

“You should finish lunch,” he finally says. He’s looking directly at you, but he lifts Eliana up and over his head to settle her in his lap, claiming the chair he swept her up from. She wiggles to lean her head against his collar, her posture loose and sated. He pulls her plate closer to the edge of the table so she can reach, and one of her hands dart out to snatch a french fry.

“Ay, have more than just the fritas,” he admonishes, but he takes a fry off of your plate with a wink only you can see. Eliana giggles but obediently reaches for her half-gnawed sandwich next, and so Jake doesn’t complain when she curls up in his lap to nibble on it, watching the passing traffic with a bright smile that makes your heart ache.

The three of you will never have your little life in Tunis again. You know it, even if you want nothing more than to take Jake by the hand and drag the both of them back home. It eases the sting to know that Jake would go with you and he wouldn’t fight it. His willingness to settle down was never the obstacle in your relationship.

“How was the shiva?” You ask. It’s easier to switch to Spanish; you can feel the sidelong stares from the old couple at the table next to yours, still uneasy at Jake’s sudden appearance. They are likely harmless, but you don’t have enough energy to sidestep the actual topic you need to discuss by using petty code-speak.

Jake takes the offering without stumbling. “Didn’t go in. Had to nudge them through the city streets before one of them got run over.”

“The museum is just his day job, then?” You ask, nodding to the name tag still fastened to Jake’s coat. Or it was technically Steven’s coat, you supposed. The three of them have their own preferences, and you know Jake would have preferred something softer and warmer for the tepid English weather.

“Gallivanting at night,” Jake agrees. He takes another fry off of your plate and eats it slowly, chewing as if he can delay the conversation entirely. Eliana eats just as slow, you notice, and you wonder if it isn’t just Jake who feels the tension brewing between the two of you.

It isn’t fair for her, you think, and that gives you the courage to speak first.

“I’ve been talking to my sister,” you start, and the next sentence dies in your throat when you see Jake stiffen, panic flashing through his eyes before his gaze settles in wary distrust. The slope of his shoulders tense into a straight, drawn-back posture. A soldier’s stance.

“You,” Marc says flatly. Eliana straightens up at the sound of his voice, looking at you with wide eyes, and you can only offer her a smile in what you hope conveys comfort. Either that, or you just might expose some of the frustration welling up in your chest.

“Just having lunch,” you tell Marc. His brows draw together, unsure, and you quickly jump back into English. “We invited Steven to lunch.”

Wrong thing to say. The tension stiffens into protectiveness, his dark eyes slowly taking in the plates on the table, the half-eaten vegetarian sandwich pushed between you and him. Then his attention trails down to Eliana, and his expression smooths out when he realizes that she’s watching him with rapt attention.

“Hi, Eliana,” Marc says, soft. When he looks at you, that wariness turns the softness of his black eyes back to stone. “Steven isn’t involved in any of this, Lockley.”

You nod. The sound of his voice sends that shiver down your back. God, you missed this so much. Jake may be the alter you married, but Marc is still the reason you have him and Eliana. He was your partner in a way Jake didn’t quite equate to.

“I know.” You offer your best apologetic look, but he doesn’t seem swayed until you nod to Eliana. “We came to the city for my sister. I got a lead and I needed the babysitter.”

“Lockley,” he warns. He glances around the cafe, and you follow his gaze. The old couple that sat next to you have gone while you were distracted, and you supposed it was good they left before they noticed Jake switch into a brooding American from Chicago that looked like he was holding a pipe bomb rather than your daughter in his lap. The faces around you are different but unassuming, and none seem interested in your suddenly tense conversation. It’s only the three of you, and the jackal curled languidly at your feet, unbothered by the display.

Good. That must mean Khonshu isn’t here yet. When Marc looks back to you, you smile at him.

“I know,” you say, soft enough to sound less like a defense mechanism and more like an olive branch. It doesn’t loosen the slope of his shoulders, though there’s less wrinkles across his brow. “I just needed time before meeting with Sophia. Eliana wanted to see the exhibits.”

“I saw a mummy,” Eliana adds, patting Marc’s shoulder to get his attention. The anger clears from his face when he tilts his head down to offer his full attention. His eyes linger on the plush jackal clutched in the crook of her arm, but he merely offers her a kind, gentle smile.

“Oh, yeah?” He says. He pokes her side, supporting her weight when she jolts away at the ticklish touch with a giggle, then pokes at the plush on her other side. “You picked up a souvenir, too?”

“Anubis,” Eliana affirms. She pulls it out to offer it to Marc, and his hand is gentle as he pets the top of its furry head, his smile tugging ruefully at the corners of his mouth. You take a brief, gracious moment to silently thank Jake for his thoughtfulness. Not only did Eliana have a souvenir, but it was a good cover story for when this exact scenario happened: they saw Steven at the gift shop counter during checkout, and they got lunch together.

From what you knew of Steven, you gathered that he was an earnest, kind-hearted, and well-mannered man. He wouldn’t refuse an offer for lunch, and he was just as likely to strike up a friendship with Eliana through a few conversations about their shared love for Egyptology.

Like you choosing the vegan-friendly restaurant, Jake chose a prop for a lunch date. For all of the complaints he had about Marc’s love for strategy, he could be a formidable opponent in the game of chess you all played with the system. Hiding Steven from the world of Avatars, hiding Jake from Marc and Steven, hiding who you and Eliana truly are from Marc.

It was all a delicate circus act of balance and lies, and you wondered just how far you could let it go before it all came crashing down. Marc would be gutted if he knew the girl cradled in his lap was his daughter just as much as she was Jake’s and Steven’s. He would be furious if he knew his marriage to Layla was null and void just because he was married to you, instead, long before he started to even date her.

Yeah, some chess game you all played. Some days you wondered if it would be easier simply to set the board on fire and let it all go.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly.

Marc and Eliana both look to you, an eerie mirror to the life you pose for. She has his striking dark eyes and soft curls, and thanks to you, she has his name, too. One of the contacts you worked with beyond the scope of Marc and Layla’s influences forged her birth certificate and passport, sympathetic when you explained to her that Eliana was a surprise and her father had no interest in being involved. She needed identification papers, and you couldn’t go to the local embassy to register her birth with her father, and so you made them up.

You couldn’t blame Jake for lying about his role in the system. You were just as complicit in the deceit of your daughter’s life. By extension, for better and for worse, that meant Marc’s life, too.

“For showing up so suddenly,” you explain. “I didn’t expect to get so caught up in a museum today. We just had to kill some time.”

In emphasis, you check your watch, and you don’t have to fake the tired sigh that overcomes you at the acknowledgment of the time. Steven’s lunch was about over, and you had to catch the next bus to your sister’s house before she started to worry about you.

Marc, ever attentive, takes the hint.

“I understand,” he says, though he doesn’t sound happy. “Just… leave him out of this. We can talk about the scarab later.”

“Didn’t tell you that was my lead,” you point out, a little sly, and he levels you with an unamused look. You relent, “I’ll share my sources and we can make a plan. You don’t have to rush in alone.”

The smile he gives you is bitter. “Am I ever alone, Lockley?”

With that, you watch as his posture softens, Marc stepping back from control. For a moment, you wonder if he intends to have Steven step in, in which case explaining the lunch arrangement again will get much more confusing. But no, you can see Jake’s mouth twitch with a muted frown before he gives you a wide, uncharacteristically bright smile.

“Right, look at the time,” Jake says, and you can’t help but smile at the British accent. “I best get a move on, right, love?”

He presses a kiss to the top of Eliana’s head, and only you can see the way he closes his eyes for a heartbeat, a wave of longing sweeping across his face before it settles back to an imitation of Steven’s soft look and he leans back. When he looks at you, his face betrays nothing of his true nature, and you wonder what he would say if Marc wasn’t hovering so close to the front, watching your interaction.

He would probably be pissed. He didn’t like to be left out of the loop, and you coming to London was so far out of left field that you came from another stadium. Bringing Eliana only complicated things, but were you supposed to leave her with your neighbors in Tunis? As much as you liked and trusted the al-Karims that lived next door, they were vastly unprepared to take care of Eliana if you never came back. Next of kin was the best opportunity you had, at least for now.

“It was nice to see you,” you say to your husband. You hold his eyes for a long moment, a silent conversation held delicately between the two of you. Years of working side-by-side as Avatars and the aspect of parenthood where being aware of what Eliana shouldn’t have to hear finely tuned your silent communication skills, and you are more than fluent in the language of Jake Lockley.

He is beyond pissed. He is utterly fucking terrified. He wants you to leave just as much as he wants to pull you in and keep you close. He wants to settle in and rest, even for just a little while, and he does not want to let the two of you out of his sight.

I will be back for you, you tell him silently. We are not doing anything alone. We are going to fix this and go back to normal.

Jake says, with the slightest furrow of his brow: I want you to be right, querida.

Yeah, you want to be right, too. It’s a work in progress.

“You ready to go, habibti?” You say to Eliana, gathering up your tote bag and her small pink backpack. Before leaving Tunis, you packed it with her clothes, along with some of her favorite books and a few toys. How strange your life was that you had a go-bag for your five year old. It had been even worse that she recognized her backpack and had gotten ready for your flight before you even explained the trip to see your sister.

She heaves a world-weary sigh and shuffles around to face Jake, lifting up her Anubis plush to kiss his cheek with a soft peck of its nose.

“Anubis likes you,” she tells him, solemn. The jackal at your feet, nothing more than a shimmering mass of sand and shadows, gives Jake a bared-teeth grin of acknowledgement that no one but you can see. She isn’t far off, though you would rather not have Khonshu overhear that his Avatar has a soft spot in a rival god’s heart.

Marc must still be close to the waking consciousness of the body, because Jake nods enthusiastically and generously pats the plush’s head.

“Right, thanks, mate.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to muffle a laugh. His impression is openly expressive and earnest, though not entirely overdramatic. The accent is a dead ringer for Steven’s stereotypical posh English. It makes sense; he has spent many years posing as flashes of Steven to keep Marc unsuspecting of certain blank spots in his memory. Typically, it’s softer errands, such as grocery shopping or doing laundry, but you have heard Jake’s impression of Steven and Marc enough to know when it’s him putting on an act, even if it happens to be a very accurate act.

Jake keeps up his front as Steven, and you wonder if you’re the only one that notices the way he reluctantly passes off Eliana to you, his hands lingering just a moment on her untied shoes before they drop back in his lap, empty.

Eliana nuzzles her face in the crook of your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your neck in loose comfort. She’s exhausted after your morning of travel to London by bus, followed immediately by your museum visit and the impromptu lunch date. When you reach your sister’s house, you know she’ll be grumpy until you can convince her to nap.

Then, you will have to leave her there, and meet up with Marc.

“Thank you,” you say to Jake, though it’s half meant for Marc, too. The two of you can manage to find the scarab and keep it out of the cult’s hands, surely. The quicker you locate the artifact, the quicker you can arrange a real routine for Eliana while you adjust to London life. Or maybe you’ll get lucky and you can go back to Tunis, the three of you, to go back to enjoying the sunshine and frequenting the food stalls in the Medina.

“Pleasure’s all mine, love,” Jake grins, and this time, it’s his own flirtatious smile that makes you grin back.

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