#I think they had real moments with each other

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

cowboy like me | r. reynolds

a/n: guess who's back. haha. sorry i said i was on hiatus and then wrote this. i saw thunderbolts and made it everyone else's problem so here is a fuck of a long fic. i dont know i just wanted to put all my ideas in one so there is a lot going on in this one but yeah. uhm. no real smut because i didn't wanna write because they fuck a lottt also the entire concept is based off this one screenshot i have and i do not know where i got it (it was from some sort of meme) but yeah! warnings: SELF HARM!! no really super serious descriptions but the reader is mentally ill and so is bob and reader does hurt herself at some point and bob wraps them. lots of talks of addiction and alcoholism and sobriety. lots of kissing and allusions to sex and teasing and everyone (bob and reader) is mentally ill and, yeah. sentry and void have a conversation with bob in his brain. also book club. word count: 9.4k summary: you get a text from an old friend and think.. you could do worse than a book club.. with some benefits. pairing: bob reynolds x sober!reader now playing: cowboy like me - taylor swift "now you hang from my lips/like the gardens of babylon/with your boots beneath my bed/forever is the sweetest con."

The first text comes at 5:43 on a Tuesday.

‘do you wanna start fucking again like maybe once a week?’

You must’ve sat, staring at your phone for twenty minutes. Who the fuck..?

The second text comes at 6:32.

‘it can be like a little book club, we can read the same book and discuss’

Book club..?

You ask yourself if this is some sort of joke, and another text shows up three minutes later--

‘i also have a real bed now.’

And then you remember this meth head you used to sleep with, some Florida guy who was always taking odd jobs to fuel his addiction—Cashier, house sitter, alligator hunter, amusement park mascot.. until he got fired, which always seemed inevitable.

You suppose you have no room to judge. You had only been in Jacksonville after your last friend in New York told you no more, that they wouldn’t watch you destroy yourself. But you didn’t need them to, you never needed an audience to fuel the urge to rip every little bit of your soul apart.

You had taken a job working at a Dunkin Donuts that was right next to a liquor store. It seemed as if the universe had given you a sign. You could retire here. Nothing but part time shifts, a bottle of vodka, and a shitty room for rent from the kinkiest 72-year-old lesbian you had ever met.. You had a little bit of respect for her, a sort of ‘good for her’ attitude.

And then, you met Bob.

You met Bob at a dealer’s house.

Romantic, right?

Bob was about to take his first hit in six or seven hours, and you sat uncomfortably scrunched against the couch, trying not to think about how many fucked up things had happened there.

And he sat on the other side of the couch, Bob sat, flicking his lighter on and off while he waited.

..The girl you were with was currently.. paying for the coke she wanted. You were never a fan of drugs, alcohol was your one and only, your soulmate—you could never cheat on her. But this girl promised to buy shots at the next bar. And now you had to listen to her ‘pay’ her dealer—and you presumed Bob’s dealer in the other room.

“Hey.” He speaks first.

You give him a side glance.

“Hey.”

“Waiting for.. stuff?”

“Just waiting for my friend.”

“Oh. Cool.”

A beat.

“What’s your—“

“Alcohol.”

“Oh. Cool. Mine’s meth.”

“Great.”

A beat.

“I need a fuckin’ hit man, I don’t know what’s taking her so long to fucking pay—”

God, you wanted a drink in that moment.

“So, he’s your dealer?”

“Yeah. And my roommate. My rooms the one down the hall.”

“Cool.”

Another beat.

You began tapping your foot against the carpet.

“Oh my god, it doesn’t take that long to—”

“It fucking takes a minute, relax,” You scoffed.

“Not this long.” You caught the unspoken words.

And then, almost in sync, you looked at each other, fully turning your heads to really see what one another looks like. Your eyes flickered up and down his features. Drunk as you were, you knew you could do much worse than this guy.

But before you could say anything, he spoke again,

“Wanna see my room?”

Your ‘friend’ didn’t really seem to be finishing up her transaction anytime soon. Plus, it.. had been a while.

“Sure.” You said, and you followed Bob two steps behind on the way down to his bedroom. When he opened the door, you know deep down sober you would be mortified—well, only if the sex was bad.

His room was small, clothes laid about in various piles across the room—a few lighters, a coin or two next to the odd chip bag.. and in the corner of his room, a twin sized mattress laid on the floor, black sheets and a red blanket, one that had been clearly loved.. and a very old pillow.

You just stared until Bob grabbed your wrist, pulling you along to the bed. He sat on the bed first, tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and gently prompted you to ‘c’mere.’ As you sat on his lap, you realized that this guy was cute enough for this to become a regular thing.

Your lips locked with his, slowly pulling him in with slow, gentle kisses as if the two of you weren’t giving plenty of time for the moment to be interrupted by the end of the transaction in the other room.

And then, your hands traced up from his shoulders, past his neck and ears, curls wrapping around your fingers.

As if you couldn’t help yourself, you found yourself gently tugging at his hair, listening as he let out this soft moan, and you couldn’t deny—you could totally get used to this. 

And after, when you laid back on his stupid twin sized mattress without a bedframe, your finger stayed twirled in his curls. Then, when he heard the other bedroom door open, he pulled on his boxers and got up, grabbing a sweatshirt as he headed to the door. He glanced back to you to ask,

“’m going to take a hit, want anything?”

“Something to drink?”

“I’ll get you a beer.” He had offered, and you found yourself smiling.

So, you came back. Again. And again. And again. And again. And then you got sober. Or at least, that’s the version you’d give your therapist when you next spoke.

When you got sober, you had gone from a smartphone to a flip phone, deleting and blocking many of the numbers from your party days.. until you had gotten to Bob. All you did was delete his contact from your phone—he still had your number if he wanted to reach out.

But he hadn’t. Not for the past nineteen months, and you’ll be honest—Month eight was such a big month for you (being able to babysit your niece by yourself for the first time, saving up for your own apartment, no roommates or family, and enrolling in a night class or two), so you had forgotten the meth head who purred when you played with his hair.

And yet..

You felt this.. tug. At something.

You found yourself responding—

“hey, i’ve been sober for nineteen months. not interested if ur still using.”

Your texting habits reflected your archaic tech.

But you meant it—Bob was.. well, you didn’t like to think about the things you felt for him, but it was enough to make you bury it as deep down as you could.

“me too”

And then, seven minutes later,

“therapy too lol.”

You glance at the time. You think about your favorite bar’s bottomless margaritas on Tuesdays, and you realize it has been a while.. it was typical for people not to date within a year of sobriety. But it had been nineteen months..

And this wasn’t a date.

It was book club..

“what do u want to read?”

You toss the flip phone on your bed and walk over to the shelf in the corner of your room. You inspect the spines of the few books you have and realize they’re not book club material.

You pick your phone back up to read the text—

“great gatsby? i never read it in school”

Neither had you. Maybe you had been assigned it once upon a time.

“okay. next thursday enough time?”

You were serious about the book club aspect of this. You know two things—

One, no mater how he answers, you’ll have to talk this over with your therapist. Maybe even your sister. You barely ever take risks, not since getting sober, and this risk scares the shit out of you..

Two—You are almost giddy at the idea of tugging at Bob’s hair. You’ve been alone for too long, but you can’t seem to trust yourself enough to download a dating app and hook up with strangers (you theorize you could become as addicted to hookups as you were to alcohol) and the idea of getting into a serious relationship makes you feel sick.. so maybe this is a good compromise.

You glance at the phone in your hand and see one more text--

“sure :)”

So, you send him an address to a coffee shop near your apartment. He asks you if three works. You say yes.

When you tell your therapist about it the next day, this huge smile grows on her face as you tell her about your dilemma—to be or not to be, to go or not to go, to fuck Bob or not to fuck Bob.

You debate this back and forth, and your therapist eventually tells you—

“As your therapist, I shouldn’t and couldn’t push you to do this. Read the book. Go to coffee. At the very least, you’ll get some closure. Or.. you could have an outlet. Remember your boundaries, and don’t pursue anything you aren’t comfortable doing. Ask him questions about his sobriety if it’s important for you to know to feel comfortable. Think about it, and we can talk about it next week before you go.”

And that was pretty good advice. You contemplated it, back and forth, bouncing a mental tennis ball off a mental wall in an imaginary room. Sometimes, there are bottles of booze in the imaginary room, and other times, Bob sits in the corner. Quietly watching you ‘throw the ball.” Somedays it’s just you and the tennis ball.

You’re very normal.

When you told your sister, she just laughed.

“So, at what point did you start seriously considering this?”

“..When I realized he had an actual bed now.”

And that’s all you can respond, because you can’t explain how curious you are. He was a meth head named Bob who had no bed frame, and yet.. you want him. After nineteen months, you think about the way he focused his attention to you in between sips, in between hits, in between fucks.

How his hand rested on your side, how those stormy eyes studied yours as you talked, asking questions about your delusional rambles—

“Right, but what does that mean?” He had asked one night.

“What does what mean?”

“What the fuck does it mean that I ‘am’ the.. hanging gardens of Babylon?” You had rolled your eyes, and the pads of your fingertips against his lips.

“They were a uh,” Your eyes flicker up and down his face. “These.. gardens. City of Babylon, a long long time ago-- They were supposed to so beautiful but there’s no archeological proof they ever existed, except they’re mentioned in poetry, so.. They may or may not be real and we’ll never know. You remind me of them.”

Bob just stared at you for a long time. He didn’t say anything but the way his eyes fixated on you made you alive.. And maybe more alive than the booze, and that thought petrified you because up until that point, drinking was your life. So, you ignored it. What else were you supposed to do?

When you’re done with therapy for the day, you go to the closest bookstore. You pick up the cheapest paperback you can find of Gatsby and then, your eye wanders, as it always done in a bookstore. You spot a book on The Seven Ancient Wonders of the world.. And you decide to buy it when you see the large chapter on The Hanging Gardens of Babylon.

///

The week passes quickly because you find yourself filling any free time you have with reading, underlining and circling quotes and words that F Scott Fitzgerald decided were good enough to convey his themes.

You barely register that it’s Thursday morning when it comes because all you want to do is reread your favorite parts over and over again while you get ready for the day. Before you know it, it’s.. time for book club.

You decide to get there ten minutes before three, hoping you’ll be able to grab a drink and relax before Bob shows up. The bell on the door of the café rings when you walk in, and there are a couple of patrons..

But you find yourself stopping in your tracks when you see a familiar face in the corner, a book on the table, as his finger traces a pattern on the cover.. absently. Like he’s somewhere else.

And then his head picks up, and he notices you. Neither of you say anything, neither of you smile.

In an instant, you’re not sure if you can do this, if—

“Decaf red velvet latte with whipped cream and cinnamon for Bob?” The barista calls, and he stands and approaches the counter, mumbling a thanks to the barista. When he glances down and notices your name scribbled on the side of a cup marked ‘half n half’ and ‘two splenda’, he picks it up and turns, handing you the cup.

“Hi.” He says, and you find yourself reaching out to take the cup, as if you just saw Bob yesterday.

“Hey.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Wordlessly, the two of you sit at the table.

And there is quiet.

Until, Bob asks,

“So.. how have you been?”

“..Fine.”

“..Cool.” You remember this awkward feeling. Like right before the first time, you slept together. “Thanks for meeting with me.” He breathes after a moment, and you nod.

“Yeah.” You breathe, and then he asks,

“You’ve been sober since the last time we—”

“What did you think about the book?” You ask, reaching to take a sip of your coffee. Bob nods, taking the hint.

“I.. liked it.” He says, “It was a good first book for this. I liked that.. that Nick reflects on his life through these other characters and realizes what he does, or doesn’t, want.. How about you?” He asks.

“I liked it too,” and you find yourself wanting to just ramble about your analysis but you bite your tongue. “I think Daisy is a fascinating character too, especially in the way she seems so trapped in her situation. Like being with Gatsby is the only way she can feel alive or free or something.”

Bob considers this for a second.

“Yeah,” He starts, “But she’s.. a rich woman. She’s inherently part of the system that you claim traps her and is actively benefiting from her wealth.”

Wait.. was your awkward meth head situationship kinda.. smart?

You adjust from your rigid position and lean into the conversation a bit.

“Well, Why can’t it be both?” You wonder, “She can benefit from these systems and be miserable in them—she’s miserable, maybe because she’s benefiting from it, and her wealth doesn’t negate the abuse and strain on her marriage.” You say and go to take another sip of your coffee.

Bob is quiet.

Then, he says—

“Yeah. I think you’re right.”  He smiles a little, and you feel your heart in your throat. “So do you think the green light was actually supposed to be as important as pop culture makes it seem, or was that just..”

“I think it is as important as we’re led to believe, because it’s a symbol of what things could be.” And then, before Bob can say something that would lead you to change your mind, you say, “Yeah, I stayed sober since the last time we talked.. When did you quit?”

He inhales and then closes his mouth, and you watch as he holds his breath, noting that his mouth is sort of puffed like a chipmunk. When he exhales, he responds,

“Right after that, I guess. I joined this.. medical.. study and quit to do that.. Then, I guess I just.. stayed sober.” He says, and you laugh, so with a bit of a smile, he asks, “What’s so funny?”

“You make it sound so easy.”

Then, Bob starts to laugh too.

“Do I?” He leans forward like he’s about to tell you a secret, and he says softly, “Because some days I feel like I’m drowning and maybe meth would be the key to being able to breath again..”

“So, what do you do when you feel like that?” You ask softly, not because you’re looking for an answer but because you need to know if sobriety is as big for him as it is for you.

Bob gestures to the table.

“This. Sugar, reading—” He cuts himself off like there’s something else when he meets your eyeline. “Do you want to go to your place or mine?”

And there’s no hesitation when you answer,

“Mine.”

///

Bob spends a long time studying the details on your shelves. He notices the pictures of a seven-year-old he doesn’t recognize and you, the small lego structures in between them, and he finds a small jar next to your TV with little chips in them.

“Do you want anything to drink?” He hears you ask.

“No, thanks.” He calls back, and you appear in the doorway.

“Too much sugar in that latte you had?” You tease, and in that way you love, he just stares at you for a long time, in that way that makes your heartbeat too fast.

“Can’t help it,” he says, “No meth means lots and lots of sugar.”

“Right,” You nod.

Your fingers itch by your side, and you decide—Fuck it. You’re not getting any younger, any more sober. So you go over to him. Like a scared deer, Bob just stares at you, while you try to not scare him off. Your hand ever so gently reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear.

Then, he shakes his head a bit.

“I haven’t done anything with anyone in a while.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Then, because you think you’ll tell him to leave and never come back if you don’t, you lean forward and kiss him, and as if that is how he gets air when he feels like he’s drowning, his hands are on your side, slowly stepping so that you’re backing up towards your bedroom.

Then, you pull away,

“Bob,” You start, “I’m not really looking for a serious relationship right now,” You start, and his lips begin to leave sloppy kisses, first along your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck.

“Mhm,” is all he responds with.

“I’m being serious,” You sigh as he continues to step forward, pushing you back towards the bedroom, his mouth hot on your skin. “I’m still working on getting my shit together,” You continue.

“I get it,” he says, his voice gentle.

“Do you?” You ask, but he can hear the smile in your voice. “Because it seems like you’re trying to sleep with me—”

“No, No,” He shakes his head a bit, “I’m not going to sleep with you, silly girl,” He hums, and you never want this moment ends, “I’m going to fuck you.” He says gently. It makes you laugh, and he chuckles too.

You decide to take the initiative and slip your shirt off-- Then, he takes off the sweater he’s wearing, and you have to take a second. You really look at him and begin to smile.

His stomach is rounder than it was nineteen months ago when you last met. He’s.. thicker. His rips aren’t poking out of his stomach. No, thicker isn’t the right word.. He looks.. healthier.

And that is hot.

“What?” he asks, “What is it?” he wonders, and you just shake your head.

“Nothing. You were saying something about fucking me?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Right, right.” He says softly, grabbing your face and bringing you in for another kiss. Your hands trail up his neck and find his hair as he slowly sinks down, so he’s kneeling between your legs.

Your hands find his hair, and in between kisses, you gently tug on his hair, and just completely melt when you hear a soft moan leave his lips..

And old habits die hard.

So, you do it again.

///

You lay on your stomach, your face smooshed against the pillow you have your arms around. Bob is sitting up in bed, and you find yourself looking at him for a long while.

“So, What are you doing for work now that you’re sober and in New York?” You ask.

Bob plays with your sheets.

“Uh,” He lets out a soft half chuckle. “..You know the uh.. New Avengers?”

“Vaguely.” You shrug. You don’t really have the time to keep up with that sort of thing, between your job, between babysitting your niece, between being sober.. And it’s not like you have social media, so.. yeah. Vaguely.

“..That.”

“That what?” You ask, furrowing your eyebrows.

“That’s what I’m doing now.”

“Bob, I’m not following.”

His finger begins to run down your arm.

“I guess I.. sort of count.. as a.. New Avenger.”

“…What?”

“I need you to stop asking me that,” He sighed. “Do you remember the uhm.. medical study thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Something they did.. it changed me.. A serum.”

“So you’re like, some sort of superhero or something?” You wonder, and you say it like it’s funny. Bob looks uncomfortable—much more than he usually does.

“..No. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” He says. “I’m dangerous, I.. Do you remember last year when the.. the Void attacked New York? Right around the time that the New Avengers got announced?” He asks.

You pause.

“I mean, yeah, but I was in Jersey at the time, at a wedding.” Your first since getting sober. It was a rough weekend.

“Yeah, that was me.”

“..What was you?”

Bob wishes he could sink into your mattress and never show his face again.

“The void.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m not allowed to go on missions or.. get into any emotionally challenging situations..” he sighs. “Because I.. I can barely keep him.. or even the.. Sentry at bay.. I’m working on it.” He finally looks at you. “Which is why I don’t want a serious relationship either.” He says. “We.. we could just be friends.”

“Friends who fuck.”

“Book club with Benefits?”

You smile.

“Friends who discuss literature and also fuck.”

Bob rolls his eyes a bit, his lips pursing into a reluctant smile.

“Book club with benefits.” His pointer finger starts at the top of your back and travels down your spine, “Lots.. and lots.. of benefits.”

And if you could focus on anything other than how good that felt, you might’ve noticed the flicker of gold in his eyes.

///

“Decaf Caramel Frappuccino with extra caramel and whipped cream, and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” The barista calls, and you step forward to grab your drinks.

You hand Bob his glorified milkshake and sit at the same table you sat at last week.

“So,” You start, “Lord of the flies.”

“Yeah,” He breathes, “I.. I didn’t really like this one.” He shrugs.

“I think the concept is interesting enough.” You respond, “And it’s interesting that the group is only made up of privileged little British white boys. The horrors they put each other through might never have happened if they had been a group of schoolgirls, or if they had faced any hardship before this.” You shrug back, taking a sip of your coffee.

Bob nods as he studies the atmosphere of the café.

“Hey, do you wanna split a slice of cake or pie or something?” He asks, and you find yourself giggling.

“You’re ridiculous.” You scoff. Bob huffs.

“You’re boring.” He accuses and you just laugh more.

“I am not boring, I’m consistent.” It makes Bob shake his head.

“Coconut cream pie?” And the way he makes those puppy eyes makes you sigh.

“Fine. But you’re one piece of pie away from me accusing you of being addicted to that in place of Meth.”

“You wouldn’t.” He smirks, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Sure I would.” You shrug, “I’m just a concerned friend, Robby.” You smile, and then you watch as Bob gets up to get a slice of pie, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

///

“And then I said to him, I say, ‘If you want to hire spider-man to try and do your bidding, be my guess, but I—”

Bob is biting his tongue as he listens to everyone talk. He’s sitting on a chair at the kitchen island, watching as John moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. He’s been staring at the same page of The Outsiders for ten minutes, just thinking.

Bucky is complaining about Sam, and before anyone can respond with anything, Bob clears his throat and puts his book down.

“Can I ask you guys something?” he wonders, and everyone’s head immediately turns to him. He barely talks in these group settings, so Yelena, who sits by his side, nods.

“Sure, what’s up?” She asks.

“..I need.. advice. I need to get a birthday gift for.. a friend of mine.” is how he starts.

“Not anyone in this room, right?” John asks, and everyone, including Bob, just looks at him.

“No. I know you think I’m socially inept, but I know not to ask what I should get someone while they’re in the room.” He huffs.

“Alright, who’s the gift for?” Bucky asks.

Bob wants to tell them all about you—your quirks, your laugh, the way your brain works, the way you feel wrapped around his—

But he hesitates.

“Just.. a friend.” He breathes. “From.. Book club.”

“Book club?” Ava answers, and already it feels like a mistake to have asked them but they’re his only friends besides you.

“Yeah, we.. choose a book to read every week and we meet up for coffee every week to talk about it.”

Yelena glances down to the book on the counter.

“Book club..” She nods, “And how long have you known this friend?”

“…It’s complicated.” He breathes.

“And do you hangout outside of book club?” John asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush.

“Sort of.”

“What does that even mean?” Ava asks, and he shrugs.

“We.. do some other stuff. I don’t know, she—”

“Oh, she?” Alexei finally pipes up, letting out a gruff laugh. “So you like her?”

“It’s just difficult to explain!” He snaps, and everyone pauses when the lights flicker. For a moment, no one says anything.

Then, Bucky huffs,

“So just try.” He gently prods. Bob hesitates.

“She’s.. I do like her. We started book club last month, but.. We met before.. Y’know.” He gestures around, “We..” his cheeks are red as tomatoes now. “When we’re done with coffee and talking about books, we.. we go back to her place, and we..”

Immediately everyone either groans or laughs. Bob feels like he might die on the spot.

“That is so weird,” Yelena laughs, and Bob groans as he covers his face with his hands, shaking his head.

“Never should’ve told you guys.”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky says after a moment. “You knew this girl before the Sentry project?”

“Yeah. We both were.. were addicts in Florida. We started hooking up, and I knew from before I went to Malaysia that she was moving back to New York, so I looked her up and—and you all said I needed to get a hobby!” He offered.

“We meant like,” Ava shrugs, “Knitting or—”

“Book club?” Yelena smiles. Bob bites the inside of his cheek.

“So, what should I get her for her birthday?"

“Well, what kind of message do you want to send?” John asks. “That you want to be more than.. whatever it is that—”

“..Book club with benefits.”

Everyone looks at him.

“What?”

“..That’s what we call it.”

“Oh, my god,” Yelena and Ava are giggling now.

“Okay. What kind of message do you want to send?” John asks again, and Bob hesitates.

“..That I care about her, that..” he shakes his head, “that.. I’m sorry for..” he picks his head up and notices everyone staring at him. He can hear the Void laughing at him in the back of his head.

“For..?” Bucky offers gently and Bob shakes his head. And then, he begins to tell his teammates about the last time he saw you.

///

Nineteen Months Ago

You and Bob had been sleeping together for months. Hanging out in between fucks and hits—or drinks. He had burrowed his way into your heart and taken up this big chunk of it, replacing booze in your late-night fantasies.

When he wasn’t extremely high, and you weren’t extremely drunk, you found yourself falling for him. The attention he showed you had been it’s own high, and you had let yourself become addicted to someone who you would never have a normal life with.

But he was there, waiting for you with a shot after every shift. You often helped him light up. The two of you encouraged each other’s destructive behaviors. Became each other’s self-destructive behaviors. Like the mentally ill addicts you were.

Your sister had flown down to Florida to see you.

You hadn’t asked her to. You knew she wouldn’t approve of this.. lifestyle. And at first, you wished she had never come to see you, because you did not want to stop drinking.. and then she wore you down. Your big sister always knew how to get you to do whatever she wanted.

So, the night before she was scheduled to fly back to New York, you went to see Bob. His roommate let you in, and you found him high and on his bed.

“Robby,” you said as you walk in. He smiled twenty seconds later when he registered your presence.

“I love it when you call me that.” He spoke.

You smiled weakly. You took a seat on his mattress.

“I have to talk to you.” You had said. He sat up, leaning forwards.

“Mm, All you do is talk to me,” he said slowly, and his hand grabbing yours. “Come kiss me instead—” His lips catch yours, in a soft, sweet kiss. He pulled away, and you whispered,

“Robby, please.”

And only then had he registered an important detail.

“You don’t taste like booze.”

You always tasted like booze.

“Yeah,” you nodded, “that’s why I wanted to talk to you—”

“No,” he said softly, “No, don’t—”

“Tomorrow, I’m flying to New York with my sister. I’m going to rehab.”

He shook his head, sighing.

“What.. what changed your mind?” He asked, and you shrug.

“My niece. My sister told me that.. she’s sick of having to talk about me like I’m dead. That she wants to know me. She’s six. Her names Ella.” A smile tugged at your lips. “She does dance. And she.. she loves to read, my sister said.. It reminded her of me.” Then, you shook your head, tears brimming your eyes. “I want to be in her life. I want to taste my mom’s cooking again. I.. I want to get better.” You cleared your throat.

“I’m going to Malaysia tomorrow.” Bob said, and your eyebrows furrowed.

“What?”

“I got fired from my job, so they gave me my last paycheck.. So I spent it on a plane ticket. I’m going to Malaysia with.. thirty bucks in my pocket. Maybe I’ll find the answers. Or, at least more drugs..” He shrugged. “Come with me.” He had offered.

You just shook your head.

“No.”

“No?” He scoffed, “What do you mean no?”

“No. I won’t go to Malaysia. I’m going torehab..” You started, and you inhaled before you asked, “And you should come with me.” You offered.

Bob let out a humorless chuckle.

“You..” He shook his head. “You’re just like everyone else.” He sighed, and you shook your head.

“Robby,” You whispered. “Please come with me. Get clean. Be.. be with me.” You said quietly, and when you leaned in to kiss him, he tilts his head away from you.

Oh.

“You should go.” He huffs. “I need to pack.”

You nod.

“You’re right. I should go.”

You stand, and make your way to the door, wiping your tears as you go.

Bob doesn’t say anything.

You stopped in the doorway, turning around to look at your sweet boy with no bed frame one last time.

“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

And then, as if you weren’t soul crushingly and devastatingly in love with him, you left. And you hadn’t seen him again. Not until you started book club.

///

“Decaf vanilla bean macchiato with whipped cream and cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob grabs the drinks today, and when he sits across from you, you start—

“So. Frankenstein?”

Bob sighs.

“I liked that it’s the first ever sci-fi novel, and it was written by a young woman. It’s interesting.” He shrugs.

“Yeah.” You nod, and you open your mouth to say something but Bob beats you to it,

“I mean, I don’t.. I don’t know. Victor is just.. so stupid but also so.. self-centered. He’s— He’s the one who created the monster, why can’t he take accountability for it? Why is the monster doomed to always.. be a product of his creator?” He sounds frustrated, so you gently shrug.

“It is bullshit. But I think the person aspect of him, the human aspects of the monster are all him.  The best parts of him comes from the work he does on himself.” You shrug, and Bob knows this conversation has strayed from Frankenstein. Kind of.

“Yeah.” He sighs softly.

A beat.

“And I agree.” You shrug, “Victor is a fucking idiot.”

Bob just smiles, and then asks,

“Wanna split a chocolate chip muffin with me?”

///

Bob calls you on a Saturday afternoon between book club meetups.

“Hey,” You say into the phone, “Everything okay?” You usually don’t talk except for your weekly meetups.

“Yeah,” He says into the phone.

“Okay.” You smile. “Do you.. need so—”

“Come over.” He gently requests, “I- I mean, You don’t.. you don’t have to, I was just wondering if you wanted to—I guess..” He breathes.

“Robby, it’s not even Thursday.” You tease.

“I don’t.. care,” He breathes.

“I..” You start, “Would.. really love to, but I gotta do laundry.”

“Do your laundry here.” He offers.

“Bob.”

“What?” he whines, “I..I just need.. to see you.”

You bite your tongue, but it would be nice to see him. To see his new, full bed. And you know that if he has a washer and dryer, it would make laundry a lot less frustrating than doing it in the laundry mat down the road from your apartment.

“Okay,” You sigh. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” You promise.

Bob meets you in the lobby of New Avengers tower, watching as you walk in, holding a bag of laundry as you make your way to him.

“This place is crazy,” You tell him, and Bob just smiles awkwardly.

“It’s.. just a tower.”

“Yeah, but like.. It’s definitely not just—” You cut yourself off when you realize how out of his element Bob looks. “Where’s this awesome new bed I hear so much about?” You ask, and it seems like it’s enough for him to relax.

“Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.” You follow him into the elevator, and when the doors close, he says, “So.. You’ll.. probably meet the team, or at least some of them.”

“Oh, I get to meet—” You clear your throat and wipe the smirk off your face. “That’ll be nice.”

Bob just looks at you for a moment.

“They’re.. kind of.. intense.” He breathes.

“Bob, we were addicts in Jacksonville, I can handle a couple of.. teammates.” You shrug.

Bob gives you an awkward smile.

“Yeah, sure.” He sighs. The doors open, and you follow Bob out, looking around the apartment. Like he’s looking around for trouble.

“Bob, seriously I—”

“Heads up!”

You and Bob duck at the same time when a football comes flying towards your head.

“Sorry,” a voice says, and you see.. The US Agent and The Red Guardian, coming to retrieve their ball.

“Ah, Bob,” The Red Guardian says, “Who is your girlfriend?” He smiles. Your cheeks flush.

“Uh, She’s.. just my friend. Who happens to be a girl.” He says.

“Right, right.” He nods.

“We’re in a book club together,” you start and both men start laughing while Bob looks intensely embarrassed.

“Oh,” One laughs, “You’re the book club girl.. I’m John. This is Alexei, are you staying for dinner?” He asks.

You glance to Bob, who looks back to you.

“Uh,” He shrugs, “I don’t.. maybe.” He breathes.

“Maybe isn’t—”

“Too late, we’re doing laundry, Bye!” Bob says, grabbing your hand and pulling you along. You just smile and bite back a comment about how jealous he seems.

“They seem nice.”

“They aren’t.” He grumbled, and you just laugh.

When you’re done putting on your laundry, Bob takes you to his room, and you can’t help the smile that stretches across your room. It’s a little messy, but there are books here and there, cozy blankets, warm lighting, and.. no meth. No booze.

You jump onto Bob’s bed, stretching out with a soft laugh, this stupidly large grin on your face.

“Oh, My Robby situationship has a real bed now, how divine,” You hum, and Bob just stands in the doorway with a soft smile on his face.

“I missed you.” he says softly, and you shake your head.

“Well, I’m here now,” You offer. He scoffs and walks over to the bed, finding his place on top of you as you lay back.

“Not really good enough for me,” He confesses.

“Needy Robby.” You jest, but before you can tease him further, he kisses you.

Your fingers find his hair in familiar movements, and Bob deepens the kiss further, his tongue slipping past your lips. His fingers dip under the shirt you’re wearing, and a soft shiver runs down your spine as he scratches up your sides, and when you moan in response, it seems to make him more confident in his movements.

Your fingers curl around his hair, tugging just barely on his hair. In between kisses, you mumble,

“Need you,” And he just catches your lip in his teeth, tugs a bit, and goes back to kissing you. And kissing you, and kissing you—

Until you hear the shatter of a glass on the nightstand. Both you and Bob pull away and your heads turn to look at the pile of glass and the water dripping off the nightstand.

“Did you..”

Bob’s face flushes.

“I-I didn’t mean to, I just—”

There’s a brief knock on the door, and then it opens, and a short blonde woman walks in.

“Bob, is everything okay, because—Woah,” She stops, noticing the compromising position the two of you are in, just as Bob takes his hand out of your shirt. “Oh, this is what happens at book club, huh—”

“Yelena!” Bob snaps, his cheeks red with embarrassment. Your eyebrows furrow when you see his eyes flicker gold.

“I was just trying to make sure you’re okay! The lights were flickering..”

Bob groans and rolls off of you.

You just smile awkwardly to Yelena.

“He’s fine, we were just..” You shrug. “Uh..” You chuckle awkwardly.

“Right, just.. Tell him to relax whenever he comes back down to earth,” She says, and then steps forward and holds out her hand, “I’m Yelena, it’s nice to—”

“Okay,” Bob stands suddenly, walking towards Yelena, “I’ll see you at dinner, okay?” He says, and she just smirks.

“Have fun at uh.. Book Club.” She says, turning to leave. Bob closes the door behind her and then glances back to you, and then groans, covering his face with his hands.

“Bob,” You grin, a soft laugh lacing your words, “Baby, it’s really not that bad.”

He looks at you when you call him that.

“It’s not..?”

“No.” You smile. “Come back to bed..” And then, you try, “Please, baby?”

Bob moves like lightning to kiss you again. It’s actually impressive. Not as impressive as breaking the glass or turning off the lights because he was just too.. needy. But, his speed is pretty impressive.

///

“Decaf pumpkin spice chai with extra cinnamon and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” You take the drinks from the barista, and slide into the seat across from Bob, glancing over to him.

“So,” You start, “1984.” You sip your coffee.

Bob gestures to you.

“Go for it.” He smiles gently.

You begin to talk about the political implications of the novel..

And Bob becomes slowly lost in thought. It starts out simple enough.

He notices how gorgeous your hair looks. You’re always so pretty.

We could take such good care of her, a voice says in the back of his head, She should know everything we could offer her.

Or..

No, Bob thinks. It’s bad enough that the ‘Sentry’ wants a piece of you, he wouldn’t be able to stand it if he entertained any thought of letting the Void out.. especially if he wanted to get anywhere near you.

Why not?, the voice asks, you could help.. We could help. She wouldn’t have to worry about her sobriety or any of her silly thoughts.

He’s right, The Sentry agrees, and Bob feels like he might be sick, How could you even know what she wants if you haven’t asked?

Because, Bob thinks, you don’t even want him. Why would you want either of these—

Because I’m better than a God, The first voice tells him, And he’s..

Everything you aren’t.

Exactly.

Shut up, Bob thinks, She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t at least a little bit into me.. right?

You’re so naïve, Bobby, He could hear the Void mocking him, and it was even worse when Sentry cut in—

She could get a fuck from anywhere, and let’s face it, you’re not particularly tal—

“Let’s go back to your place,” He says suddenly, cutting your rambles off.

“Everything okay?” You ask, watching as he stands, grabbing his jacket.

“Uh.. Yeah.” He smiles awkwardly, “I’m just..” He shrugs, “In a.. a giving mood.” His cheeks flush when he says it, and the tips of your ears go red when you realize what he’s saying.

“Okay,” you nod, “No, like—pastry or brownie or—”

Bob clears his throat and inhales like he doesn’t want to regret what he’s about to say,

“I’ll have something sweet real soon,” He says. Your ears get redder.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You stand up and take the last sip of your coffee.

“Okay.” You say, throwing out the cup on your way out the door.

“Okay.” Bob smiles, following you to your apartment.

///

“Decaf caramel dolce Frappuccino with cinnamon and extra whipped cream and a medium hot coffee with half n half and two Splenda for Bob?” Bob takes the drink from the Barista and slides into his usual spot.

He hands you his drink, and then you start,

“I cannot believe she married Rochester!” you whine, tossing the book down on the table. Jane Eyre was the book selection for this week—well, two weeks, it took you guys some time to get through it.

“Yeah,” Bob breathes, shaking his head, “I.. I mean—”

“Do not defend the man who kept his mentally ill wife locked in an attic and got with a nineteen-year-old,” You start, and Bob smiles a bit. He stares at you for a long moment and then you ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Uh, no-nothing.” He shakes his head. “I was just..” He shrugged, then he clears his throat, “She got a family, right?” You sigh.

“Yeah, she did.”

“And yeah, it would’ve been.. nice for her to end up with someone her age, but..” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s really good for her.” You just look at him. “Or maybe he died tragically young and left her his money.” You smile then.

And after a moment, you say,

“I guess everyone deserves a second chance, right?” You wonder, and he nods.

“Yeah.”

Bob feels like he can’t breathe.

You notice he looks it too.

“Wanna split a brownie?” You ask, and Bob smiles.

“Yeah.”

  ///

1:32 A.M.

You’re not sure if this counts as relapsing. You twist your phone in your hands and try to focus on breathing. In and out and—who should you call?

Your therapist? Your sister? What would you even say? ‘Sorry, I know you’re usually worried about me drinking but I just couldn't fight off the compulsions or the depression tonight, so can I come over so I don’t do what I just did again?’

You open your stupid fucking flip phone and dial Bob’s number.

“Hey, everything okay?” You note the lack of sleep from his voice. He must’ve already been up.

You inhale to try and answer, but you hesitate. You don’t want to start crying.

“Can I come over?” Is all you can say.

“Sure,” he answers immediately. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

You do. You want to see him as quickly as possible, but.. you have this insane thought that you don’t deserve the comfort, that you must wait to see him.

“I’ll walk,” And if Bob notices the distant tone, he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay. I’ll see you in ten, I’ll meet you in the lobby.” He says gently, and you nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Okay.”

You get up from your place on the bathroom floor, but you don’t hang up, so after a moment, his voice comes through the other end of the phone,

“Everything okay?” And you wish he would stop asking it.

“Mhm,” Is all you manage as you get your shoes on. You make your way down the stairs, the phone pressed against your ear.

Maybe he knows something is wrong, so he asks,

“Have you started reading The Hunger Games yet?” He asks. It was for ‘book club’ this week, and he just needs to hear you talk so he knows you’re still there.

“Yeah,” You breath as you walk down the stairs, the movement down the stairs more instinctual and second nature than conscious movement, like your brain is fixated on the fact that if you can get to Bob, you’ll be safe—safe from what, you do not know.

“What did you think?” He asks, as he slips on his own slippers, trying to think of anything else he can ask.

And in your daze, in your foggy brain that you try to stumble your way through, as you walk down the streets of New York, the cold air sending goosebumps up your arms, the breeze even stinging the fresh cuts on your arms. A group of girls about your age come down the street past you, drunk and giggling and you think about how alone you feel.

Your feet stop in front of a bar, and you take a moment to just stare at the neon sign, thinking about how easy it would be to get a drink. Another breeze plucks you out of your spiral. You wish you had brought a sweater or something.

Your head turns and you can see the ‘new’ Avengers tower just a few blocks away. So, you keep walking. You can make it there. Bob is waiting for you in the lobby.

“I like that the first thing we learn about Katniss is that she loves someone,” you say, walking towards the tower now. Your hands are beginning to shake. “We don’t know anything about her, her name, her place in the world, or even anything about the world.. we just know that she loves someone.” And when you say ‘someone’, your voice cracks. You can see the doors of the tower now.

“Yeah,” he says on the other end of the phone, and as you get closer you see him there, a small smile on his face as he stands there, and it registers in your brain that he is smiling as he’s talking to you. It registers, just barely. “Sometimes I.. I can’t believe how smart you are.” He says, and it makes you feel almost.. anxious. Like he’s lying.

You hang up as you walk through the doors, and Bob’s shy, isolated smile falls when he sees you. When he sees your arms.

“Holy fuck,” is what he says, and that does not make you feel better.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your tears now falling freely, and not because you’re sad, but because you’re ashamed, and because you feel bad that Bob has to deal with this and because..

This definitely counts as a violation of your ‘book club with benefits’ agreements.

“It’s okay,” he starts, “it’s alright, we can handle this,” He says, but you hear the shakiness in his voice. You know he’s pushing through his own terror in this moment.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taking a step back from him, but he shakes his head as you continue, “I.. I shouldn’t have come here,” And you go to turn but you feel Bob’s hand grab yours.

“Yes, you should have.” He says, “Because if it were me and I didn’t call you, and I just let myself spiral further, you’d be so mad at me.”

You know he’s right.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“But I want to.” He says gently. “So let me.”

And you nod, because you know the path you’re on. You know what letting him in leads to.

So does he.

You don’t say much else, but you let him lead you upstairs, his hand clutched around yours.

The ride up the elevator is quiet. Bob just keeps his grip on your hand and then he asks,

“What else did you.. like about the book?” He asked.

You search your brain for an answer. You know he’s trying to keep you distracted.

“I like Peeta. He’s a sweet character.” You say gently. And then, before you can stop yourself, you say, “He reminds me of you.” Your hand shakily comes up to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. You notice the way a small smile tugs at his face. His head tilts and he kisses the palm of your hand.

The doors to the elevator open, and Bob’s fingers lace with yours.

“Let’s..” he nods towards the door, and you nod in return. He walks just a step ahead of you, but you notice the way he takes the occasional glance back. Both of your heads pick up when you hear footsteps approaching, and there stands Yelena, in these plaid pajama pants and a big tee shirt for some beer company. She looks half asleep but she smiles when she sees you two.

“Oh look, book club meets late now, how—” she stops, her face growing concerned when she sees your arms, “What did—” But she stops when she sees Bob shake his head. Instead, she glances back to you and in a way that leaves no room for argument, she says, “You call if you need me.” And without another word, she turns and makes her way past you down the hall.

You and Bob find the bathroom. “Take a seat,” he gently says, and you decide to sit on the edge of the tub. He shuffles through the supplies and pulls out some bandages and some antibiotic spray. He takes a rag from off the counter and soaks it in some warm water. Then, he turns back to you. “Can I see?”

You just hold your hands out, and Bob starts by just looking at the cuts. There’s not a ton of them, but there are enough for him to notice. He gently cleans them with the warm rag and then sprays your wrists with the antibiotic spray.

“When did you learn first aid?” you ask.

Bob shrugs.

“When.. when you’re the standby in a team of superheroes..” he shrugs. “You pick up on a few things.”

“You’re a hero too.” You say softly. Bob doesn’t respond, he just wraps your wrists with the bandages he holds. He doesn’t want to tell you that he’s no hero, that he’s hurt so many people that he thinks he’ll be repenting for the rest of his life.

He turns around to put the spray and bandages away, and when he turns back, he sees you sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub. He sighs and sits next to you on the floor. Then, he asks,

“Do you want to talk about it?” You shake your head. “C’mon..” he says softly. “It’s just me.” He reminds.

“I..”  You sigh. “I haven’t.. self-harmed like that since.. middle school. I just wanted to feel something, anything that didn’t feel like I was drowning.” You confess. “I’m sorry I bothered you, I don’t know—”

“Stop,” he says softly, “We’re..” He sighs. “I meant it. I want to take care of you.”

You can’t stop the tears from falling as you shake your head.

“You wanna know the worst part?”

Bob’s voice is genuine when he says,

“I want to know all of it.”

Finally, you turn your head to look at him.

“I’m falling back in love with you.” You tell him. He nods.

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks softly. You feel a smile tug at your lips, and it makes Bob smile too.

“Sure.” You answer.

“I never stopped.” He said, “When I saw you again, it was like..” He shook his head. “I should’ve gone to rehab with you.” He whispered. Your heart aches. “I never.. never should’ve went to Malaysia or..” He frowns. “I could’ve built a life with you. A real life, not just.. One where I have to pretend like I don’t.. like I don’t want to ask you to stay.”

Your heart breaks when you see tears brimming his eyes.

“Robby,” You whisper, even though it’s just the two of you in this bathroom. The lights flicker just a bit, so you lace your fingers with his.

“I.. I was so.. so stupid.” He shakes his head, “I never..” His eyes meet yours. “I really screwed it up, and.. I’m sorry. And I love you.” He confesses.

“What about uh..” You sniff, “What about neither of us wanting to be in a.. serious relationship?”

“Fuck that.” He says, and his confidence in it takes you back, “I’m tired of.. of not seeing you everyday. A week is too long to go without seeing you.” He confesses, and your free hand comes up to tuck a curl behind his ear.

“I love you too.” You tell him. You lean your forehead against his and then say, “So ask me.”

“Ask.. Ask you what?”

“Ask me to stay.” You whisper, “And maybe I will.”

“..Just.. Just maybe?”

“Guess you’ll have to ask and see.”

“..Stay.” He says softly. You can’t help it, so, you say,

“That’s not really a question—” Bob stares at you for a long time, a smile making his glare much less intimidating.

“Will you stay? Here, with me?” he wonders, “Be with me.” He requests.

You kiss him, but there’s no expectation in this one. You don’t expect him to want to fuck, to want to sleep with you. This kiss is pure, with no strings attached. No benefits.

When you pull away, you nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll stay for as long as you want me to.” You promise, and Bob smiles a bit, looking down to your intwined fingers.

“That’s.. nice.” Your awkward Loverboy responds, and you’re shocked when he asks, “Do you.. uhm..”

“Do I..?”

“Do you.. wanna watch.. Star Wars with me?” he wonders.

You can’t help but smile.

“Which one?”

“The best one.” He shrugs. “Revenge of the Sith?”

“Sure. That sounds nice.” You confess.

Halfway through the movie, you would fall asleep right on top of him, and Bob would realize that this was always where he was meant to be.

///

For your birthday, Bob hands you a small present, wrapped in paper decorated with sprinkles. When you open it, you find a copy of The Great Gatsby.

Only this copy is bound by leather and has this beautiful dark blue and gold cover on it. It must’ve cost Bob—well, it wasn’t cheap, but It’s gorgeous, and inside, you find a note scribbled onto the title page—

“I found what I was looking for.

Love, Robby.”

[ineedpaigebuckets]

PLEASE PLEASE part three to trust.

fine...

can yall gimmie some fluff please like GAH

trust me

it’s quiet when azzi walks into paige’s room.

like the kind of quiet that feels like holding your breath. like maybe something’s about to change and the air already knows.

paige is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves half-covering her hands, hair a little messy like she’s been laying there thinking too hard. azzi drops her bag by the door and pauses, like she’s waiting for a sign that this is okay. that they’re okay.

“hey,” she says.

“hey,” paige echoes, but it’s soft. almost tender.

like she’s afraid to say more because then it’ll be real.

azzi doesn’t move. “i still can’t believe i’m here.”

“me either.” paige smiles—small, a little shy. “but i’m really glad you are.”

for a moment, they just look at each other. not like friends. not like teammates. not like two people who’ve spent years brushing fingers and pretending it didn’t mean anything.

just like them.

“it’s different,” azzi says finally, like she’s trying to explain something impossible. “being in the same room after… all of that.”

paige nods. “yeah. it feels… louder. even when we’re not talking.”

“like my skin knows you’re here.”

paige’s eyes flicker down for a second, then back up. “do you remember that first camp? when we were, what, fourteen?”

“yeah.”

“i think i already had a crush on you.”

azzi lets out a breath of laughter. “me too. i just didn’t know that’s what it was. i thought i just wanted to be near you all the time.”

paige shifts on the bed, tucks her knees to her chest. “we were so little. and i didn’t get it. i just knew that when we weren’t talking, i missed you. and when you touched my arm, my whole body noticed.”

“you were always braver,” azzi says. “you’d look at me too long. you’d find reasons to call.”

“you always answered.”

azzi walks over, sits beside her, careful not to touch yet. “even back then, it was always gonna be this. just… maybe not this fast.”

“or maybe it just feels fast now because it’s finally here,” paige says. “i think it always would’ve happened. no matter what. we just… needed time to stop being scared.”

“it felt less scary over the phone,” azzi admits.

“because we could pretend it wasn’t real?” paige asks, voice quieter.

“yeah,” she whispers.

paige reaches over slowly, fingers brushing azzi’s. “but this is real.”

“i know.”

their hands find each other like they’ve done it a hundred times already, even if they haven’t. even if this is the first time it’s allowed to mean what it’s always meant.

paige pulls azzi into her gently, arms slipping around her like home. and when azzi leans in, rests her head against paige’s shoulder, everything inside her quiets.

“i’ve thought about this forever,” paige says. “what it would be like to really touch you.”

“me too,” azzi breathes, fingers curling against paige’s thigh. “but i didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“like what?”

“like we’re finally allowed to breathe.”

paige shifts, nudges their foreheads together, and this time when their lips meet, it’s not rushed. not desperate. not behind the safety of a phone screen.

it’s slow. sacred. full of years.

they don’t rush.

they can’t. not after all these years. not after all the nights with the phone pressed to their ear and their hands under the covers, saying things they never thought they’d have the courage to say out loud.

and now they’re here. skin against skin. breathing the same air. feeling it for real.

paige is the first to move, slow and reverent, her hand slipping beneath azzi’s shirt like she’s memorizing her. and maybe she is. maybe she’s been doing that since they were kids and just never had the words for it.

“you’re shaking,” azzi whispers, fingers brushing paige’s cheek.

“so are you,” paige says, smiling, nervous and sweet. “but i don’t want to stop.”

“then don’t.”

paige leans in, kisses her slow—like she’s telling her everything she never said in all those years of pretending. their mouths stay connected as her hand slides lower, fingertips skating over azzi’s stomach, then her hip, then between her legs.

and azzi gasps.

not from surprise, but from finally.

“is this okay?” paige asks, lips still brushing her jaw.

“yeah,” azzi breathes. “yeah, it’s—you.”

and that’s all it takes.

paige’s hand settles between azzi’s thighs like it’s meant to be there, slow and steady and warm. she’s not rushing, not chasing anything. just learning. just feeling. her fingers stroke a little lower, a little firmer, coaxing out a sound azzi didn’t know she could make.

a gasp—soft, high, startled in the best way. her hips twitch. her eyes flutter closed.

paige watches every reaction like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to.

“right there?” she asks, barely a whisper.

azzi nods, lips parted, breath catching. “yeah—yeah, don’t stop.”

paige doesn’t. her hand moves in slow, deliberate circles, her other arm wrapped around azzi’s back, holding her steady as she begins to tremble. azzi grips paige’s shoulder, nails digging in just enough to anchor herself.

she can feel it building—low and hot, like a storm in her stomach, like every nerve in her body is pointing in the same direction. like a secret she’s never told unraveling under paige’s touch.

“paige,” she breathes, and it sounds like her whole world is hanging off that one name. “i’m—i think i—”

paige leans in and kisses her—firm, tender, grounding. their lips meet and hold, paige’s thumb moving just right now, slow and insistent.

“let go,” she murmurs against her mouth. “i’ve got you.”

azzi does.

her whole body locks up—hips rising, thighs clenching around paige’s wrist, breath caught in her throat. it crests before she’s ready, sweeping through her like a wave, sharp and hot and completely overwhelming.

a cry tears out of her, loud and raw and real. she folds into paige, shuddering, trying to breathe through it. trying to understand how something could feel this good. this safe. this true.

paige holds her the whole way down, whispering, “that’s it… i’ve got you, baby, i’ve got you,” her lips brushing azzi’s temple, her hand gentle now, slow, easing her through the aftershocks.

azzi doesn’t speak for a moment. she just breathes, blinking up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling like she’s just run a mile.

then, finally, she turns her head and looks at paige.

eyes glassy. cheeks flushed. mouth slightly open in stunned, awed disbelief.

“…holy shit.”

paige grins, proud and wrecked and in love. “you okay?”

azzi laughs once, breathless. “i think you broke me.”

“nah,” paige says, kissing her shoulder. “you’re just getting started.”

and azzi believes her. because if that’s what it feels like to be touched by someone who knows her—really knows her—then yeah.

she never wants to go back to pretending.

azzi just curls closer, smiling. “i think i just saw god.”

paige laughs, breathless. “he’s jealous.”

azzi blinks. “what?”

“because i’m about to feel what you just felt.”

azzi’s eyes flicker, like a spark catching. “lie down.”

and paige does, watching her with a mix of nerves and desperate want. azzi’s hands are steadier now. confident. gentle in a way that makes paige feel completely undone before she’s even touched her.

“tell me if it’s too much,” azzi murmurs, kissing down her stomach. “or not enough.”

“azzi,” paige gasps, already breathless. “i want everything.”

and then it’s her turn.

paige is on her back now, chest rising fast, hands already clutching the sheets like she knows what’s coming and still can’t believe it’s real. her thighs part for azzi without hesitation—like she’s waited years to offer this, to trust like this.

and azzi takes her time.

she kisses down paige’s stomach, soft and slow, feeling her tremble with every inch. her hands rest on paige’s hips, thumbs tracing light, grounding circles. she presses a kiss just below her navel and looks up.

azzi trails lower, lips warm and gentle, until she’s where she’s never been before—where paige needs her most. and for a moment, she just pauses. takes her in. wants her.

then she leans in and licks a slow, tentative stripe, and paige gasps—hips twitching, one hand flying down to tangle in azzi’s curls.

“oh my god—”

azzi smiles against her. the sound is beautiful. real. and so she does it again. slower. firmer. her tongue finding rhythm. pressure. intent.

paige’s back arches off the bed. her thighs are shaking already, her fingers digging into azzi’s scalp like she doesn’t know whether to pull her closer or push her away.

“you’re gonna kill me,” she moans, voice high and uneven. “azz—baby—oh my god—”

azzi hums into her, eyes fluttering shut, her own thighs pressed tight together from how wet she is just making paige feel like this. she flattens her tongue, circles her clit, then suckles gently, and that’s when paige loses it.

her whole body curls in on itself—fists clenched, mouth open, breath punching out in stuttered gasps.

“don’t stop,” paige begs, voice trembling. “please—please don’t stop—”

azzi doesn’t. she keeps going, steady, focused, locked into every single breath and shake and cry paige gives her. and when paige comes, it’s not quiet. it’s loud—a sharp, broken sound that rips out of her like it’s been waiting years.

her whole body shudders, thighs clamping around azzi’s head, her cry echoing into the room as the bed literally shakes beneath her.

azzi holds her through it, doesn’t pull away until paige’s hand loosens in her hair and her body sinks into the mattress, panting, glowing, undone.

when she finally looks up, her face is flushed, her lips swollen, and she looks stunned. reverent. like she just witnessed something holy.

paige is blinking at the ceiling, chest rising fast, one arm flung over her eyes.

“i can’t feel my legs,” she whispers.

azzi laughs softly, climbing up to kiss her, slow and sweet and a little smug.

“you taste like heaven,” she murmurs against her lips.

“you are heaven,” paige mumbles, still dazed. “i think you just rewrote my dna.”

azzi grins. “so it was good?”

“az.” paige finally looks at her, eyes full. “that was everything.”

and the way she says it—tender, unguarded, real—makes azzi feel like she could cry.

so she kisses her again. and again. and again.

until they’re ready to feel it together.

“i think my soul left my body,” she whispers, dazed.

azzi grins. “it came back. i watched.”

they lie there for a moment, forehead to forehead, sweat cooling on their skin, hands still tracing lazy patterns against each other’s hips. they’re messy. still catching their breath. but neither of them moves.

“so… that was your first time?” azzi asks softly.

paige nods, eyes closing. “with someone i love, yeah.”

the silence after that is heavy and sweet. like something ancient just got named.

paige pulls her closer. “can we do it together this time?”

azzi breathes out, nodding slowly. “yeah. i want to feel you. all of you.”

they shift carefully, like their bodies are suddenly made of glass and wildfire all at once. azzi’s fingers trail down paige’s back as they move, grounding her, guiding her. paige exhales shakily, kissing her way along azzi’s shoulder, like she’s trying to memorize her in pieces.

they don’t speak—not because there’s nothing to say, but because everything is already in the way their bodies move. the silence between them is full of breath and trust and tension that’s been building for years.

when they finally line up, hips slotting together, thighs tangled—

it’s not frantic. it’s reverent.

paige’s breath catches the second she feels azzi’s warmth against her, skin to skin, slick and trembling and real. her hands grip azzi’s waist like she’s scared she might disappear.

“you good?” azzi whispers, forehead pressed to paige’s.

“yeah,” paige breathes, eyes wide and wet. “just—don’t move. not yet.”

azzi doesn’t. she just holds her, both of them frozen in the electricity of it—how close they are, how every tiny shift sends sparks racing up their spines.

then paige rocks forward. just a little.

just enough.

and azzi moans—soft and surprised and utterly wrecked.

her hips roll instinctively, meeting paige’s, and the friction is perfect. desperate and clumsy and overwhelming in a way that makes both of them cry out.

paige buries her face in azzi’s neck. “holy shit.”

“i know,” azzi gasps, clutching at her back, her nails digging in. “keep going—don’t stop—”

they fall into it together—gentle at first, their rhythm messy and breathless, both of them trying to feel everything at once. it’s not choreographed. it’s not careful. it’s raw and soaked with history.

each press of their hips drags a little more sound from their throats—a gasp here, a moan there, a whispered name said like it’s holy.

azzi’s thighs shake. paige’s back arches.

their bodies slide, slip, find rhythm—fast and slow, sweet and urgent. the pressure builds with each grind, their slickness making it impossible not to feel everything. it’s skin on skin, heat against heat, years of want turned kinetic.

“you feel so good,” azzi whispers, voice breaking.

paige whimpers in response, one hand gripping azzi’s jaw, kissing her like she needs it to survive. “i’m not gonna last,” she confesses, desperate and shaky.

“me either,” azzi breathes, “just—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

they’re close. too close. every movement feels like it might tear them open.

paige groans, hips snapping, her whole body trembling. “azz, oh my god—i’m—”

but azzi is already gone—her body locking up, her mouth open in a silent cry as she pulses and shakes and squirts, gasping into paige’s shoulder. the slick heat of it pushes paige over the edge instantly—her own orgasm ripping through her, raw and consuming and so much.

they cry out together, bodies convulsing, hips still rocking, unable to stop. it’s wave after wave, a rush that breaks them open and spills everything.

then they collapse—sweaty, tangled, breathless.

silent, except for the pounding of their hearts.

paige presses a kiss to azzi’s temple, hand cradling her cheek like she’s the most fragile thing in the world.

“you okay?” she whispers.

azzi nods, eyes fluttering closed. “i’ve never been better.”

they stay like that—limbs messy, skin flushed, chests heaving.

not just best friends.

not just girls who made it through high school together.

but girls who chose this. who always would.

and now, it’s not pretend anymore.

now it’s theirs.

and they’re ready.

paige kisses her shoulder. azzi closes her eyes.

“i never want to lose this,” paige says, almost like a promise.

“you won’t,” azzi whispers. “we were always gonna find our way here.”

and then they fall asleep wrapped up in each other, with nothing left between them but years of love finally set free.

[elixirfromthestars]

The summary has me so hooked and so ready to read this 🤭💕 I’m getting enemies to lovers vibes and I’m so here for it!!

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

But you? You’re on the outside looking in. You had been on the shortlist. Had been the key phrase. Your name was in the mix for this mission, and for a moment it felt like you would finally get your shot. Then the final call came, and you weren’t picked. The rejection stings more than it should, but you push it down. You try to drown it in a gulp of your drink.

^ Oh, I totally get where she’s coming from 🥺 It’s one thing to worry about your friends when they’re off on a mission, but when you’re also in that position to be picked it must sting on top of the worry to not be there too ☹️

He tipped his beer toward you. "Gonna miss me when I’m gone, sweetheart?" You scoffed, reaching for your own drink. "I don’t even like you when you’re here, Hangman." A chorus of groans erupted from the group. "For the love of God," Phoenix muttered, rubbing her temples like she was developing a headache. "Just fuck already and put us out of our misery."

^ I think Phoenix is onto something 🤭💗 I’m not going to say what I’m thinking, but just know I’m not objecting 🤭💕

"You drive me fucking crazy," you gritted out. Jake huffed a short laugh, tilting his head. "Likewise, sweetheart." Silence. Charged. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, and without thinking, you wet them. It was the smallest movement, but he caught it. Of course, he did. And then he moved. His hands were on your face, fingers pressing into your jaw as his lips crashed into yours, hard and desperate, like he’d been holding back for way too long. There was nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It was fire and fury, an explosion of everything you’d been choking down for months.

^ THE TENSION 🤭💗💗💗💗 so perfectly paced I’m losing my mind here in the best way 🙈💖💖

"Admit it," he cut in smoothly, lips curving into a smirk. "You like this. You like me." You let out a bark of laughter, turning back toward the windshield. "You’re delusional." Jake clicked his tongue, shifting gears again. "That so?" "Yes," you snapped, but it lacked bite.  Maybe because his hand had just settled on your thigh, warm and heavy, his thumb brushing idly against your jeans.

^ I love the banter between these two!!!! 🙈💗💗💗💗 Every time they go at it I’m just like kiss!!!! 🤭🩷🩷

"I bet," he said, his breath fanning warm over your skin, "that by the time we get to my place, you’re gonna be begging me to ruin you."

^ I mean… you’re not wrong 🫠💗💗💗

Jake chuckled, feeling your stubborn silence. "I think you like it when I get under your skin," he continued, voice thick as honey, hand sliding along your arm before settling at your hip. "I think you like fightin’ me ‘cause it makes this—" he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, biting down just enough to make your fingers twitch—"so much better."

^ You have me giggling and kicking my feet at every paragraph what am I supposed to do with myself as I read this like ahhhhhhhhh 🙈💕💕💕💕

"You don’t have to ask," you muttered, trying to ignore the way your pulse was suddenly hammering against your ribs. Jake huffed a quiet laugh, one hand leaving your waist to push a strand of hair from your face, thumb grazing your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. "Yeah, I do." And that? That threw you. Because it wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t teasing. It was real. For a split second, it wasn’t about the fight, the tension, or the way you constantly tried to push each other’s buttons.

^ Jake is such a softie and sweetheart at heart and no one can convince me otherwise, okay? 😭🩷

You slid your hands into his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers as you gave a firm tug. His breath hitched, his grip tightening instinctively, but he let you guide him, tilting his head back until his chin rested against your sternum. His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath you, the sharp angles of his jaw and throat bathed in the warm glow of the lamp beside the couch. He was completely at your mercy, and fuck, you liked the way that felt.

^ Absolutely love men that are so down bad and so passionately at their girl’s mercy like the visual here is sooooo goooood 🤭🩷🩷🩷🩷 I need this visual embedded into my brain forever 🫠💕💕

“Fine,” you muttered, and you could feel his smirk against your temple. “That’s my girl.” And with that, he carried you the rest of the way, leaving no room for argument.

^ EXCUSE ME?! MY GIRL?? SAY IT AGAIN!!! 🤭🙈🥰

A shiver rolled through you, but you forced yourself to keep your expression even. “You always this much of a tease?” Jake chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “Only when I got something worth taking my time with.”

^ OMG YOU’RE GOING TO END ME!!! YOU WRITE HIS DIALOGUE SO PERFECTLY!!!🙈💖💖💖

A strangled sound caught in your throat as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against you, his tongue flicking out just enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling harder than necessary, but if anything, it only spurred him on. For once, you were grateful Jake Seresin never shut the hell up because he really knew how to use that mouth.

^ 😵‍💫💗😵‍💫💗😵‍💫💗😵‍💫💗😵‍💫

Your glare could’ve burned a hole straight through him. “I hate you.” His hands smoothed up your thighs, fingers kneading into your skin as he leaned up, his lips hovering just over yours. His breath was warm when he spoke. “No, you don’t.” And then, just to drive the point home, he slid two fingers between your legs, pressing into you with the same slow, torturous precision. Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the pillows. He chuckled against your jaw, lips brushing your pulse. “See? You love me.”

^ cheeky insufferable cocky man, you drive me crazy 😵‍💫💗💗

Jake groaned, low and rough, his fingers still deep inside you as he watched, transfixed. His free hand splayed across your hip, feeling the way you moved against him, the way your body took what it wanted. “Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with something dangerously close to awe. “So goddamn greedy for it.”

^ I— 🫠💕

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, “I’m not letting you go until I’ve got every last sound out of you.” Your breath hitched at his words, a soft whimper escaping your lips without meaning to. It was just enough to fuel Jake further, his grip on your hips tightening, his thrusts becoming harder, more determined. He heard the sound you made, felt the way it vibrated in your chest, and that drove him wild. “God, you like that, don’t you?” Jake murmured the cocky edge to his voice sharper now. He moved faster, his rhythm relentless, as if he was determined to make you fall apart in front of him.

^ At this point I don’t even have words, I’m also falling apart for him 🫠💕🩷💕🩷💕🩷🤭

I absolutely love the way you write the smutty scenes, omg. It’s like so detailed and paced so perfectly to make you feel every single moment❣️❣️ Not only just the actions, but also the emotions tied to it, and it makes the smut so captivating as you go through all the motions of it!! 💗 (I hope I’m making sense!) I just love this a lot because you have this like enemies to lovers or frienemies to lovers dynamic that doesn’t get lost as they lose themselves in each other and it makes for such wonderful tension, but also lets in these soft moments as well and it’s just ahhhhhhh perfect!!!! 🥹💕💕💕

Jake exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound in the stillness of the room. “You’re gonna tell me to be safe, aren’t you?” Your throat tightened. “Just…” you swallowed again, voice barely above a whisper. “Just come back alive, Jake.”

^ Omg 😭💔 after all that, I had forgotten about his deployment 😭😭

You turned your head, glancing at him in the dim light. He looked so at ease, so different from the cocky, sharp-tongued pilot you had spent so much time arguing with. His expression was softer now, the teasing smirk gone, replaced by something quieter. You exhaled slowly, the tension in your body unraveling as you shifted closer, tucking yourself into his side. His arm draped over you, and you let your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

^ They really care for each other and I’m devestated they don’t know that 😭😭😭

His free hand rested on his stomach, and without thinking, yours followed, finding it easily in the dark. Your fingers brushed his, tentative at first like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to reach for him. Like you weren’t sure if this was something you were even supposed to want. But Jake didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled around yours, lacing them together like it was second nature. Like holding your hand was as easy as breathing.

^ omg omg omg, the hand holding 🥺😭

He looked peaceful. Like he didn’t have to wake up in just a few hours and walk into the unknown. Like he wasn’t about to get into a jet and disappear into the sky, leaving you behind to wonder if you’d ever see him again.

^ 💔💔💔 you’re killing me here 💔💔💔

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. Weren’t supposed to want him to stay. Weren’t supposed to feel like the world was tilting beneath you at the thought of him not coming back. But you did. And that scared you more than anything else. So you did the only thing you could. You curled further into him, pressed your face against his shoulder, and let your fingers stay laced with his. Holding onto him for just a little longer. Just in case.

^ I’m sobbing 😭😭😭 I need them to confess their feelings at some point 🤧💔💔

You know what, in my head he came back safe and sound and they confessed their love and now they’re living happily ever after 😭🩷🩷 My lovely, this was soooooo good and sooo well written I swear you’ve made my love for this man increase 1000x 🤧🩷🩷 You write him perfectly, like the dialogue, his actions, it’s all so him it’s like I’m watching a scene straight out of a movie!! ✨ Apologies for taking so long to get around to this 🥺 Life has been…well not the greatest these past few months, and I’m slowly catching up to a lot 🫶🏼 So once again, my sincerest apologies for being so late & my sincerest thanks for participating in my writing challenge!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

^ me after reading this 💯❤️❤️‍🩹

Terrified to Lose You

Summary: It was supposed to be nothing—just one reckless night to get each other out of their systems before he shipped out. But when cocky, insufferable Jake Seresin lets his guard down, and she lets herself lean in, the lines between want and something deeper start to blur. With the weight of tomorrow pressing in and unspoken feelings lingering between them, neither is ready to admit just how much this night really means. Because once the sun rises, he’s gone and there are no guarantees he’s coming back.

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content/Smut. Strong Language, Military Themes (Looming Deployments, Uncertainty of Returning from Deployments, etc.)

Word Count: 9,514

Author’s Note: This is a combination of a request I received for enemies to lovers with Jake Seresin. As well as the @elixirfromthestars writing challenge using the song Death Wish Love by Benson Boone from the Twisters soundtrack…but using it for the Top Gun: Maverick Fandom instead. Hope you guys like it! xx

The Hard Deck is buzzing with the usual chatter, but there’s an edge to it tonight. The music is a little too loud, and the pool tables are too noisy, but no one is really having fun. Not tonight.

The squad has gathered, everyone gathered around the bar, half-heartedly pretending to be relaxed. The pitchers of beer on every table are the only thing that seems to lighten the mood, but it’s forced. 

Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow evening Coyote, Hangman, Rooster, Payback, Fanboy, Phoenix, and Bob head out for a mission they’ve been preparing for for weeks. There’s a lingering sense that no one knows exactly what’s waiting for them on that aircraft carrier.

Coyote and Rooster are at the pool table, the clack of cues against balls filling the space. Payback, Fanboy, Phoenix, and Bob are crowded around one of the tables laughing at some half-hearted joke. But even they can’t ignore the quiet weight of what’s coming. The deployment is looming, the jet engines roaring in their minds even as they try to unwind, and everyone knows that tonight could be the last time they are all together.

But you? You’re on the outside looking in. You had been on the shortlist. Had been the key phrase. Your name was in the mix for this mission, and for a moment it felt like you would finally get your shot. Then the final call came, and you weren’t picked. The rejection stings more than it should, but you push it down. You try to drown it in a gulp of your drink.

You shouldn’t be bitter. They chose who they thought was right for the mission, but that doesn’t stop the resentment from bubbling up in your chest.

Then of course there’s Jake. He's sitting at the bar, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. Even as the weight of tomorrow presses on him too. His eyes flicker toward you once in a while, the usual game between you two never stopping. There’s always a silent challenge in the air when the two of you are in the same room.

Even now, with everything so tense, you can feel his gaze like a weight on your back.

“Stop staring, Hangman,” you mutter to yourself, but you know he’s already aware.

You shift on your stool, and a sudden urge to leave this place sweeps over you. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this. You should be out there with them preparing for the mission. Not stuck watching them go off and do it while you sit on the sidelines.

And yet, every time you turn your head, you catch his eye again. That infuriating, self-assured smirk.

He tipped his beer toward you. "Gonna miss me when I’m gone, sweetheart?"

You scoffed, reaching for your own drink. "I don’t even like you when you’re here, Hangman."

A chorus of groans erupted from the group.

"For the love of God," Phoenix muttered, rubbing her temples like she was developing a headache. "Just fuck already and put us out of our misery."

Bob sipped his drink and shook his head. "I’d rather not have to witness that, actually."

You rolled your eyes. "As if."

Hangman, the smug bastard, winked at you like he knew something you didn’t.

You gasped, feigning outrage, which only made his grin widen. "You are unbelievable."

"And you," he countered, voice dipping just enough to make your pulse skip, "love it."

Your lips parted, ready to fire back, but the weight of everyone’s eyes on you made you hesitate. It wasn’t the first time the team had accused you two of having some kind of unresolved tension, but the last thing you wanted to do was give them more fuel for the fire.

So, instead of acknowledging the warmth creeping up your neck, you simply took another sip of your drink and turned away. Hangman let out a quiet chuckle, low and knowing, and you knew this wasn’t over.

A few hours passed, The Hard Deck was nearly empty now, and the warm hum of conversation long faded. Penny wiped down the bar, occasionally glancing your way, but she knew better than to interfere. Everyone else had trickled out, heading back to base or wherever else they were spending their last night before deployment. 

But you were still here. And so was Hangman.

He leaned against the wall near the back pool tables, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you like he had all the time in the world. That infuriating smirk of his hadn’t wavered, even as exhaustion tugged at the edges of the night.

"You worried about me, darlin’?" he drawled, voice low, lazy like he already knew the answer.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as something inside you twisted tight. "I don’t have the energy to waste worrying about you."

That should have been the end of it. But of course, it never was.

Hangman pushed off the wall and took a slow step toward you. His eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. 

"That’s a lie."

Your jaw clenched. His confidence was insufferable, unbearable even. Because it wasn’t just arrogance. It was accuracy. It was him knowing you better than he should, seeing things you weren’t ready to admit.

The pressure building in your chest needed somewhere to go, so you shoved at him. Hard. Your palms met the solid plane of his chest, and even though he barely budged, it made you feel like you had some kind of control over the situation.

You turned on your heel, needing distance, needing air. Footsteps followed, steady and unhurried. 

"You know what your problem is?"

You didn’t stop walking, didn’t answer. But when you heard him getting closer, and felt the heat of his presence just behind you, you couldn’t stop yourself from turning back around, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Oh, please, enlighten me," you snapped.

He was right there. Close enough that the scent of his cologne curled around you. Close enough that his breath, slow and even, ghosted against your skin. The space between you had evaporated, leaving nothing but heat and the heavy weight of everything unspoken.

"You talk a big game," he murmured, voice low and edged with something that made your stomach tighten. "But you don’t know what to do when someone calls your bluff."

The words hit like a challenge. And for the first time all night, you didn’t have a comeback.

Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling faster than you wanted to admit. He always did this. Pushed you right to the edge, just to see if you’d jump. And God help you, but you always did.

"Fuck you, Seresin."

He grinned, but this time, there was something sharper behind it, something more dangerous. "Yeah? Say that again."

Your teeth clenched as you shoved him, both hands flat against his chest. He barely moved, but the warmth of his body beneath your palms sent a jolt through you, one you refused to acknowledge.

"I swear to God if you don’t back off—"

"Or what?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it, something dark and crackling in the air between you.

You were breathing hard now, but so was he.

"You drive me fucking crazy," you gritted out.

Jake huffed a short laugh, tilting his head. "Likewise, sweetheart."

Silence. Charged. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, and without thinking, you wet them. It was the smallest movement, but he caught it. Of course, he did.

And then he moved.

His hands were on your face, fingers pressing into your jaw as his lips crashed into yours, hard and desperate, like he’d been holding back for way too long. There was nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It was fire and fury, an explosion of everything you’d been choking down for months.

You didn’t hesitate. Your hands found his hair, twisting and pulling, nails scratching just to get a reaction. And God, did you get one.

Jake groaned into your mouth, deep and raw, before spinning you, pushing you back against the wooden wall of the bar. The impact sent a shockwave through your body, but you barely noticed. Not when his knee slipped between your thighs, pressing just enough to make you gasp.

"I hate you," you breathed, head tipping back as his mouth dragged along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

He grinned against your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. "You love this, though."

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because the way you pulled him closer, nails digging into his shoulders, said everything.

His teeth scraped against your throat, and your grip on his shirt tightened like you were trying to ground yourself, trying to remember why this was a terrible idea. But then his hands slid down your sides, rough and unrelenting, and suddenly, thinking wasn’t an option anymore.

Jake pulled back just enough to catch your gaze, green eyes dark and wicked under the dim light of the bar’s exterior. His lips were swollen, his breath coming just as fast as yours. 

"We should get out of here," he murmured, voice rough with something you refused to name.

You scoffed, even as your body betrayed you, already aching to follow him wherever he was about to lead. "Oh, and I suppose you just happen to have a place in mind?"

His smirk was immediate, cocky as ever. "Darlin’, I always have a plan."

The arrogance sent a fresh spark of irritation through you, tamping down the heat pooling low in your stomach. You pushed against his chest, though it wasn’t nearly as forceful as it should have been. 

"Jesus, Hangman, do you ever turn it off?"

"Not when I’m winning," he shot back, and that stupidly cocky grin widening.

Your eyes narrowed. "This isn’t a game."

Jake tilted his head, taking his sweet time looking you up and down, his hands still resting on your hips like he had every right to touch you. 

"Then why," he murmured, voice low and smooth as honey, "does it feel like you’re losing?"

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. He was insufferable. Absolutely unbearable.

And you were going home with him.

God help you.

The drive to Jake’s place was tense, thick with something neither of you was willing to name. You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, arms crossed tight over your chest, gaze fixed on the road ahead as if you weren’t acutely aware of him beside you. As if every nerve in your body wasn’t tuned to him. The way his fingers tapped against the steering wheel, the way he shifted gears with that effortless, cocky ease, the way his tongue flicked over his bottom lip like he was savoring the anticipation.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was loaded.

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your seat. "Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep glancing at me like a damn creep?"

Jake huffed a laugh, glancing at you sideways. "Oh, sweetheart, I was gonna let you sit there and stew, but since you’re practically begging me to talk…"

Your head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. "I am not—"

"Admit it," he cut in smoothly, lips curving into a smirk. "You like this. You like me."

You let out a bark of laughter, turning back toward the windshield. "You’re delusional."

Jake clicked his tongue, shifting gears again. "That so?"

"Yes," you snapped, but it lacked bite. 

Maybe because his hand had just settled on your thigh, warm and heavy, his thumb brushing idly against your jeans.

It was infuriating how casual he was about it, like he did this all the time like he knew you wouldn’t push him away. And the worst part? He was right.

You glared down at his hand but didn’t move it. 

"I hate you," you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Jake chuckled, squeezing your thigh just slightly, sending a slow wave of heat curling up your spine. 

"Sure, sweetheart," he drawled. "Keep tellin’ yourself that."

You clenched your jaw, staring straight ahead, determined not to react. You could not let him win this round.

But then he leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur, right against your ear. 

"I bet," he said, his breath fanning warm over your skin, "that by the time we get to my place, you’re gonna be begging me to ruin you."

Your stomach clenched. Your breath caught.

You turned sharply toward him, ready to rip into him, to tell him exactly where he could shove his ego. But one look at his smug, knowing expression, and suddenly, the only thing you wanted more than to slap him was to kiss him.

Jake barely had the truck in park before you were unbuckling your seatbelt, ready to throw the door open and escape the suffocating tension between you. But before you could make your move, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, voice like silk and sin. "Not so fast, sweetheart."

You turned, mouth already open to argue, but whatever insult you had locked and loaded died in your throat when you saw his face.

Jake looked at you like he was savoring every second of your frustration, drinking in the flush creeping up your neck, the way your lips parted just slightly as you struggled for a retort. His grip on your wrist was firm but not tight, thumb ghosting over your pulse, which, much to your horror, was racing.

You swallowed hard, yanking your arm free. "Are we going inside, or are you just gonna sit here looking smug all night?"

Jake grinned, slow and cocky, before pushing open his door. 

"Oh, we’re goin’ inside," he said, stepping out like he had all the time in the world.

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself to get a grip, then followed suit, slamming the truck door a little harder than necessary. You stomped up the walkway behind him, practically vibrating with the need to do something. You didn’t even care what. Punch him, kiss him, you just needed something.

Jake reached the door first, unlocking it with ease, but instead of stepping aside to let you in, he turned, leaning against the doorframe.

"Last chance to back out, darlin’," he murmured, voice low, teasing.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as your body screamed at you to get closer. "Like you would let me live that down."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, I’d never let you live it down," he agreed, then tilted his head, eyes dark and burning with something that made your stomach twist. "But we both know you don’t want to back out."

And just like that, you snapped.

Grabbing the front of his shirt, you yanked him down, crashing your mouth against his.

Jake groaned, deep and satisfied, as if he’d known this was coming. He let you take control for a split second before flipping the script, crowding you into the door, hands gripping your hips like he was staking a claim.

The kiss was fire and fury, all teeth and tongue. His hands roamed, rough and sure, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had.

You pulled back just enough to gasp, "God, I hate you."

Jake grinned against your lips, fingers curling into your waistband. "Yeah?" His voice was pure arrogance. "Show me, then."

The door had barely clicked shut before Jake had you backed against it, his body flush against yours, heat radiating off him in waves. His lips found yours again, just as greedy, just as needy as before, like he’d been starving for this and now that he had a taste, he wasn’t letting go.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, and he groaned against your mouth, low and rough, before yanking the fabric over his head and tossing it aside like it was offending him.

"Jesus, Hangman," you muttered, taking in the broad planes of his chest, the way his muscles flexed as he ran a hand through his already tousled hair.

He smirked, stepping back into your space, hands finding your waist again. "Was wonderin’ when you’d finally admit you liked lookin’ at me, sweetheart."

You scoffed, shoving at his chest. "I don’t."

Jake caught your wrist mid-shove, his grip firm, the heat of his palm branding against your skin. "Liar," he murmured, and then he spun you, pressing you against the door, his chest flush against your back.

Your breath hitched.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. "You know what I think?"

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Jake chuckled, feeling your stubborn silence. "I think you like it when I get under your skin," he continued, voice thick as honey, hand sliding along your arm before settling at your hip. "I think you like fightin’ me ‘cause it makes this—" he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, biting down just enough to make your fingers twitch—"so much better."

You shivered.

"Tell me I’m wrong," he murmured, lips trailing lower.

You hated him. You hated how right he was. How much you wanted this, wanted him.

So instead of answering, you turned, grabbing his face and pulling him into another kiss, swallowing his smug little chuckle as you pushed him backward.

Jake let you lead—at least for a few steps—until the backs of his knees hit the couch, and he took advantage of your forward momentum, twisting you both so you tumbled down with him.

You gasped as you landed in his lap, his hands immediately finding your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make you ache.

"Well, would you look at that," he drawled, looking up at you with pure, unfiltered arrogance. "Right where you wanna be."

Your glare was instant, but whatever insult you were about to hurl at him got lost in the way his hands slid up, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin at your hips, his gaze dark and knowing.

"Say it," he murmured, voice softer this time. "Say you want this."

You exhaled sharply, fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him grunt.

"Jake—"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

You clenched your jaw, breath coming short and fast.

"I hate you," you whispered, leaning down, lips brushing against his.

Jake grinned. "That so?"

You nodded, eyes locked on his.

"Good," he murmured, tilting his head up to kiss you again, all teeth and heat. "Hate me all you want." His fingers dug into your hips, his voice dropping to a growl. "Just don’t stop."

His hands, hot and steady against your hips, didn’t push—didn’t take the way you half-expected him to. Instead, he just looked at you, gaze flickering over your face like he was memorizing the way you looked right then—cheeks flushed, lips kiss bruised, breathing heavy.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of the weight of his hands, the heat of his body beneath you. "What?" you muttered, shifting slightly in his lap.

Jake’s fingers flexed at your waist, his jaw tightening like he was holding something back. Then his eyes lifted to meet yours.

"Want me to take this off, sweetheart?" he murmured, toying with the hem of your shirt, voice softer than before. More careful.

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure what surprised you more. The fact that he asked or the fact that it sent a different kind of heat through you. Something deeper. Something that settled low in your stomach, curling tight.

"You don’t have to ask," you muttered, trying to ignore the way your pulse was suddenly hammering against your ribs.

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, one hand leaving your waist to push a strand of hair from your face, thumb grazing your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. "Yeah, I do."

And that? That threw you. Because it wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t teasing. It was real. For a split second, it wasn’t about the fight, the tension, or the way you constantly tried to push each other’s buttons.

It was just him.

Your throat felt tight, and you hated it. Hated that something so simple made your stomach flip.

But you still lifted your arms.

Jake didn’t hesitate after that, peeling your shirt off in one smooth motion and tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. But then he stopped again, and Jesus Christ, the way his eyes raked over you, the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips, the way his breath shuddered just slightly. It made your skin prickle and made heat lick up your spine.

For the first time that night, you didn’t have some sharp remark ready.

And Jake noticed.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at his lips as his hands skimmed up your sides, settling just beneath the band of your bra. 

"Well, would you look at that," he murmured, eyes dragging back up to yours. "Speechless."

Your glare was instant, but before you could snap at him, his grip tightened, pulling you closer, lips brushing against your jaw as he murmured, "And beautiful."

And just like that, he shattered every thought in your head.

Jake's fingers trailed up your spine, slow and deliberate, making you shiver before they settled on the clasp of your bra. He didn’t rush. There was no quick practiced flick like you might have expected. Instead, he lingered, thumbs tracing idle circles against your skin, his breath warm against the hollow of your throat.

"You good?" He murmured, lips brushing against your collarbone, his voice lower now, less teasing, almost gentle.

You swallowed hard. You weren’t used to this side of him, the part that asked, the part that wasn’t all sharp-edged arrogance and cocky smirks.

"Yeah," you muttered, but your voice was quieter now, and that was enough for him to notice.

Jake hummed like he wasn’t quite convinced, but he popped the clasp anyway, dragging the straps down your arms with an almost painful slowness before finally tossing it aside.

Heat bloomed across your chest, your arms twitching with the instinct to cover yourself, but before you could even think about being shy, Jake’s hands were there, skimming up your ribs, curling around your wrists to stop you.

"Nuh uh," he murmured, his grip firm but warm, his thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, dragged over every inch of you, taking his damn time like he was committing every detail to memory.

"Jake," you started, but your voice wavered, and you hated how small it sounded.

His gaze flicked back to yours immediately, something sharp flashing behind all that heat. "Don’t," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Don’t get shy on me now."

You huffed, shifting slightly in his lap trying to grasp at something. Control, defiance…anything. But then his hands were back tracing up your sides, his thumbs skimming just beneath your breasts. His eyes were locked on yours.

Your stomach flipped, and God you wanted to look away. You wanted to fight the way your heart was hammering against your ribs. But then his hands slid higher, fingers splaying wide across your ribcage holding you there.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, and it was so genuine and unguarded that it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

Jake Seresin. Cocky, arrogant, never shuts the hell up Jake was looking at you like you like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.  Like he’d imagined this a hundred times over but now that you were here, in his lap, chest rising and falling under his hands, he was afraid to blink in case he woke up and it was all gone.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with a hunger that wasn’t just lust, it was something more, something you didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Fuck,” he muttered almost to himself, his head tipping back against the couch for just a second before he looked at you again. 

His pupils were blown wide, his breath uneven and God you’d never seen him like this. It was like you had him completely undone without even trying.

His hands moved then, fingertips tracing the delicate curve of your waist before sliding up, fingers brushing the undersides of your breasts.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, his voice rough. “How long I’ve wanted you like this.”

A slow, satisfied smirk curled at the corner of your lips as you took him in. You slid your hands into his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers as you gave a firm tug. His breath hitched, his grip tightening instinctively, but he let you guide him, tilting his head back until his chin rested against your sternum.

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling beneath you, the sharp angles of his jaw and throat bathed in the warm glow of the lamp beside the couch. He was completely at your mercy, and fuck, you liked the way that felt.

You leaned down, slow and deliberate, until your breath ghosted over his parted lips, your nose barely brushing his. His hands twitched on your waist, but he didn’t move. He was waiting. Watching. Wanting.

A smug little hum left your lips, and you let your fingers tighten just slightly in his hair as you murmured, “Well, Hangman… you finally got what you wanted.” You dragged your lips down, grazing along the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the way his pulse jumped beneath your mouth. Then you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, voice turning to a whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”

His hands flexed against you, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes locked onto yours as if you’d just lit a match and dropped it into a trail of gasoline.

Then he grinned, lazy and sharp, green eyes dark with intent.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with promise as his fingers skimmed higher, teasing along your spine. “You have no idea.”

One second you were in control, straddling his lap with hands in his hair. The next his hands slid down gripping the backs of your thighs as he stood, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

A startled gasp left your lips, hands flying to his shoulders as he adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing firmly into the curve of your ass to keep you steady. His smirk was downright insufferable as he took a few steps toward the hallway, completely unfazed by your sudden shift in position.

“Jesus, Hangman—” you started, but he only chuckled, the sound vibrating against your chest as he carried you with ease.

“What?” he drawled, like this wasn’t affecting him in the slightest. “You wanted to know what I was going to do.”

Your stomach fluttered at the effortless strength in his hold, but you rolled your eyes, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead, you crossed your arms loosely around his neck, leaning in just enough to murmur, “You know, you don’t have to carry me.”

Jake slowed just slightly, glancing down at you with something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “You sayin’ you don’t like it?”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening against the nape of his neck.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like it. If anything, you liked it too much. But there was something about being held like this—about the way he handled you so effortlessly, so casually—that poked at an old insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind.

Guys like Jake Seresin always went for the kind of girls who looked effortless in their arms, who didn’t overthink the way they were being held, who didn’t worry about whether or not they were too heavy or too much.

Your silence must have said more than you intended, because Jake’s hold on you tightened just slightly, his smirk fading into something softer.

His voice dropped, quieter than before. “Darlin’.”

You swallowed, avoiding his gaze. “I just—” You huffed a short breath, shaking your head like you could physically dismiss the thought. “I’m not some dainty little thing, okay? You don’t have to—”

“Stop.” His tone left no room for argument, and before you could protest, he adjusted his grip, bouncing you slightly in his arms as if to prove a point. “You really think I’d be doin’ this if I couldn’t handle it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Jake exhaled sharply, shaking his head before dipping down just enough to catch your gaze. His eyes were serious now, all teasing gone. “I like carrying you,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “And not just ‘cause I can, but because I want to.”

Your breath caught, a different kind of warmth blooming in your chest, one that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the way he was looking at you.

He tightened his hold, tilting his head with a smirk that was softer than before, but still undeniably him. “Now, you gonna let me take you to my bed, or you wanna keep pretendin’ you don’t like this?”

Your heart stuttered, fingers gripping the back of his neck as you huffed, finally letting your head drop against his shoulder.

“Fine,” you muttered, and you could feel his smirk against your temple.

“That’s my girl.”

And with that, he carried you the rest of the way, leaving no room for argument.

Jake nudged the door open with his foot, the hinges creaking slightly as he carried you inside. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the space. His bed which was big, unmade, and ridiculously inviting was only a few steps away, but he didn’t rush. If anything, he seemed to savor the moment, taking his time as he moved toward it.

You felt the muscles in his arms flex as he shifted his grip, lowering you onto the mattress with deliberate care. His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, fingertips trailing lightly along your sides before he straightened to stand over you.

The air between you was thick, charged with something that was no longer just heated banter and reckless tension. This was something else. Something weightier.

Jake’s green eyes raked over you, dark and unreadable, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “You look good like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.

Your stomach clenched, your breath coming a little quicker as you propped yourself up on your elbows. “You just gonna stand there and stare, Seresin?” you teased, but the slight hitch in your voice gave you away.

His lips curled, but there was something softer behind the smirk this time. “You in a hurry?”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “I—”

Before you could finish, Jake was moving. He crawled onto the bed, hands bracing on either side of your hips as he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours.

“You got nowhere to be,” he murmured, the words a slow drawl against your lips. “So why don’t you let me take my time?”

A shiver rolled through you, but you forced yourself to keep your expression even. “You always this much of a tease?”

Jake chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. “Only when I got something worth taking my time with.”

Your breath caught, but you refused to let him see how easily he unraveled you. Instead, you reached up, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to earn a soft grunt from him. “Stop talking and do something about it, Hangman.”

Jake’s weight pressed you into the mattress, his hands roaming slowly and deliberately as his lips ghosted over your collarbone. Every touch sent heat curling through your stomach, every kiss stoking the fire that had been burning between you since the second he’d crowded into your space outside The Hard Deck.

His hands drifted lower, skimming the line of your jeans, fingers toying with the button as he watched your face.

He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “You gonna let me take these off, or you wanna fight me on it?”

You huffed a breath, fingers still buried in his hair. “What do you think?”

Jake grinned like he already knew the answer, but he still waited. Waited for the tiny nod you gave him, the permission you offered without hesitation. Only then did he move.

The sound of your zipper being undone was deafening in the quiet of the room, your breath catching as he dragged the denim down, slow enough to make you squirm.

He chuckled, low and knowing. “You always this impatient?”

You lifted your hips, helping him rid you of the last piece of clothing between you, and shot him a look. “You always this slow?”

Jake’s eyes darkened. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you want me rushing this.”

His hands traced up the length of your legs, teasing, exploring, his touch sending little sparks dancing along your skin. And then his fingers dug into your thighs, parting them just enough for him to settle between them.

That cocky smirk never wavered as he leaned in, his breath hot against your jaw. “Told you,” he murmured. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

Jake’s lips found the inside of your knee first. His lips were soft and teasing as they brushed your skin. His hands ran up your thighs, squeezing, but his mouth followed at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Your breath hitched as he kissed higher, his lips trailing a warm path along your skin. Every inch of you was tense with anticipation, waiting, bracing, needing.

He was right there. Right. There.

And then he exhaled a laugh against your skin, his breath warm and taunting, before shifting away to press his mouth to your other thigh instead.

Your hands fisted in the sheets. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Jake looked up at you through his lashes, a smug grin tugging at his lips. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

Your head fell back against the pillows with an exasperated groan. “You’re insufferable.”

He hummed in agreement, his mouth continuing its slow, torturous exploration. His hands slid under your thighs, gripping tight, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“You love it,” he murmured against your skin, voice dripping with amusement.

You wanted to argue, but then his teeth grazed the soft skin of your inner thigh, just enough to make you gasp, and suddenly, words weren’t coming so easily anymore.

Jake's teasing had you teetering on the edge of frustration and something far more desperate. He knew exactly what he was doing. Drawing it out, making you squirm, feeding off every sharp breath and roll of your hips. But just when you were about to snap at him again, his lips finally ghosted over where you needed him most.

A strangled sound caught in your throat as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against you, his tongue flicking out just enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling harder than necessary, but if anything, it only spurred him on.

For once, you were grateful Jake Seresin never shut the hell up because he really knew how to use that mouth.

His tongue worked in slow, devastating strokes, a perfect rhythm that had your back arching off the bed in seconds. He groaned against you, the vibrations sinking deep into your bones, and it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.

“Jake—” His name slipped from your lips before you could stop it, breathless and wrecked.

“That’s it,” he murmured against you, his voice smug and husky. His grip on your thighs tightened. “Say my name, sweetheart.”

Jake was relentless.

Every time you thought he was going to give you what you needed—really give it to you—he’d slow down, change rhythm, pull back just enough to keep you on the edge but never quite over it.

It was maddening.

Your legs trembled beneath his hands, every nerve in your body burning with frustration. He was drawing it out on purpose, keeping you right where he wanted, his mouth and tongue working you into a fever pitch only to ease up the second your muscles tensed, the moment you got too close.

You let out a frustrated groan, fingers tugging at his hair in a warning. “Jake.”

A hum vibrated against you—satisfied, entertained—but he didn’t relent. He kept up his slow torture, his tongue pressing in firm, deliberate strokes, his lips ghosting over you with just enough pressure to make you crazy.

“Fuck, I swear to—”

But just when you were ready to snap, just when the tension in your stomach coiled tight enough to break, he pulled away.

You gasped, blinking down at him in disbelief, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “Are you—”

He grinned, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth as he settled between your legs, looking so damn smug it made you want to throttle him. “Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

Your glare could’ve burned a hole straight through him. “I hate you.”

His hands smoothed up your thighs, fingers kneading into your skin as he leaned up, his lips hovering just over yours. His breath was warm when he spoke. “No, you don’t.”

And then, just to drive the point home, he slid two fingers between your legs, pressing into you with the same slow, torturous precision.

Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the pillows. He chuckled against your jaw, lips brushing your pulse. “See? You love me.”

Your body betrayed you before you even had time to think of a comeback. Your hips rolled instinctively, seeking out more friction, chasing what he’d been cruelly holding just out of reach.

Jake groaned, low and rough, his fingers still deep inside you as he watched, transfixed. His free hand splayed across your hip, feeling the way you moved against him, the way your body took what it wanted.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with something dangerously close to awe. “So goddamn greedy for it.”

Heat flooded your face, but embarrassment never stood a chance against the need coursing through you. You didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—even as his eyes dragged over every inch of you, taking in the way you worked yourself against his hand, the soft whimpers slipping past your lips.

Jake fucking loved it.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his fingers curling just right, pressing exactly where you needed. His mouth found your throat, teeth scraping against sensitive skin before soothing it with his tongue. “Use me. Get yourself there.”

Your stomach clenched, muscles tightening as that coil in your core wound impossibly tighter. Every stroke of his fingers sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and the way he watched you like he’d never seen anything more stunning only drove you higher.

You were close. Too close.

And Jake knew it.

His lips brushed your ear, his voice a rasped promise.

"That’s it, baby. Come for me."

There was no question in his tone just certainty, confidence, command. Like he already knew you would, like you had no choice but to obey.

His fingers never faltered, his pace steady, relentless, pushing you closer and closer until there was no stopping it. Your body tensed, every nerve lighting up as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach, ready to snap.

"Jake—" His name tore from your lips, a desperate, breathless cry as the release hit you, hard and all-consuming.

He groaned, low and satisfied like your pleasure was his own personal victory. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmured, working you through it, dragging out every last wave, every aftershock, until you were trembling beneath him.

His hands never stopped moving, slow and teasing now, like he was savoring the way you came undone for him. His lips ghosted over your hip, smug but reverent. "Damn, baby," he drawled, watching you with something almost like admiration. "That was real pretty."

Jake made quick work of his jeans and boxers, shedding the last of his clothing without a second thought. His confidence was effortless like he had no doubt in his mind that you'd want him just as much as he wanted you.

Crawling back onto the bed, he took you in, his hands smoothing over your skin, possessive and reverent all at once. Then, in one fluid motion, he flipped you over. You barely had time to react before he was guiding you forward. Instinctively, you pushed up onto your forearms, shifting to all fours, but Jake had other plans.

He let out a low chuckle, running his hands down your spine before gripping your hips and pulling you back against him. 

"Not like that, sweetheart." His voice was rough, heavy with want.

Before you could question him, he slid a firm hand between your shoulder blades and pressed down, guiding you back down to the mattress. Your cheek met the sheets, your back arching instinctively under the pressure of his touch.

"There you go," he murmured, his voice all smug satisfaction. "Much better."

Jake’s grip on your hips tightened as he aligned himself with you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath was shallow, and you could feel the heat of him so close, yet not enough to satisfy the aching tension between you both.

With a slight shift of his weight, he brought his hand down on your ass with a sharp, satisfying slap. The sound of it echoed in the quiet room, making your body jump forward at the contact. You let out a small yelp, the sting sending a rush of heat through your veins, mixing with the desire that had been building all night.

You glanced over your shoulder, your chest rising and falling quickly. "What was that for?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though your voice gave away the sudden, surprised pleasure.

He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered in your ear, "Because I can."

You opened your mouth to snap back, to say something, anything to regain some control in this situation, but before you could get a word out, Jake shifted his weight and pushed forward, the feeling of him filling you completely. The words you’d been about to say caught in your throat, replaced by a breathless moan as he stretched you in ways that sent your body reeling.

Your back arched, and your grip on the sheets tightened as you fought to stay composed, but the pleasure of him inside you was too overwhelming. The cocky grin on Jake’s face was evident, even as he moved slowly, savoring the moment just as much as you were.

Jake’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he began to increase his pace. The sounds of his breath, sharp and steady, mixed with the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin, filling the air between you. Each thrust had you gasping, your body rocked forward with every press, his rhythm pushing you further toward the edge.

With every stroke, you felt him deeper, filling you completely. The intensity of it had you gasping for air, your heart racing in time with the beat of your pulse. And for a split second, amidst the rush of sensation, a thought flashed through your mind—Why the hell hadn’t you done this before?

The idea lingered for a heartbeat, but Jake’s hand moved to your back, pressing you down into the sheets, and that fleeting thought was gone as quickly as it had come. All that was left was the heat, the pressure building inside you, and the undeniable pull of him—his rhythm, his touch, the way he moved inside you, the way his breath caught when he pulled you closer, driving deeper.

Jake could feel the way your body clenched around him, the tightening of your muscles making him groan, his rhythm faltering for just a second. He had been watching you, noticing the way your moans had shifted from his name into breathless nonsense, and he could tell you were on the verge of losing it.

With a smirk curling at the corner of his lips, he leaned down, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “You’re about to come, aren’t you?” His voice was rough, low, and cocky, but there was a softness to it that sent a shiver down your spine. “Damn, baby. You sound so fucking good. I’m gonna make sure you remember this.”

His hand slid down your body, fingers pressing into your lower stomach, feeling the way your muscles tensed and quivered, and that only made him press harder, driving deeper with each thrust.

Jake could feel the way you were unraveling beneath him, and he couldn’t help but let out a low laugh, knowing he was the one pulling these sounds from you. He was the one making you lose control. There was nothing like this—the power, the rush of it—and hell, he fucking loved it.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rougher now, “I’m not letting you go until I’ve got every last sound out of you.”

Your breath hitched at his words, a soft whimper escaping your lips without meaning to. It was just enough to fuel Jake further, his grip on your hips tightening, his thrusts becoming harder, more determined. He heard the sound you made, felt the way it vibrated in your chest, and that drove him wild.

“God, you like that, don’t you?” Jake murmured the cocky edge to his voice sharper now. He moved faster, his rhythm relentless, as if he was determined to make you fall apart in front of him.

The sound of his name left your lips again, a whimpering gasp this time, and Jake couldn’t help but smile against your back.

“I knew you’d be this responsive,” he said with a breathless chuckle, “Just let go for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

The way your body responded to him, so soft and needy, only made him push harder. Each sound you made, every tremor that ran through you, sent a wave of satisfaction crashing over him. He couldn’t get enough, his need for you only growing as he felt you getting closer, his hands tightening on your hips as he set the pace.

You were almost there, and he knew it. And that, more than anything, was what had him pushing to give you exactly what you needed.

Jake’s movements were growing more erratic, his control slipping as the pressure inside him built. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, every muscle in his body tense and straining with the need to finish. But he wasn’t going to let go just yet. Not without one more from you.

You were a mess beneath him, breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, your body trembling as you met each of his thrusts. The way you felt, the sounds you were making…everything about you was driving him wild. 

He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you back against him as he pushed harder, faster. “One more, baby,” he growled. “Give it to me.”

He didn’t ask; he commanded, his voice rough and demanding, as if there was no room for hesitation. His breath was coming in hot, heavy bursts against your skin as he drove you both closer to the edge. 

He needed to hear you. Needed to see you fall apart again.

“Don’t hold back. Let go for me,” he growled, his voice almost a low, possessive growl as he felt the last thread of his restraint snap.

Your body finally gave way, the tension that had been building between you two snapping as you let go. A sharp cry tore from your throat, your body shuddering under him as your release hit. The pressure and pleasure of it all flooded your senses, and you collapsed onto the bed, breathless and spent. Your legs shook, your mind hazy with the aftermath of what he had just pulled from you.

Jake’s movements faltered for a moment, his rhythm becoming more desperate and sloppy as he chased his own release. His grip on your hips tightened, but his breath was heavier, ragged now, his body trembling against you.

“Where do you want it?” He muttered.

It was then that the weight of it all clicked for you.

Your chest heaved with exertion as you finally managed to get your thoughts together, eyes widening slightly. You gasped, the realization dawning. You hadn’t even thought about the condom. You hadn’t talked about it.

“Jake,” you murmured, still breathless, trying to collect yourself enough to speak clearly. “I’m on birth control.”

The words had barely left your mouth before he groaned low and deep, and in the next moment, he surged forward, driving himself all the way into you, his pace finally faltering as he pushed to the brink. His fingers dug into your skin as he stilled, and then he let go with a final, possessive grunt. He filled you, the intensity of his release flooding you both, leaving you both trembling in the aftermath.

His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he slowly came back to himself. He stayed there, resting against you for a moment, his forehead resting against your back as the two of you tried to catch your breath. It felt almost like a release for him too. Not just physically but in the tension between you both that had been building for so long.

“Damn,” he muttered against your skin, his voice hoarse. “That was...”

He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. You both knew exactly what it was.

Still, the weight of the moment hung in the air between you two. Neither of you moved immediately, just feeling each other’s presence, the exhaustion slowly taking over.

You sighed as you sat up, feeling the cool air against your skin as the heat of Jake’s body left you. Your limbs felt heavy, your body spent, but you forced yourself to move, slipping off the bed and padding toward the bathroom.

Jake didn’t say anything as you went, just watched you go, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the room.

Inside the bathroom, you turned on the sink, splashing cool water on your face. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, lips were swollen, the lingering evidence of Jake’s touch still visible on your skin. You exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the counter for a moment before straightening up.

This was…something. Whatever it was. And now, in the quiet of Jake’s bedroom, the weight of what came next started to settle over you.

By the time you emerged, Jake was pulling on a pair of sweats, his movements slower, more languid now. You grabbed your underwear and the oversized shirt he had tossed your way earlier, slipping them on before crawling back into bed beside him.

It was quiet now. The charged energy from before had settled into something softer, something heavier. You lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your mind drifting as the reality of tomorrow pressed in.

Beside you, Jake shifted. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze settling on you. You felt it before you saw it. The weight of his stare, studying you, tracing over your features like he was trying to memorize them.

“What?” you asked, your voice softer than before.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he kept looking at you, his expression unreadable but intent. Finally, after a beat, he murmured, “You’re worried about tomorrow. About me..”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t respond. You just swallowed, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling.

Jake exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound in the stillness of the room. “You’re gonna tell me to be safe, aren’t you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Just…” you swallowed again, voice barely above a whisper. “Just come back alive, Jake.”

The teasing smirk he had worn all night. Hell, the one he wore all the damn time faded. Something more real passed over his face, something softer, something unspoken.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You finally turned your head to look at him, and for the first time, neither of you had anything smart to say.

You just held each other’s gaze, both thinking the same thing.

Jake’s fingers lingered against yours, his touch warm but tentative. You weren’t sure how long the two of you just lay there like that staring at each other in the dim light of his bedroom, words unspoken but understood.

Then, slowly, he shifted.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his lips barely ghosting over yours in a way that wasn’t cocky or teasing or demanding. It was softer. Almost hesitant.

You could feel the way he exhaled against your lips like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how. Like maybe this, whatever this was, was throwing him off just as much as it was throwing you off.

His lips pressed to yours, just for a second. Just enough to make your breath hitch. And then he pulled back, hovering so close you could still feel him.

The quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. You stared at the ceiling, your mind drifting, already trying to brace for the morning.

You turned your head, glancing at him in the dim light. He looked so at ease, so different from the cocky, sharp-tongued pilot you had spent so much time arguing with. His expression was softer now, the teasing smirk gone, replaced by something quieter.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your body unraveling as you shifted closer, tucking yourself into his side. His arm draped over you, and you let your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

His free hand rested on his stomach, and without thinking, yours followed, finding it easily in the dark. Your fingers brushed his, tentative at first like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to reach for him. Like you weren’t sure if this was something you were even supposed to want.

But Jake didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled around yours, lacing them together like it was second nature. Like holding your hand was as easy as breathing.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you had to.

The weight of the morning still lingered in the air, but for now, just for this moment, you let yourself have this.

Let yourself have him for just a little longer.

Jake’s breathing evened out long before yours did. His arm was still draped over you, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something that almost felt like peace. Almost. But no matter how hard you tried to ground yourself in the warmth of his skin, in the weight of his hand still tangled with yours, your mind kept drifting.

You stared up at the ceiling, the quiet pressing in.

And I'll ask the stars at night, how I can slow the time…

The words echoed in your head, unspoken but heavy in your chest. The night felt too short, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold onto it.

Your grip on Jake’s hand tightened just slightly like that alone could keep him here. Keep him safe.

But you knew it wouldn’t.

God, I’m so terrified that I’m gonna lose you.

You turned your head, your gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face softened in sleep. His brows weren’t furrowed for once. His mouth, the same mouth that had spent the night pressing cocky remarks against your skin, was relaxed.

He looked peaceful. Like he didn’t have to wake up in just a few hours and walk into the unknown. Like he wasn’t about to get into a jet and disappear into the sky, leaving you behind to wonder if you’d ever see him again.

And I’ll die if I do.

Your throat tightened, your chest aching under the weight of everything you weren’t saying. Everything you wouldn’t say.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. Weren’t supposed to want him to stay. Weren’t supposed to feel like the world was tilting beneath you at the thought of him not coming back.

But you did.

And that scared you more than anything else.

So you did the only thing you could. You curled further into him, pressed your face against his shoulder, and let your fingers stay laced with his. Holding onto him for just a little longer.

Just in case.

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tommy have been having problems lately. You don't understand each other, argue a lot, but somehow you're still together. Everything change one fateful evening, when his brother comes to comfort you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, kinda toxic relationship, cheating, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), praise kink, rough, Joel talks you through it, creampie, nicknames

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! It's kinda long again :( but, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It all started with your first real fight with Tommy.

For months now, something had been off. He was distant — emotionally absent, almost like he was just going through the motions. He used to come home and wrap you in his arms, tease you with that lopsided grin, ask about your day with genuine interest. But lately… it was as if work had swallowed him whole. He’d return exhausted, irritated, sometimes barely even looking at you. And when he did, the warmth was gone.

At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Jackson needed him, and you understood that. You really did. But weeks turned into months, and you started to feel more like a ghost in his life than a partner. Every attempt you made to spark something — a touch, a kiss, an evening set just right — was met with excuses. “Too tired.” “Long day.” “Maybe tomorrow.”

You even wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he was cheating. The thought clawed at your gut, but there was never any real sign. No secretive phone calls, no lipstick on the collar, no changed passwords. Just… nothing. He wasn’t cheating. He just didn’t want you. And that, somehow, felt worse.

Then came the day. Tommy walked through the front door, shoulders slumped, boots muddy, a scowl carved deep into his face like it had taken root there. He didn’t even greet you — just grunted and collapsed into the armchair like his bones were too heavy.

“Grab me a beer, will ya?” he muttered, not even looking at you. Something inside you snapped.

“You know what, Tommy?” you began, voice trembling — not from fear, but from months of pent-up anger. “No. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, confused. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

And then it started. Words flying like arrows. You yelling. Him raising his voice in return. Neither of you laying a hand on the other, but the fight was loud. Emotional. Raw.

So loud that people passing by outside the house either crossed the street or hurried along, pretending not to hear.

You couldn’t take it. Not anymore. You couldn’t even look at him when it was over. Couldn’t stand being in the same room, breathing the same air. So you walked out. No plan. No destination. You just had to go. Had to get out before something inside you shattered.

He didn’t stop you. Maybe he knew you needed space. Maybe he was just too damn tired to fight anymore.

And you wandered through the quiet town, dusk settling like a blanket over the rooftops, the air cooling against your skin, until you realized — you had nowhere to go.

Nowhere… except for one place. One man.

Joel Miller.

Joel had always seemed like a good man.

Rough around the edges, sure. There was something intimidating about him when you first met — that deep voice, the scowl he wore like a second skin, the heavy silence he could summon with just one glance.

But beneath that tough shell, you’d found something else entirely.

You were nervous at first. Afraid he wouldn’t like you, that he’d think you weren’t good enough for Tommy. That he might act like the overprotective big brother and treat you like an outsider. But all those fears dissolved quickly, scattered like dust in the wind.

Joel welcomed you. Genuinely.

He talked to you, helped you without hesitation, offered you rides, fixed things around your place when Tommy was too busy. He made you feel like part of the family — someone he respected. Someone he cared about.

And tonight… he proved that once again.

You found yourself standing at his front door, breath visible in the cool air, knuckles trembling as you knocked. You didn’t even know how your feet had carried you there. Only that they had. That you needed somewhere to go. It didn’t take long for the door to open with a soft creak.

Joel stood there, blinking into the porch light, clearly roused from sleep. His hair was tousled, a little messy — grayer than you remembered, curling at the ends. His t-shirt was wrinkled, clinging to broad shoulders and thick arms, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, softened the moment they saw you.

And just like that… something snapped inside you. Something you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding back. Desire.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should’ve. On the messy hair. The beard you secretly liked way too much. The tired lines around his eyes. The way his biceps flexed just from leaning on the doorframe.

And then it hit you and your core pulsed.

It was involuntary. A biological response. A full-body reaction to a man who had no idea what he was doing to you.

Joel’s brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed hard and managed a small nod. “I just… had a fight with Tommy. Needed some air.”

He stepped aside without hesitation. “Come on in.”

Inside, his house smelled like cedar and something vaguely smoky. The lights were low. It felt warmer than you expected — like a quiet cabin tucked away from the world. He offered you coffee. Tea. Something to eat.

You shook your head. “No but thank you.”

He nodded and said you could take the spare room. He even went to get you some clothes to sleep in — a soft, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that were far too big for you.

And when he handed them to you, your fingers touched. The spark was small. Barely there. But it spread like wildfire through your chest, then your spine. You looked up at him. And for a moment, your eyes locked.

He said something, probably a simple “here you go” or “they’re clean” — but you didn’t catch it. Your ears were ringing. You were too busy staring into the deep brown of his eyes, too caught up in the way they seemed to study you back, like maybe he felt it too.

You took the clothes, mumbled a thank you, and retreated to the bathroom to change. But even as you stood there alone, the shirt hanging loosely on your frame, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

And that night, lying in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in the scent of his laundry detergent, you realized something that made your stomach twist. You knew you were absolutely, completely, and irreversibly… fucked.

And now, it had been a week. A week since that night at Joel’s. A week since everything shifted — even if no one else could see it.

Things with Tommy hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

You fought constantly now. About stupid things, about nothing, about everything. You didn’t even know what started most of them anymore — the toothpaste cap, the way he sighed too loudly, the silence at dinner.

It wasn’t explosive, not always. But it was endless. A simmering discontent that never quite faded, only circled back again and again, like waves hitting the same crumbling shore.

And worst of all — neither of you ever talked about it. No apologies. No meaningful conversations. Just this sad, quiet erosion of something that used to be whole.

But Joel…

Joel was different. Joel was the problem, wasn’t he? Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just that night, not just how he looked, standing there sleep-rumpled and warm and so utterly male, but every damn day since.

He was in your mind when you woke up. When you brushed your teeth. When you made dinner. When you argued with Tommy and wished he was someone else. You didn’t mean to. But God, it was getting impossible to stop.

You kept picturing his hands — the thick fingers, the rough calluses, the way his veins curved over his knuckles like they were sculpted with intention. You imagined how those hands would feel on your hips, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt with practiced ease.

You thought of his arms — strong and solid and made to hold. Of how his shoulders looked like they could carry the whole damn town if they had to. You thought about being held in them, your head tucked under his chin, your breath catching when he exhaled slow and deep.

You thought of his chest — broad and warm and lined with that dark, silver-streaked hair. Thought of laying your cheek there, fingers splayed across his heart, listening to it beat steady beneath your touch.

His face haunted you.

That strong jaw, always clenched like he was holding back a thousand words. The curve of his mouth, half-hidden under the beard but always there — lips you kept imagining pressed to your neck, your shoulder, between your thighs.

And his eyes… His eyes were your undoing.

Dark, deep, unreadable. They saw through you — not just your clothes, but your walls, your lies, your guilt. When you closed your own eyes, you saw his instead, full of lust. Or maybe that was just your own twisted fantasy. You shouldn’t want him. You knew that. He was your boyfriend’s brother.

But your body didn’t care.

Your body betrayed you every time you thought of him — a flutter low in your stomach, a tightening in your chest, a heat between your thighs that left you squirming in bed at night, aching for something you couldn’t name out loud.

You tried to drown it out. Tried to pretend. But the truth whispered like a lover in the dark:

You wanted Joel Miller. Desperately. And the worst part? You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending you didn’t.

Becuase it’s not just a passing thought anymore, not something you can brush off like a stray cobweb in your mind. No, it's visceral, constant. It lives under your skin like a second heartbeat.

Every time Joel walks by, you feel it. That earthy, musky scent of his — a mix of sweat, cedarwood, and something deep and masculine that makes your thighs clench without warning.

You hate how much your body reacts. How just one whiff of him leaves your panties damp, how the air feels thicker when he’s near. And when he works… God, when he works, that's the worst.

You’ve seen him splitting firewood behind the house, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his tanned skin as the muscles in his arms ripple with every swing of the axe.

The tight line of his jaw. The way his shirt clings to his broad back. The grunt he lets out when the blade hits the wood just right.

You watch him from the porch like a starved woman watching a feast she’ll never be allowed to touch. And it drives you fucking crazy.

Most nights, you don’t sleep.

Most nights, you lay in bed, biting your lip, heart racing, one hand gripping the sheets while the other slides under the waistband of your panties, because thinking about Joel isn’t enough anymore.

You need to feel it.

You imagine him looming over you. That heavy, calloused hand wrapping around your throat — not tight, just enough to make you submit. His other hand spreading your legs, fingers rough and sure as he slides them between your folds, dragging through your slick heat like he owns it.

You imagine his voice — low, rough, dangerous.

“Look how wet you are for me.”

“You want this, baby? You want me to ruin you?”

And you do. You want him to ruin you. You want him to take you right there, against the wall, the bed, the floor, anywhere, as long as it’s him.

Your fingers move faster now, desperate and messy, circling your clit in tight, practiced motions.

You press your thighs together, arching your back, your breath catching in your throat as your slick drips down your wrist.

You picture his mouth on your skin. His beard scraping your inner thigh. His tongue pushing inside you — thick and hot and hungry.

You choke back a moan. Your body is burning. You’re grinding into your own hand now, fucking yourself on your fingers like he would, imagining how deep he’d go, how big he’d feel, how he’d stretch you open and make you scream his name.

“Joel,” you whisper into the dark, breathless.

It’s always his name.

You come hard — thighs trembling, chest heaving, sweat beading along your hairline — but the ache doesn’t fade. Not really. Because as good as it feels, it’s not him.

No matter how many times you make yourself come, no matter how vivid the fantasies get, no matter how soaked your sheets are in the morning, you still want more.

Every time Tommy lay down beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion and the scent of sweat and woodsmoke still clinging to his skin, guilt clawed its way up your spine like a cold hand.

You would lie there stiff, eyes open to the dark, heart pounding, not from affection or comfort, but from the memory of your own trembling fingers just an hour before, hidden beneath the blankets, gasping his brother’s name against your bitten lip.

Joel.

Tommy’s brother.

The man you couldn’t stop thinking about — not now, not ever. You hated yourself for it. You weren’t just betraying your boyfriend. You were betraying a family. A trust.

But the worst part? You didn’t want to stop.

Tommy hadn’t apologized. Not once. But that didn’t stop him from organizing a barbecue. Some way to press “reset” on everything, as if grilled meat and forced laughter could patch over weeks of silence, resentment, and half-finished arguments echoing off the walls.

You knew him well enough by now to see through it. He wasn’t trying to fix things. He just wanted to pretend they were fixed. And that… hurt more than the fighting.

So, you dressed for the occasion. Not for him — not really.

You put on the white lace dress that didn’t quite reach your knees, the one that hugged your hips, cinched your waist just right, and fluttered in the summer breeze like something soft and dangerous. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel powerful. Maybe even cruel.

When you stepped out of the bedroom, Tommy was standing at the kitchen counter with a beer half-raised. He froze. Completely.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on you like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You could feel his gaze moving, mapping, remembering.

And when you passed by him, deliberately brushing just close enough, he reached out — a firm grip on your wrist.

“You look… you look good.” He muttered.

You paused, turned to him with a small, unreadable smile. “Thanks.” Your voice was polite, detached. And the moment he released your hand, you slipped out the door like a whisper on wind.

Outside, the sun was still warm.

People were already gathering, familiar voices, laughter, clinking glass. The backyard glowed in golden hour light, casting long, soft shadows across the tables and swaying grass. You fixed your face into the practiced smile you’d worn so many times — the one that said everything’s fine even when your chest felt like it was made of glass.

Then you saw him. God.

He walked up the path like he owned every step of it, in that worn flannel shirt and rolled sleeves, arms streaked with dust and sweat. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it instead of brushing it. His beard, just the right length to make your skin ache to know how it would feel. His eyes… they found yours.

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

He smiled, that subtle Joel kind of smile that only lifted one corner of his mouth, and stepped forward, arms opening as he greeted you.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He pulled you into a hug, and the moment your body met his, you knew you were in trouble. His arms were strong. Warm. The scent of him curled around your brain like fog. You imagined his mouth, his fingers.

And your body… reacted.

But you smiled. You played innocent. You even laughed at something he said. And he had no idea that your panties were already damp and that your heart was beating like a drum against your ribs.

The barbecue continued like some slow, lazy dream.

Music floated in the air from an old radio, someone poured too much whiskey, and laughter echoed off the fences. The sun dipped lower, turning the sky into a watercolor wash of pink and tangerine. Kids played tag near the trees. The smell of grilled meat mingled with fresh cut grass.

And all the while, you watched Joel.

He leaned on a post, beer in hand, talking to someone with that low, gravelly voice that made your stomach twist. You weren’t really part of any conversation. You were too busy stealing glances.

Then came the moment with the salad.

It was almost a relief to slip away — an excuse to clear your head. You made your way back into the house, opened the fridge and pulled out the cold bowl of greens.

That’s when you heard footsteps behind you.

“I’m glad you wore that dress,” Tommy said quietly. You turned around. He looked more serious than he had in days. Weeks.

“I know I’ve been… distant,” he said. “Hell, maybe even a real asshole. I just… I’ve been stressed, but that’s no excuse. You deserve better. And I’m sorry.”

His eyes met yours, and for once, you saw something honest there. You didn’t say anything. You just nodded. And then he kissed you.

It was hungry. Desperate.

Weeks of tension burst all at once. His hands were on your waist, pulling you close. You kissed back. Maybe you wanted to forgive him. Maybe it felt good to be wanted again — by someone who should want you.

But just as his hand began to slide beneath your dress —

“Hey—”

Joel’s voice at the doorway.

“—where’s that salad, huh?”

You froze and Tommy stepped back, startled. You turned slowly, cheeks flushed, heartbeat thundering. Joel was standing there with a lopsided smirk, but his eyes caught yours — and lingered.

And just like that, the heat pooled in your stomach again. Not because of Tommy, but because of the way Joel looked at you like he knew.

You stood there in the now-quiet room, trying to steady your breath. Your hands were resting on your sides, clenched just a little too tightly. It wasn’t just what had happened—it was how it made you feel. Like you were a pawn in some game… only the rules were seductive, dangerous, and written by men like Joel and Tommy.

And Tommy took charge. Said something about the salad being on its way and vanished with the bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. You needed to process it. Breathe. Think. Only… thinking wasn’t helping much.

Later that evening, the fire crackled, casting a warm flickering glow across familiar faces. You were sitting on a log, surrounded by others from the community, the sound of laughter, bottle caps popping, and faint guitar strumming filling the night air.

Joel sat directly across from you. Beer in hand. Legs spread slightly. Relaxed, but not unaware.

His gaze would meet yours every so often, and every single time it did… it felt different. Like something had shifted. The look wasn’t teasing—it was loaded. Heavy. Hot.

And each time your eyes met, your stomach would flip in that delicious, terrible way. You’d forget someone was talking to you, only snapping out of it when someone waved a hand in front of your face or chuckled at your distraction.

Then Tommy appeared, standing beside you with a crooked smirk.

“Up. Come on,” he said, motioning with his hand.

You blinked. “What?”

“Trust me,” he chuckled. “Just stand.”

You did, hesitantly. Tommy immediately dropped down onto the log in your place and patted his thigh with a smug grin. “Sit.”

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed. As you settled on his lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. The warmth of him, the calm strength in his hold—it brought a sense of peace you hadn’t even realized you needed. Things with him were okay again. That mattered. That grounded you.

But…Joel was still in your head.

You looked up, just as he shifted in his seat. A subtle movement, but enough to draw your eyes. He adjusted the way he sat, lifting his hips ever so slightly, and the motion was enough to ignite something deep inside you. You could feel your breath hitch.

You shifted on Tommy’s lap, just a little. Just enough.

Your underwear—already damp from earlier—felt traitorous against your skin. This was the fourth time tonight you’d caught yourself being wet… and always because of Joel.

Tommy felt it.

He tightened his grip on your waist, leaning close so only you could hear. “You tryin’ to tease me, darlin’?”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it. But your body had been responding to Joel all night. And now, it was affecting Tommy.

You shifted again without meaning to, and this time, you could feel Tommy’s erection pressed firmly against you. It made your breath catch. The air around you was thick. Electric.

Tommy leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “We’re goin’ inside. Now.”

You gave a small nod, barely able to speak, and stood up with him. You mumbled an apology to the group, but your eyes found Joel one last time. He was watching.

Not speaking, not smiling, just watching.

And that look, God, that look, it followed you even as Tommy took your hand and led you into the house.

The door slammed shut, and everything exploded.

Tommy didn’t wait. He had waited long enough. Weeks. Maybe months. His mouth crushed yours before you could even say a word, hands already under the hem of your dress, grabbing at your thighs like he had every right to claim them.

And in that moment—you wanted him to.

You moaned into the kiss as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he bit, just hard enough to make you gasp. He swallowed the sound hungrily.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. The kiss was messy. Hot. Tongues colliding, teeth clashing, breaths heavy and desperate. It wasn’t slow or sweet, it was starved. Like both of you had been dying for this.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he growled against your lips.

You nodded blindly, breathless. “Me too.”

His hands slid up under your dress—rough, impatient—and found bare skin. Touching, exploring every inch of your body, like a reminder of what skin feel like. His knuckles grazed the inside of your thigh, then higher, until his fingers found how wet you already were.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes dark. “This all for me?”

You didn’t answer.

You watched his expression change, something wild flickering in his gaze as he gripped your ass hard with both hands and lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him as he pressed you back against the wall, grinding against your core through the fabric of his jeans. You could feel how hard he was. How badly he wanted to be inside you.

He bit at your neck now, harder than before, leaving a mark. You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God, Tommy—”

You were soaked. Panting. Desperate.

And then—he dropped to his knees.

There was no teasing. No build-up. He pushed the dress up around your waist and shoved your legs apart, spreading you open in front of him. You braced yourself against the wall, heart pounding as you looked down at him, eyes blown wide with lust.

His mouth was on you in seconds. Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He licked you like he was making up for every day he’d gone without it. His tongue worked you in tight, focused circles, alternating speed, pressure, rhythm until you were writhing. His nose was buried against you, breath hot, beard scratching your inner thighs in a way that made your knees threaten to give out completely.

You moaned his name, over and over, gasping for air. “Tommy… fuck, please… just like that…”

Your hand buried itself in his hair, yanking, tugging as your hips rolled into his face without shame. You could feel his groan vibrate through you, sending another jolt up your spine.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard, and your vision went white for a second.

“Tommy—oh God—I’m gonna—”

You were so fucking close, teetering right at the edge, every nerve screaming. You could feel the pressure building, tight and unbearable, ready to break—

“…Joel…”

So soft. So breathless. So honest. But the effect was immediate. His mouth froze. Then his hands. Then the heat. Silence slammed into the room like a fist. You opened your eyes and met his. And his face looked like someone had gutted him.

He stood slowly, like every second hurt. The warmth, the fire, the hunger from just moments ago—gone, replaced with silence.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you and you looked at him, breathing heavily.

Then, finally:

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to explain, to say anything, but your voice cracked before a word came out. Tears were already stinging your eyes.

Tommy backed away from you like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “That’s who you were thinkin’ about? While I had my fuckin’ mouth on you?”

Your hands trembled as you tried to pull your dress back down, cover yourself—shield from the weight of his voice, his stare. “Tommy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he barked. “Don’t bullshit me.”

His voice broke on the last word. That hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I’ve been waitin’, hopin’ we’d get back to how we used to be, and this is what I get?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Please—”

But he jerked away from your touch like it burned.

“I can’t fuckin’ look at you right now.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out. You didn’t even hear where the door slammed. Maybe it was the back one. Maybe the front. It didn’t matter.

He was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch like the strings holding you up had been cut. The sound that left your throat wasn’t even human. A sob, raw and wet and broken. You curled in on yourself, dress still hiked halfway up your thighs, chest heaving. Tears soaked your cheeks and the fabric of the pillow you gripped with white knuckles.

The fire pit was still glowing outside. You could hear distant voices, laughter, clinking bottles—life happening while yours felt like it had just imploded.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Everything was numb, except for the ache in your chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted your heart until it bled.

You wiped your face, tried to breathe, tried to calm down—but your body refused. Every time you thought the tears had stopped, another wave hit.

Then the door opened.

“Hey… I’ve been lookin’ for—”

Joel stopped.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You just pressed your face into your hands, body trembling, barely able to breathe through the mess of it all.

“Shit,” he said softly. You heard the door close again behind him, slow and careful.

“Hey. Hey—what happened?”

You felt the couch shift as he knelt in front of you, warm hands hovering just inches from your knees, not touching—waiting for permission.

“Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

That voice—rough, low, full of concern. You shook your head slowly but didn’t lift it.

Joel exhaled, his hand finally brushing lightly over your calf. “You’re shakin’. Jesus… What happened?”

Joel’s eyes searched yours the moment you looked up at him, and he froze.

Your face was soaked, lashes clumped with tears, lips trembling. Your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—looked like they were still breaking in real time. And they were. The tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming, welling up and spilling over in fresh waves.

He could see you didn’t have the strength to speak. So he didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved.

He gently, slowly, pulled you into him. The moment his arms wrapped around you, you caved.

You collapsed into his chest, breath hitching, sobs stuttering out of you again as he held you tighter—arms strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed over your back, pulling you into his warmth like he could glue your pieces back together.

“Shhh…” he whispered into your hair. “I got you. I got you…”

And he meant it. You could feel it.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, calm and steady, grounding you. His shirt smelled like sweat and firewood and something so purely him it made your throat tighten. His skin radiated heat, and his arms were solid around you, unmovable, like nothing in the world could get to you if he didn’t let it.

Being in his arms felt like safety. Like home. You sank into him fully, shaking, letting the quiet take over. The tears kept coming, soaking through the fabric of his shirt until it clung to his skin.

After a long silence, you mumbled, voice rough and small:

“…Your shirt’s wet…”

Joel huffed a soft breath, like he almost smiled. “I don’t mind.”

A few more tears slid down your cheeks, and you could tell he felt every one of them against his skin. He didn’t push. But the question was still there, unspoken, hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, his voice rumbled low beside your ear.

“You don’t gotta talk if you’re not ready… but if somethin’ happened, I need to know. Did Tommy…?”

You shook your head quickly, breath hitching again.

“No—no, not like that,” you whispered. “We just… we had a fight.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

You hesitated but he waited. The truth sat like glass in your throat—jagged and dangerous. So you shook your head again.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Joel shifted just enough to look at you, hand still holding your shoulder.

“I get that,” he said softly. “But if it’s somethin’ serious… maybe I can help. You two are close. Whatever it is, maybe it ain’t as bad as you think.”

You almost laughed—almost. But it came out choked, hollow.

“It’s bad,” you whispered. “It’s… really bad.”

Joel’s fingers gently traced up and down your arm now, soothing, grounding.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to give me every detail, just… talk to me.”

You stared at the floor for a long moment, lips pressed together, heart pounding.

“…I said something,” you murmured, “during a moment and it hurt him. A lot.”

Joel was quiet, but you could feel the tension under his touch now. Like he was trying not to read into it.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

You looked up at Joel.

Straight into those beautiful, kind, heart-wrecking eyes. The light from the living room lamp hit them just right, made them shimmer, like they were made of something more than just brown. His brows were drawn, lips softly parted, that usual scruff shadowing his jaw in the most familiar way.

God, his face.

That face, all concern and comfort and that damned puppy-dog softness, it made everything worse. It made the truth burn inside you like acid.

You looked away again.

“…You can tell me anything, you know that?” he said gently. And you knew he meant it. That was the problem, he meant it. But if you told him, how could he ever look at you the same? How could anyone?

Your heart was hammering. You could barely breathe. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. If you said it, everything between you and Tommy would definitely be over. And maybe it already was.

Because of you.

Because you couldn’t even keep your mouth shut during something that was supposed to be intimate, sacred. You said his name. Joel’s name. And now all of this—the tears, the fight, the possible end of your relationship, was because of that.

Because of you.

The weight of it hit you like a truck, and your throat clenched all over again. More tears flooded your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fresh, helpless waves.

Joel was still rubbing your shoulders softly, whispering gentle reassurances. “Hey… hey, you’re alright. Just breathe, okay? Just talk to me.”

You were shaking now, fists clenched. He didn’t stop. He stayed with you. But you couldn’t hold it anymore. The guilt erupted from your lips—maybe louder than it should’ve. Maybe desperate.

“I said your name.”

The words dropped like glass onto hardwood and you couldn’t even look at him. Instead, you buried your face in your hands, trying to hide from the horror of your own confession. The shame curled in your gut like fire. Your breath was shaky, lips pressed to your palms, heart thundering like it wanted to escape your chest entirely.

Joel froze. Completely.

Even his hands, which had been so gently stroking your shoulders, stopped mid-motion. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Every second it lasted made your stomach twist harder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. Just… stared.

You didn’t dare look up to see what was on his face. You were scared to see the same thing Tommy had shown you—hurt. Shock. Disgust. Your head spun. You wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

You stood up, desperate to escape, to do something other than sit there and drown in your own shame.

But before you could take a step, his hand closed around your wrist. You froze.

Joel stayed seated, his grip firm but not rough. You turned to look at him—and when your eyes met, everything in your chest just stopped.

The silence that passed between you in that second felt like a storm. His expression had shifted. Gone was the softness, the worry, the quiet patience.

Now there was something else.

His eyes burned into yours. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed in a way that felt almost… territorial. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then shot back up, and that heat in his stare made your breath catch.

And then—he stood. Slowly. Purposefully.

He was close now. Too close. The kind of close where your body tensed and your skin tingled, and every nerve screamed that something had shifted in the air.

His voice came low. Rough. Like gravel soaked in heat.

“Did Tommy ever make you come?”

The question hit you like a slap. Your lips parted. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat.

You were so stunned you couldn’t even answer right away. A nervous sound slipped out, barely a word—just air and panic tangled in your chest.

But Joel didn’t wait. He asked again, sharper this time, more intense, his voice scraping down your spine like thunder.

“Did he ever fuckin’ make you come?”

A shiver ran through your entire body. You swallowed hard, the air suddenly dry in your throat. Your gaze dropped to the floor, heat rushing up your neck.

You couldn’t lie.

You just shook your head once.

Joel exhaled a bitter, humorless sound—almost a laugh. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek as he looked away, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. He turned slightly, pacing two short steps before running a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse.

The room felt too quiet again. Your heart was hammering. You didn’t know what was happening, what this was turning into.

“Joel… why did you ask that?” your voice comes out quieter than you intended, almost a whisper. “Why would you—?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns away from you for a second like he needs to breathe, like looking at you makes it harder. His hands settle on his hips, fingers curling in frustration.

You watch him like he’s something dangerous. Not because you’re afraid — but because you don’t understand him. You don’t understand what he’s thinking. Why he cares. Why it felt like something cracked in him when you shook your head.

Finally, he speaks.

“‘Cause it ain’t right,” he mutters, but the words are too quiet. He says it more to himself than to you.

You blink. “What isn’t?”

He turns to you again, and his eyes lock with yours. There’s something burning there, low and slow and intense. You feel it before he even says a word.

“That you’re with someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of you.”

Your breath catches. The words hit you straight in the chest — like they weren’t just meant to be heard. Like they were meant to be felt.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re frozen, not by fear, but confusion. Confusion that somehow carries a pulse deep in your stomach.

He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough to make your heart pick up. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t prepared for — and the air between you and Joel is different now. Thicker. Charged.

You whisper, “Why do you care?”

He stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he should tell you the truth. Or maybe he already has.

He looks at your face, your mouth, then your eyes again. His voice is lower now, almost rough.

“…Don’t ask me that unless you wanna hear the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. You can feel the tension rolling off him like heat, and suddenly you’re not just confused. You’re scared — not of him, but of what’s happening. Of what you want. Of what might come next. But that fear is mixed with anticipation and excitment.

The guilt is still there, still whispering into your ears, trying to convince you to just leave and don't get yourself into any more trouble than you already are. But one side of you, the one that is leading you these past days is screaming at you not to leave, to cross the line and break the ice, to gamble with your fate.

He takes another step closer.

There’s something in the way he moves now — slower, deliberate. Like he’s stalking a moment that’s been building for far too long. His eyes never leave yours, and it’s not just a stare — it’s a pull, dragging you in with each second that passes.

The air in the room thickens. It wraps around your body like smoke, warm and heavy, and it settles deep in your chest. You can feel your own heartbeat between your thighs now, each beat like a silent cry. The thin fabric of your dress brushes your skin, soft and ghostly, no underwear to muffle the feeling. Just you. Bare. Vulnerable. And aching.

Joel’s voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he murmurs. “This thing between us?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just nod, barely.

He takes another slow step, his boots scraping softly against the floor. He’s close enough now that you can smell him — leather, sweat, something masculine and heady. It makes your head swim.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, softer now. “The way you breathe when I’m this close.”

Your breath hitches. He’s right. You’re breathing faster now, shallow and sharp, chest rising with every gasp.

His gaze drops to your mouth, to your throat, then lower. His eyes darken when he sees the outline of your breasts through the thin fabric, the curve of your thighs where the dress has shifted. And he knows.

He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking — a flash of restraint. He shifts his weight, and for a moment, your eyes fall to the hard shape beginning to press against the front of his jeans.

You swallow. Heat pools low in your belly, hot and thick. Your pulse pounds louder between your legs, insistent and wet and wanting.

Joel moves closer. There’s barely a foot of space left between you now. One move, one breath, and you’d be touching.

He tilts his head slightly, voice barely audible.

“You wanna kiss me?”

His words slice straight through your self-control. You feel your whole body clench in response, as if your muscles themselves are answering for you.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Just air. Your lips part and your breathing quickens — faster now, raw and shallow. His eyes flicker between your mouth and your eyes, over and over again, and you realize… you’re doing the same.

The moment stretches. Neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing fills the space, fast and hot and frantic. His hand twitches — not quite reaching for you. He wants you to move first.

Everything burns.

Your thighs are pressed tight together. You can feel the slick heat between them growing with every second. The ache is sharp now, desperate. You clench around nothing, your whole body begging for contact, for relief.

His chest rises and falls quickly, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. His jeans are tight now, that hard bulge pressing against the zipper, throbbing. Waiting.

He licks his lips. You do the same. Your gaze locks again, the silence screaming between you. Someone has to break and you can’t take it anymore.

You move — fast, hungry, like something inside you finally snapped. You grab the front of his shirt, drag him down to you, and crash your mouth against his.

He groans, deep and low in his chest, and his hands are on you instantly — gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. You straddle him, your dress riding up your thighs, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the bulge in his jeans.

Joel groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting years for this. His hands slide under your dress immediately, rough palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs.

There’s nothing coy left in you. You’re past that. You’re on fire, desperate, your whole body pulsing with need. His fingers grip your ass tight, pulling you flush against the hard line in his jeans. You gasp when it presses right between your legs, through nothing but heat and skin.

Without blink, Joel suddenly picks you up and both of you crushed on the sofa, you on top of Joel. You squeak in surprise and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown, dark, pupils wide. He looks like he wants to ruin something.

“Bet my brother never made you feel like this,” he growls, voice low and thick. “Did he ever touch you like this, huh?”

He trails one hand up between your bodies, over your stomach, under your dress, stopping just below your breast.

“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No. He didn’t. He never—”

Joel doesn’t let you finish. His mouth finds your neck, and suddenly he’s sucking, biting, dragging his teeth along your pulse. You moan loudly, fingers fisting in his hair. You feel the bruise forming instantly, heat and sting and possessiveness all in one.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m gonna mark you up so good. Let him see what he lost.”

His hand finally cups your breast — firm, rough, claiming. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, slow at first, then harder. You arch against him with a whimper. You’re so sensitive, the touch sends lightning down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “So perfect for me.”

Every word he says goes straight to the ache between your legs. You’re soaked now, thighs slick, grinding slowly on his lap because you can’t stop yourself. You’re past shame, past hesitation — you’re riding the edge of something, and Joel knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, leaning in close again, kissing down the hollow of your throat. “Just needed someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

He thrusts his hips up, just a little, grinding into you. You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a plea. He’s so hard it’s unbearable. You can feel the outline of him perfectly through the denim. You want him. All of him.

“You wanna feel me, baby?” he asks, eyes burning into yours. “Wanna know how I fuck you? Not him, me.”

Your breath stutters, hips rocking without thinking. You nod again, frantic now.

“Use your words,” he growls.

“Y-Yes. Joel, I want you,” you whisper, voice cracked and breathless.

“That’s my girl.”

He pulls you even tighter against him, his mouth on yours again, teeth clashing, tongue deep. There’s nothing soft about this — it’s raw and rough and real. You can feel every inch of him between your legs, every heartbeat thudding through your core.

And when he whispers, “I’m gonna make you forget his fuckin’ name,” you believe him.

His hands tighten around your hips and he moves — fast, fluid, strong. In one motion, he lifts you off him and guides you back onto the couch, gently, but with a command behind every touch.

You’re sitting now, alone on the couch. Chest heaving. Legs still parted from how wide you were straddling him. The thin summer dress is bunched up around your hips, your bare skin exposed to the warm air of the room, and his dark eyes drinking in everything.

Joel doesn’t sit back down. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

The sight alone makes your stomach flip — Joel Miller, broad and burning, down on his knees between your legs, eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.

“Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice low, but not asking. Telling. You obey without hesitation.

The second your thighs part, his breath catches and he smiles. That slow, crooked, devilish smile that makes your whole body throb.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, gaze dropping between your legs. “Look at you. Already so wet for me, baby.”

You squirm, cheeks hot, heart pounding. You’ve never felt so seen — so shameless and completely desired. He leans forward, slow and reverent, placing a kiss on the inside of your knee. Then another. Then higher. And higher.

Each kiss burns into your skin. By the time his mouth is ghosting over your inner thigh, your hands are clutching the fabric of the couch, nails digging into the cushions. Your legs are trembling.

Joel pauses, looking up at you — his face so close you can feel his breath on your skin. His hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your dress.

“You ever have someone devour you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Not just touch you. Not just fuck you. I mean really take his time — make you fall apart over and over again ‘til you forget how to speak?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You shake your head, trembling.

“I didn’t think so,” he murmurs. His lips brush the inside of your thigh again. You let out a soft whimper.

He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs. “That ends tonight.”

And then, finally, he leans in. His mouth meets your folds like he’s starving. And not just for anyone. For you.

His tongue is slow at first — lazy, teasing — just enough to make you cry out in frustration. Your hips buck toward him instinctively, but his grip is firm. He holds you in place.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, pulling back just enough to breathe against you. “You take what I give you. Nothin’ else.”

Your legs tremble. You nod, lips parted, breath ragged. Then he really gets to work. Long, slow licks — deep and thorough. He moans against you, like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. He eats like a man possessed, tongue and lips working together to unravel you completely.

You cry out, head falling back, hands flying to his hair.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Just like that. So fuckin’ sweet. You feel that? That’s me. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

You’re already close. Embarrassingly fast. Your body is burning, shaking, legs threatening to close, but Joel doesn’t let you. He grips your thighs tighter, spreads you wider, and keeps going.

“Bet my brother never had you beggin’ like this,” he mutters against your soaked skin. “Never even knew what to do with you, huh?”

You sob out his name. “Joel—!”

“That’s it. Say it again.”

“Joel—oh god, Joel, please—!”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re falling apart, unraveling under his mouth, praise and hunger and heat flooding through you like fire in your veins. And he doesn’t stop.

Joel has you trembling, gasping, clutching at his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your legs are draped over his broad shoulders, your dress bunched up to your waist, and his mouth is working you like he wants to ruin you forever.

You moan his name again, voice breaking as your body convulses, heat flooding through you in sharp, hot waves. He doesn’t stop, not even as you twitch and cry out, completely undone. He groans into you like your pleasure is his, like he needs it, feeds on it.

Then, finally he pulls back.

He’s panting, lips glistening, eyes locked onto you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He looks completely feral. Wrecked. Controlled only by some last shred of restraint.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still staring at you, and whispers:

“Told you. Didn’t I?”

You’re still catching your breath, trying to remember how to speak, how to think — and then he moves.

He stands in one fluid motion, towering above you, and then bends to scoop you into his arms like you weigh nothing. You let out a soft sound, somewhere between surprise and surrender, and he carries you back down to the couch — but this time, you are underneath him.

His body covers yours, solid and warm, and you can feel the sheer size of him — every hard muscle, every sharp breath. His jeans are still on, but the bulge pressing between your thighs is undeniable.

Your pulse pounds. You want him. You need him.

Joel braces himself on one arm, eyes flickering down to your swollen lips, your flushed chest, the mess between your legs. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Christ, look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Can’t believe he had you and didn’t worship every inch.”

He leans down, mouth grazing your jaw.

“But I will.”

He kisses your neck again, slower this time — no rush. His lips move down, finding the bruises he left earlier, tongue tracing the marks like he’s proud of them.

You arch into him with a soft moan. His free hand slides up your dress again, palm dragging along your thigh, your waist, your ribcage — until he cups your breast once more.

“You feel that?” he whispers, rolling your nipple between his fingers again. “This is mine now. All of you. Mine.”

His hips grind down, slow and hard, and you cry out — it’s too much and not enough all at once.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, needing skin — needing him closer. He helps you, yanking it off over his head, revealing every broad muscle, every scar and freckle. He’s so warm, so solid. You can barely breathe.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“You tell me when to stop, and I stop. I mean that,” he says. “But if you don’t stop me now… I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes flash.

“I want it all,” you whisper.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, deeper than before, as his hand slips between your thighs — possessive, sure. You gasp into his mouth as his fingers slide through the slick heat he left behind, teasing, preparing, claiming.

He growls again, lips brushing your ear.

“Gonna make you scream my name. Again. And again. Until you forget his ever left your mouth.”

And then, with a sharp, dark smile, he finally undoes his belt. His eyes don’t leave yours as he tugs the belt free with one rough pull — the click of the buckle makes your stomach flip.

You bite your lip, chest heaving, heart hammering. Your dress is still hitched high around your waist, breasts rising and falling with every breath, nipples hard and aching from his touch.

You’re completely bare under him. And he knows it. He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and whispers, “Still wet for me?”

You nod and he groans against your lips.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that pretty little pussy ready. I’m not gonna be nice.”

You shudder, hands sliding over his chest, nails dragging down his ribs. He growls low, then kisses you again — deeper this time, hungrier, like he needs to taste every breath you take.

You reach down, desperate, shaking, and he grabs your wrist, holding it still.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs darkly. “You just lie back and take what I give you. You hear me?”

Your thighs tremble as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

His eyes ignite.

“That’s right.”

He pushes the fabric of your dress off your shoulders — slow, deliberate — until you’re completely naked beneath him. His eyes drink you in, pupils blown wide with hunger, reverence, and something else… something almost possessive.

He kisses down your collarbone, your chest, stopping to suck a dark bruise just above your breast. You gasp as his teeth graze your skin, and he pulls back with a wicked smile.

“Mine,” he mutters again, almost to himself. “You feel that? That ache in your belly? That need?”

You nod quickly, dizzy.

“I put that there.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers sliding through your slickness with practiced ease. You cry out, back arching — and he grins.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls. “You hear me? I want you to remember this. Every time you think of me. Every time you lie in bed alone. No one else is ever gonna make you feel this way. Not even close.”

You’re gasping, trying to keep up, but he overwhelms every sense — the scent of him, the weight of his body, the deep rasp of his voice in your ear.

He lines his hips up with yours, breath ragged.

“You ready?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes forward. Slow, steady, relentless, and you both groan at the same time.

The stretch makes your eyes flutter. You cling to him, digging your nails into his arms, and he holds still for a second, letting you feel everything.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “So tight. So good. Bet my brother never even got you halfway there.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, tears prickling behind your eyes from the intensity. Joel leans down, kisses your temple, and murmurs:

“You take me so well. Just like you were made for this. For me.”

And then he moves. Long, deep strokes. Slow and unforgiving, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to every single inch. He watches your face, hungry, like it’s the most addictive thing he’s ever seen. And maybe it is.

“Look at you,” he pants, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’re already falling apart, and I’ve barely even started.”

You whimper, legs tightening around his hips, fingers clawing down his back. He hisses, but doesn’t stop, if anything, he thrusts harder, deeper, dragging a loud cry out of your throat.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fuckin’ town know who’s making you feel this way.”

He kisses you — messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth — then moves to your neck again, sucking another bruise just below your jaw. You moan his name, breathless, shaking.

“You ever scream like this for him?” he mutters, voice sharp against your skin. “Did he ever make you beg?”

You can’t even answer — just whimper, nod, then shake your head. Joel chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

One hand grabs your thigh, throwing your leg higher around his waist, changing the angle — and you scream.

Your back arches off the couch, vision going white. He grunts as you clench around him, and leans in, forehead to yours.

“You close already?” he whispers. “Fuck, baby, you gonna come for me?”

You nod wildly, too far gone to speak.

“Then do it. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

He slams into you harder, faster, relentless now. The praise, the pressure, the heat — it all builds to a breaking point, and then you shatter.

It’s too much. Too deep. Too Joel. You cry out, body shaking under him, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll float away otherwise.

He groans, deep in his chest, and then follows — thrusts turning rough, erratic, as he loses control. His body stiffens, then you feel the heat of him inside, pulsing with every last roll of his hips.

He collapses against you, both of you drenched in sweat and still trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but your rapid breathing, your fingers in his hair, and the pounding of two hearts against each other.

Then, finally, he speaks. Low and gentle.

“…Damn.”

You let out a breathless laugh. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

You nod. More than okay. You’re wrecked. Raw. Full. But you manage a soft smile.

“Better than okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, arms still wrapped tight around you. You’re still breathing hard, lips swollen, skin hot — but your body’s no longer trembling from pleasure. Now it’s trembling from something else entirely.

Joel is quiet above you. Both strong arms draped around your waist, his forehead resting against yours as he tried go catch bis breath. His chest rises and falls, rhythmically with yours. But your own breath… it’s hitched. Tight. Shaky.

And of course he notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers softly through your hair. “Talk to me.”

Your stomach twists. It hits you — full force. The weight of it. Not the sex or the lust, but the reality. You just had sex with Joel. Your boyfriend’s brother. Right there — on his couch, in his home. While he was gone.

You push yourself up slowly, Joel sits up with you, eyes narrowing, instantly alert.

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I just…”

And then you burst. The tears start falling before you can stop them. Big, hot, painful tears. The kind that come from your chest, not your eyes.

Joel moves fast, cupping your cheeks, holding you like you’re something fragile that could break if he squeezes too tight.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers, caressing your face. “I’ve got you.”

“No,” you sob, burying your face into his neck. “It’s not okay. I just slept with you. Joel, what did we do?”

He holds you tighter, jaw clenched as he tried to search something in your eyes.

“We did something that we both wanted,” he says. “And yeah… it was messy. But it was real.”

“I cheated on Tommy,” you whisper. “With his own brother.”

Joel flinches at that — just barely. But he doesn’t let go.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I’ve wanted you for so long, darlin’. I don’t know if that makes me a bastard… but it’s the truth.”

You cry harder. He rubs your back, murmuring things you can’t quite make out — gentle, soothing things. He kisses your shoulder. Your temple.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Don’t carry all the weight by yourself. I was there too.”

You sit in silence for a long time, curled against him, your tears finally slowing. The room is quiet except for the occasional sniffle, and Joel’s steady heartbeat

Eventually, you both dress in silence.

The air is heavier now. Like you’ve both stepped into a different world — one where consequences have finally caught up.

Joel leans on the edge of the couch, watching you. Guarded. Protective. You wipe your face again, still fighting the tremble in your chin. “What… what happens now?”

Before he can answer—

The front door creaks open. Click. Thud. Boots on wood. Your heart stops. Joel straightens instantly. You freeze. And there he is.

Tommy.

Walking through the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow, rifle slung over his shoulder. He stops when he sees you, then looked at Joel. You were shocked, nervous, your face still swollen from all the crying, while Joel played with his fingers, dropped by his sides.

“Could you leave us alone?” Tommy said, looking at Joel. He clearly had no idea.

Your chest falls and your body relaxed, closing your eyes in relief. Joel just nodded and before he fully left, he gave you one last look. Look, that clearly said:

it's gonna be okay.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

BYEE🦋🌀

[wispitty]

shanks x reader | “a new hire” {ch.2}

summary: you're the new waitress at makino’s bar. sweet, shy and just looking for a quiet place to belong to. but when the red hair pirates dock for the night, you catch the eye of their infamous captain, shanks—and somehow, one night turns into something far more than you'd prepared for. tag list: shanks/you, slow burnish, tension & tenderness, made from shanks brainrot (literally its so bad), first sight feelings, he's protective chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

Chapter 2: Red Shawl

The moon hung high by the time the laughter began to fade, the Red Hair Pirates trickling out in pairs and small groups, still talking over each other and making vague promises not to cause too much trouble in town. Chairs scraped. Boots thudded. Beckman gave Makino a two-fingered wave on his way out, and Shanks lingered near the counter, the last to leave—as always.

He’d already clasped Makino’s hand in a warm goodbye, exchanging a few final words only old friends understood. But even after stepping back, he didn’t move to follow his crew.

Not yet.

He turned toward the bar instead, the space now much quieter save for your quiet cleanup. You looked up as he approached, already expecting it.

“How much do I owe?” he asked casually, as if it had just now occurred to him.

You smiled gently. “Already covered.”

Shanks blinked. “…What?”

You laughed under your breath, not quite meeting his eyes. “It came out of mine.”

He stared for a second, confused. “Yours?”

“As a thank you,” you said softly, gathering a few glasses and stacking them neatly.

“For earlier. And… for a warm welcome back.”

That tug in his chest returned—low and steady.

Of course it did.

Because here you were, smiling again like it was nothing. Like kindness was just something you gave without thinking twice. And it floored him more than any battlefield ever had.

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “You trying to start a tab war with me?”

You tilted your head. “Would I win?”

Shanks grinned. “You’re already ahead.”

And for the first time all night… he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave just yet.

So when the moment presented itself—when the last of his crew had wandered off into the moonlit streets and the bar had slipped into that soft, breath-between-heartbeats quiet—he leaned a little closer across the bar.

“As a thank you,” he said, voice low and warm, “let me walk you home.”

You blinked, surprised. “O-Oh! That’s very kind, but, um—I don’t live that far. I’d hate to trouble you…”

Your voice trailed off under his steady gaze, and you could already feel the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Behind you, like a perfectly timed ambush, Makino chimed in without missing a beat.

“Shanks, I’d appreciate it if you could walk her home. She’s still new here, and her sense of direction isn’t the best.”

Your eyes went wide. “M-Miss Makino!”

But she just smiled slyly, stacking a few plates without even turning around. It was clear she wasn’t about to save you from this one.

Shanks glanced between the two of you with that easy grin of his, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was amused or just genuinely pleased.

“Well,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket, “can’t say no to that, can I?”

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to stall—but the words dissolved before they could form. You didn’t have a real excuse. Not one you could lean on that didn’t sound... silly.

So you nodded. Slowly. “Alright then.”

Shanks gave a small, satisfied hum as he turned toward the door, waiting for you to follow.

Outside, the sea breeze kissed the night air, cool and quiet, carrying the scent of brine and summer grass.

He let you lead for a bit, staying just a step behind with his one hand tucked into his coat pocket. But when you hesitated at a fork in the road, brow furrowed in faint confusion, he chuckled softly.

“…Left,” he murmured. “You were about to walk straight into the mayor’s garden.”

You flushed. “I-I knew that.”

“Of course,” he said, grinning. “I just thought I’d spare the roses.”

You laughed despite yourself, and beside you, Shanks couldn’t help but glance over—really look at you.

And wonder, quietly, what exactly he’d just gotten himself into.

Eventually, the two of you continued down the gently winding path, your footsteps soft against the cobblestone, the night air wrapping around you like a worn blanket.

The village was quiet at this hour—just the distant sound of waves lapping the shore and the occasional rustle of leaves overhead. Every now and then, a porch light flickered in the distance, or a windchime sang low and lonesome from someone’s balcony.

You kept your eyes forward, clutching your hands together in front of you, as if trying to will the flush off your face. Shanks, meanwhile, walked with the practiced calm of a man who had no trouble filling silence. And yet… he didn’t.

He didn’t fill it with banter. Didn’t tease or push.

He just stayed there. With you. Quietly.

That, somehow, was even more disarming.

Eventually, you spoke—just to break the tension in your chest.

“Sorry if this is a little… boring. I’m sure you’ve seen far more exciting places.”

Shanks tilted his head, considering the stars above. “I’ve seen a lot of places,” he said. “Some loud. Some bright. Some with names I couldn’t even pronounce.”

He looked over at you again, one brow raised.

“But not all of them make you feel like you can breathe a little easier, just being there.”

You blinked. “Is that what this place is for you?”

A beat passed.

His gaze lingered on you—soft, unreadable.

“Could be,” he said simply.

That made your heart skip.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, a little smaller than before, but real.

The two of you turned the last corner, and your small home came into view, a warm porch light still flickering beside the door.

“Well…” you said, stopping at the gate. “Here I am.”

Shanks stopped beside you, and for a long moment, neither of you moved.

You were close. Not quite touching. But the space between you felt thin—fragile, like a thread could snap at any second if either of you leaned just a little closer.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft. “For walking me home.”

Shanks nodded. “Thank you. For the drink. And the company.”

You glanced up at him, your lips parting like you might say something else—but nothing came.

He looked at you a heartbeat longer, then stepped back with that same small smile, nodding once more before turning.

“U-Um, wait!”

Shanks stopped mid-step, his boot heel scuffing softly against the stone path.

He turned back to face you, one brow raised in quiet surprise—but not impatience. If anything, there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, like he hadn’t expected you to speak again… but had been hoping you might.

You stood there by your gate, fingers curling into the hem of your sleeve, your heart beating louder than it had all day.

You didn’t even know exactly what you meant to say—only that you didn’t want him to leave just yet.

Not like that.

“I…” you started, voice catching slightly before you steadied it. “I’m glad you stayed tonight.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching you with that same unreadable, lopsided smile. “Is that so?”

You nodded. “I… I’ve felt a little out of place here since I arrived. Everyone’s nice, but… tonight, um… I didn’t feel so out of place.”

The wind stirred, brushing between you like a whispered nudge.

Shanks said nothing for a moment.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward again. Just a few paces—enough to close the gap until the porch light cast both of your shadows together on the path.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t even lean in.

But the way he looked at you made your breath catch.

“…Then I’m glad I stayed too,” he said quietly. “And if it helps... I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Thank you.” You huff a small laugh, eyes finding the ground. “When you say it like that? Makes it easier to believe.”

Suddenly, a chilly breeze blows by as if to interrupt the moment before it could unravel anything else from you.

A realization dawns on you as Shanks lazily turns his gaze to the coast.

“Wow, uh, it’s gotten a bit chilly, hasn’t it? Um, one second, I’ll be right back!”

He watched you disappear into the house in a flurry of soft steps and trailing words, the door clicking shut behind you. For a moment, Shanks just stood there beneath your porch light, brow slightly furrowed, the faintest breath of amusement ghosting over his lips.

You’re too kind for your own good.

When the door creaked open again and you came rushing back out with a folded shawl clutched in your hands, your expression was so earnest—so worried for him of all people—that it genuinely disarmed him.

“Here,” you said, coming up to him without hesitation. “Take this. I’d hate for you to catch something foul.”

Before he could even respond, your hands had already gently wrapped the shawl around his shoulders, adjusting it over the collar of his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. The fabric smelled faintly of vanilla.

Worn, soft. Warm.

Shanks looked down at you as you fussed with the ends, your eyes focused on your task, completely unaware of the fact that no one touched him like this. No one had in a long time.

Not like this.

Not this gently.

Not in decades.

“…You do realize,” he said after a beat, “I’ve survived storms at sea with nothing but a bottle of rum and a half-torn coat.”

You looked up at him with a sheepish smile. “Then I guess this’ll be a nice change.”

He huffed a quiet laugh.

And didn’t take it off.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice a little rougher this time. “For worrying.”

His eyes held yours then—no teasing, no jokes. Just something quieter. Something real.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he added.

“Don’t worry about returning it. I have plenty.”

A beat.

“I, um, like making them… I think I actually might have too many to count. So, really, keep it.”

Shanks blinked.

Then—he laughed.

Not the loud, rowdy kind his crew was used to echoing across the deck, but something smaller. Warmer. The kind that caught in his chest before it ever reached his throat.

“You like making them, huh?” he repeated, watching you with that lopsided grin growing slow and fond. “Now that’s dangerous.”

You tilted your head, confused. “Dangerous?”

He stepped back just enough to tug the edge of the shawl lightly in his hand, as if showing it off.

“Because now I know this one’s mine. Suits me too well to give it back. Even matches my hair.”

You flushed at that, your eyes briefly flicking down to the knit resting over his shoulders—dark red thread with tiny flecks of color.

It did match his hair.

You hadn’t thought about it much while rushing to grab one, but now that he said it…

You tried to cover the warmth in your cheeks with a laugh. “Well… I suppose it’s yours, then.”

Shanks offered a small nod of mock solemnity. “I’ll treasure it like a medal.”

The breeze carried through again, softer this time. Like even the wind knew it didn’t want to interrupt what had settled between the two of you.

A moment that didn’t need anything extraordinary to mean something.

Just a look.

And a borrowed red shawl.

And the kind of quiet goodbye that made him promise, in his own way, that he wasn’t going far.

“…Goodnight,” he said, voice low.

He turned at last, this time with no hesitation. But as he walked down the path, you could see it—his hand lifting, fingers grazing the edge of the fabric you’d wrapped around him like he could still feel where your hands had been.

And just before he disappeared around the corner, he looked back—just once.

And smiled.

[notebooks-and-laptops]

There's this interesting new rebuttle I've watched become popular regarding criticism of Veilguard. Essentially it boils down to: Dragon Age was never very good at politics, nobody should have expected Veilguard to be any different. And this...is so disingenuous to me it's wild I've now seen it popping up as a dominant narrative. At the very least it's deliberate and ridiculous strawmanning.

When people who critique Veilguard do so because of veilguards politics I dont think this critique is being levelled because they went into DAtV expecting disco elysium 2.0. nor do I think that those same fans were expecting Bioware to overcome their well documented centerism-both-sides-are-valid-but-the-one-who-values-less-change-is-better that has dominated most of their IPs. The way Bioware has historically treated characters who question systematic oppression in Thedas has...not been great. Anders, Sera - hell, even the way that talking darkspawn are almost completely written off after DA:O:A just so they can go back to being a mindless hoard you can kill without guilt.

The difference between DAtV and the first three games in the series is not that DAtV is less progressive/Marxist/revolutionary. It's not the issue that DAtV has bad politics or bad messaging or anything like that. It is that DAtV refuses to engage with politics at all. Id go further and say that if we get to the heart of it, the 'politics' fans are missing is that companions and NPCs in the franchise have always had different views on what's 'right' which Veilguard refuses to give them.

There is such a stark difference between even inquisition and DAtV when it comes to questions of politics. DAtV is uninterested in examining anything at all that might be controversial; it's not just that they don't want to show the reality of slavery or create evil slave owning characters it's that there's barely any reference to slavery in the whole of the game despite the fact that it has been a key theme surrounding Tevinter for the whole of the franchise. It's not just that they don't want to show the reality of the crows or create evil crows it's that the crows are no longer even allowed to be questioned or thought about beyond 'cool faction in cool clothes'. It's not just that they don't want to show the dalish as good or bad it's that they don't want to engage with the dalish and their struggles and beliefs at all.

I mean seriously, think about just a few of the things the other games made you think about:

DAO has a succession crisis with no real 'good' option, a civil war with people on all sides, questions about circle annulment, the castless in orzammar, questions about when have a people been punished 'enough' with the werewolves. It asks you whether a rude and arrogant but ultimately skilled ruler for Orzammar is better than a well meaning ruler who doesn't think things through.

DA2 is all about refugees, about justice and whether such a thing can ever exist, it's about the cycle of violence and slavery is a huge theme both for the current mages held in the gallows and Fenris and the Tevinters.

DAI asks you to think about who is best to rule during a crisis; a military leader who may later push expansionism but would provide a better army against the current unstoppable evil or the safe choice of a empress who may not be as useful to you in the short term. It asks you to think about structures by making you question the organisation you've built and it's own power and corruption. It asks you whether or not a conservative chantry leader who is nevertheless a mage is better than a liberal chantry leader who wants to abolish the circles entirely.

DAtV is constantly asking you to look away from any questions that could be genuinely impactful on a structural scale. In it's worst moments it ignores this entirely - none of the companions can have differing or problematic views or even really disagree with each others worldviews. When it's trying a bit harder it tends to make the issues it wants to explore personal rather than structural. And any time anything that comes up that could be genuinely morally dubious (having to work with the smugglers in dock town for example) it goes out of its way to say ACTUALLY THESE ARE NICE CRIMINALS AND THEY NEVER DO SLAVERY OR SMUGGLE ANYTHING BAD AT ALL. Nobody you work with can be morally dubious or have bad motives; even the treasure hunters and pirates are very unproblematic guys.

And yet, on top of this refusal to engage with any questions that might genuinely get the player thinking or require the player to think about power structures and different views...the game also repeats the same shitty racism that has been apparent in all DA games but perhaps never so openly as this. DAtV is a game that says 'yeah u can be non-binary but you CANNOT be multicultural'. It is a game where the absolute worst of the racist tropes that have plagued the Qun since Gainer called them a 'militant islamic borg' are played up to 100.

So yeah Dragon Age hasn't always had the best politics. I don't think anyone ever expected it to? But it's always been interested in asking questions about politics, about differing views, about what is right and what is wrong. It's always been interested in examining structures and whether or not they're good or useful. It's always been interested in very morally ambiguous or 'grey' characters like Loghain, Blackwall, Anders, Isabela, Zevran, Sten, Oghren, Leliana, Vivienne, Bull-- the list just goes on and on. And DAtV isn't interested in any of this at all.

So yeah. This criticism is weird to me. Wish people would stop using it.

[empressdede]

Never ending - Part One

Sixth grade at Rosewood Middle wasn’t known for being memorable, but for Jonathan Fatu and Ciera Monroe, it was the beginning of something they didn’t quite understand at the time. They weren’t best friends. Not even close. In fact, if you asked Ciera back then, she would’ve said Jon was annoying, and Jon would’ve probably called her stuck-up. But everyone around them knew something was there. It wasn’t just the way they argued. It was the way they watched each other when they thought no one else was looking.

Jon had a mouth on him even at twelve. Big, confident, a little too bold. He walked through school like he owned it, hoodie half on, his backpack slung over one shoulder, untied sneakers dragging as he shuffled down the hallway. His laugh was loud, his voice louder. Teachers rolled their eyes when he entered a room, already expecting chaos. And somehow, that chaos always found Ciera.

She wasn’t the kind of girl who stayed quiet. That’s what made her different. She didn’t shrink in his presence, didn’t roll her eyes and walk away like the others. No, Ciera bit back. She called him out, cracked jokes sharper than his, and had this cool, calm fire behind her eyes that made Jon both irritated and intrigued.

“Nice shoes, Fatu,” she’d say, wrinkling her nose at his ragged Nikes. “Did you wrestle a raccoon for those?”

“And win,” Jon smirked, “unlike you and that math test last week.”

“Please. I had a B.”

“Yeah. B for Barely passed.”

She scoffed, bumping him with her shoulder as they walked past each other in the hallway. And he always looked back, always turned around just to catch her watching him too. It was quick, like a flash of something they didn’t know how to name yet, and then it was gone.

They weren’t close, not outside the teasing. Ciera hung out with the honors kids, neat handwriting and highlighters in every color. Jon was always getting detention with his boys, scribbling over his notebooks and flipping through WWE magazines during silent reading. But somehow, their paths kept crossing. The teachers liked pairing opposites—said it would balance the energy. So of course, Jon and Ciera always ended up as lab partners, book report duos, or sharing the back row during assemblies.

That’s where the real moments happened.

There was one afternoon, stuck in the library after school waiting for a storm to pass. Most kids had left already, but Jon’s ride was late, and Ciera had stayed behind to organize books for extra credit. It was quiet, except for the rain hammering the windows.

“You scared?” he asked, flopped across two chairs like he owned the place.

Ciera looked up from the shelf she was organizing. “Of what? Thunder?”

Jon shrugged, half-smiling. “Most girls are.”

“Well, I’m not most girls,” she replied, brushing a braid behind her ear.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I know.”

She didn’t respond right away, but she felt it—the shift in his tone. Not loud, not teasing. Just… real. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was thick with something unspoken.

He sat up straighter, kicking one foot. “You ever think people don’t really see you? Like they got this idea of who you are, and it’s just… wrong.”

Ciera tilted her head, surprised by his seriousness. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“I bet they think you’re all smart and perfect and quiet.”

She snorted. “Perfect? Please. I mess up all the time. I just don’t advertise it like you.”

He grinned. “Hey, I like attention.”

“I noticed.”

That made him laugh, and for once, it wasn’t too loud or obnoxious. Just soft, natural.

They sat there in the library until the rain slowed and the janitor came by to kick them out. No teasing, no name-calling. Just Jon and Ciera, talking like they weren’t sworn hallway enemies.

After that, something changed.

The teasing didn’t stop—it never did. But there was a knowing smile behind it now, like they were in on some secret. Like the insults were just a cover for something sweeter neither of them wanted to admit. Jon still tugged her backpack strap as she walked by, still called her “Teacher’s Pet” in front of his friends. But he also passed her extra pencils when she forgot hers. He stood a little too close in group projects. And sometimes, when she laughed, he looked like he’d won a championship.

Ciera noticed, even if she pretended she didn’t. She liked the way he made everything louder, more alive. She liked the way he never backed down, even when she challenged him. And sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, she stared a little too long at the curve of his smirk, the way his lashes curled just so.

One day in gym class, Jon “accidentally” bumped into her during dodgeball and knocked her to the floor.

“Oh my God, are you dead?” he asked dramatically, standing over her.

Ciera groaned, propping herself up on her elbows. “Barely.”

He offered his hand. “Want help?”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just being nice.”

“Since when are you nice?”

He smirked. “Since you started falling for me.”

She rolled her eyes but took his hand anyway. His palm was warm and rough from climbing fences and playing too hard. When he pulled her up, their faces were a little too close, breath mixing for just a second. Long enough to feel something stir in her stomach.

She shoved him lightly. “You wish, Fatu.”

But she didn’t let go of his hand right away.

By eighth grade, everything was different and yet the same. The crush still hovered between them, never acknowledged out loud, but always present in the glances, the smirks, the silent moments they shared when the world wasn’t watching.

One Friday after school, Ciera sat alone on the bleachers, waiting for her ride. The sun was setting, the sky streaked in gold and lavender. Jon wandered over from the football field, sweaty and out of breath.

“Hey,” he said, dropping his bag beside her.

“Hey,” she replied, watching the horizon.

They didn’t talk much. Just sat in silence, their shoulders barely touching. After a long moment, Jon leaned back on his elbows.

“You going to that dance next week?”

Ciera hesitated. “Maybe. If my mom lets me.”

“You should go.”

She turned to him. “You asking?”

His lips curved. “I’m just saying… you should go.”

Ciera studied him for a moment, then looked away, smiling to herself. “I’ll think about it.”

⸻⸻

Ciera stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her dress for the fourth time. It was a soft lavender color that caught the light just enough to make her skin glow, her mom had said. It wasn’t fancy, just something simple they found on sale at the mall last weekend. Still, her stomach flipped every time she looked at herself.

“Girl, you look cute,” Sadé said from the bed, filing her nails like the dance was just another boring Friday.

Ciera turned, fidgeting with her curls. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?”

“No,” Sadé answered without looking up. “You look like you’re about to remind all them boys what they’ve been missing.”

Ciera laughed. “What boys? Nobody even asked me.”

Sadé rolled her eyes. “That’s ’cause middle school boys are idiots. They’re scared of girls that actually have personality.”

Ciera shrugged, but her mind drifted—again—to Jon.

She tried not to think about him. Tried to pretend his words hadn’t stuck with her all week. “You should go.” That’s what he’d said last Friday, slouched beside her on the bleachers, sweat glistening on his forehead. He hadn’t said it like he wanted her there… but he hadn’t said it like he didn’t, either.

And when she’d asked if he was asking, he didn’t say no.

That small, stupid moment replayed on a loop in her head.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the butterflies refused to settle. “It’s not a big deal,” she muttered.

“What’s not a big deal?” Sadé asked.

“Nothing.” Ciera forced a smile. “I just don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m going alone. Nobody asked me, and that’s that.”

Sadé closed her nail file and stood. “Well, I’m sticking with you all night. No ditching, no sneaking off. Just us, dancing, snacks, and making fun of whoever tries to breakdance.”

“Promise?” Ciera asked.

“Promise,” Sadé said, sealing it with a pinky swear.

The dance was already in full swing when they arrived at the gym. Purple and silver streamers hung from the rafters, a disco ball spun weakly in the center, and the DJ played a mix of throwbacks and current pop songs that made kids scream and shuffle to the beat. The lights were low enough to make everything feel more magical, more grown-up. And awkward.

Ciera clutched her clutch tighter. “Why do I suddenly feel like everyone’s staring?”

“Because they are,” Sadé grinned. “You look like a Disney princess who doesn’t take crap from anyone.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m right.”

They walked together along the edge of the gym floor, avoiding the clumps of kids in the middle. Ciera’s eyes scanned the crowd almost on instinct—searching. Hoping. She caught a glimpse of Joshua Fatu first, laughing near the drink table in a crisp white shirt and sneakers. Which meant Jon couldn’t be far.

Then Sadé froze beside her.

“Oh my God,” Sadé whispered. “He’s walking over here.”

Ciera blinked. “Who?”

“Joshua. He’s walking over here—he’s walking over here, Cie—what do I do?”

“Just be cool!” Ciera whispered, nudging her.

But it was too late. Joshua was already in front of them, hands stuffed in his pockets, that trademark Fatu grin spreading across his face.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Sadé. “You wanna dance?”

Sadé’s jaw dropped. “Like, right now?”

Joshua chuckled. “I mean… unless you were waiting on someone better?”

“No! I mean, yeah! I mean—yes. Let’s dance.”

Sadé looked back at Ciera, panic and apology written all over her face. “I’ll be right back, I swear.”

Ciera tried to smile. “Go. It’s fine.”

And just like that, her best friend was gone, disappearing into the music and the lights with the twin brother of the boy she’d been thinking about all week.

Ciera stood there for a while, alone, the buzz of the gym wrapping around her like static. She watched Sadé and Joshua laugh, spin, and bump shoulders like they’d known each other forever. It made her smile, truly. Sadé deserved that moment.

But as she turned to grab a cup of punch, a familiar voice came from behind her.

“Well, well, well.”

She turned, heart skipping.

Jon Fatu stood behind her, hands in his pockets, smirking like he’d been waiting all night to ambush her.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said.

Ciera raised a brow. “Surprised to see me?”

“A little,” he admitted. “Thought you’d blow it off. I mean, it’s just a middle school dance.”

“You seem like you’re enjoying yourself,” she noted, nodding toward his twin. “Joshua’s already out here stealing hearts.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Typical.”

“Well,” she said, brushing her curls off her shoulder, “a couple guys asked me to show face.”

“Oh yeah?” Jon cocked his head. “A couple guys, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you’re not here because I asked you to?” he challenged, stepping closer.

Ciera smirked. “You admitting that you asked me to come?”

Jon shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I might’ve hinted.”

Ciera crossed her arms. “So subtle. Just a casual ‘you should go.’”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She laughed, soft and genuine. “Barely.”

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his words. “Even I know I want to dance with the coolest girl in school.”

Her breath caught slightly.

“You asking me to dance, Fatu?”

His grin widened. “I guess I am.”

She didn’t say yes right away. She let the moment stretch, heart pounding, then finally took his hand.

The gym didn’t fade away, not completely, but everything got quieter somehow. The music slowed—by sheer coincidence or fate—and a soft R&B track filled the room. Jon led her to the center of the floor, one hand on her waist, the other holding her hand like he’d done this before.

“You nervous?” he asked, his voice low.

“Maybe a little.”

He raised a brow. “You? Nervous? Nah.”

She smiled. “I don’t usually slow dance with loudmouths.”

“Ouch.”

“I said what I said.”

Jon chuckled, twirling her slowly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Oh, so now I’m cute.”

“I always thought you were cute,” he said quietly.

Her eyes met his, surprised by the honesty. “You’re serious.”

He shrugged. “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Ciera bit her lip, heart racing. “I thought you were just annoying.”

“I can be both.”

They laughed, bodies swaying just a little closer. Ciera felt the warmth of his hand on her back, the slow rhythm carrying them into something softer than teasing, something real. She rested her head slightly toward his shoulder, close but not touching.

“You ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we were actually friends?” she asked.

Jon thought for a moment. “I think we kinda are now.”

“Friends who almost wanna kiss?” she teased.

Jon blinked. “Almost?”

Ciera tilted her head up, and for a moment, they just looked at each other—barely inches apart. His hand slid slightly to her lower back. Her fingers curled tighter around his. And then, slowly, Jon leaned in—

“CIE!”

Sadé’s voice cut through the moment like a needle to a balloon.

Ciera startled, taking a quick step back as Jon blinked out of the trance.

Sadé bounded toward them, cheeks flushed and curly hair a little wild. “You have to come with me! They’re doing a dance battle and Joshua said—oh.” Her words slowed as she realized what she’d interrupted.

Jon cleared his throat, stepping back with a smirk. “Saved by the twin.”

Ciera shot Sadé a look. “Couldn’t wait five more seconds?”

Sadé looked between them, then gasped. “Were y’all about to—?”

“Nope,” Jon cut in. “She was about to admit she’s had a crush on me since sixth grade.”

Ciera rolled her eyes. “I was about to push you off me.”

“You didn’t, though,” he said, grinning.

Sadé giggled. “You two are a mess.”

Jon leaned close one last time. “I meant what I said, though. Coolest girl in school.”

Ciera smiled, softer this time. “Thanks, Jon.”

He nodded, backing away toward his friends. “Catch you later, Monroe.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, Sadé looped her arm through Ciera’s. “So… we need to talk.”

Ciera laughed, letting herself be pulled away. Her heart was still beating fast, still warm from the almost-kiss and everything before it. And even though the moment was interrupted, something had shifted between them.

He had asked her to come.

And she had come—for him.

That was the last real moment they shared before high school pulled them in different directions. Jon got louder, bolder, more popular. Ciera grew quieter, sharper, focused on her future. They drifted, like kids often do, but those middle school memories stayed tucked away—soft and golden, like the sunlight on that last evening.

VIP TAGLIST : @wrestlingprincess80 @whatdoeseverybodywant @pr0tost4r @paigereeder @alyyaanna @raya-hunter01 @mzv11 @trippinsorrows @partypoison00 @isabella-2025 @jstarr86 @chrisevanswife0405 @fearlesschimera @cyberdejos2 @whowrotethenote @potatosackk @ajaxcleaningsupplies @sayyestoheav3nn @chasssssworld @christinabae @glittergirl7 @itskii01 @fame-ass-ers @li-da-savage @ashykneee @kianaleani @holisticcoach @pittieprincess22 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amandairene88 @luvrsluxe @venusesworld @norababora @callmekayd @chrissyxcxox @keyera-jackson @wabi-sabi1090 @psiloveyOu @baybehkay @nybearsworld @transparentphantomface @sassginaswanmills @fafomama @wooahmiri @theusotwinzcom @bratzzzdoll

[empty-dream]

This is where I truly fell in love with their bond as senior-junior of Furin. And at its core, how they decide to trust each other as people who are similar, especially Sakura since he is afraid to be rejected, let alone asking for help.

An advice from anyone in class 1-1 doesn't work, because they are the subject of Sakura's worry, no matter how sincere they are. Umemiya and Hiragi, although they are obviously great and wise seniors, from Sakura's POV they are simply too perfect and too different from him. He'd just shrink away.

Meanwhile Kaji is pretty much similar to Sakura. While each doesn't know why the other is the way he is now, they both know that they are not exactly a leader material (at least conventionally). It's just that Kaji is more adjusted than Sakura because he has always had great friends, something that Sakura didn't until high school. After the KEEL fight, Sakura truly acknowledges that he needs help, that Kaji is really better than him and that he should go to Kaji for help. He makes the effort to go talk to a senior class just to talk to Kaji, despite knowing how sour Kaji usually is.

And Kaji, for all his grumpy attitude, actually wants to help Sakura. He probably thought that Sakura's simply being neurotic during the Lisa-chan case. But the KEEL fight and subsequent Sakura snapping on the way home makes him realize that it's a real crippling issue. After all that, when he sees Sakura personally coming to his class to ask for help, he decides to do something for him.

Kaji is blunt, to the point where Hiragi has pointed it out and Kaji himself wants to work on it. But it's exactly that bluntness that Sakura needs to hear. People who are blunt, for better or worse, tend to be honest. That's why Sakura would believe what Kaji says, even if they don't know each other's background.

Even though Kaji evidently has no experience on giving advice, he racks his brain trying to do so for his junior, exactly like how Hiragi did for him back then. He deliberately buys Sakura a drink and takes him to the rooftop then spits out hard-hitting words. The juxtaposition is funny, awkward, and so genuinely Kaji. And Sakura, despite being taken aback by the frankness, understands that Kaji gets him and what he says makes sense. I think even without Umemiya jumping in, Sakura would eventually trust Kaji's words right there and then. So in the end, it works.

TL;Dr, I love how Sakura decides to go to Kaji for help, not anyone else but Kaji. And Kaji, despite his shortcomings, helps Sakura in his own way. Because at that moment, Kaji is exactly the kind of person that Sakura needs.

"Why would I- How do they know that I'm s-s-…" "Anyone can figure it out. When you suddenly snap like that."

[roanofarcc]

FROM ANOTHER SCHOOL

pairing: lottie matthews x fem!reader (requested)

summary: lottie asks you to go on a double date after she lied about having a girlfriend, hoping you’ll go along with a fake-dating ploy. 

warnings: mentions of lottie’s mental illness. just fluff ft. taivan!

word count. 800+ | masterlist

Lottie sometimes blurted things out when she got overwhelmed, a lie or stretched truth to make herself blend in with whoever was around her in hopes they didn’t pick up on the fact that there was something wrong with her mind. 

She didn’t mean to fuck up on bad and tell Van and Tai she had a girlfriend, who went to another school, like the most cliche made-up line ever said. And she didn’t mean to agree to a double date, but it all happened so fast. 

Out of everyone she was friends with, you were the only one who didn’t attend her high school. You commuted to a school across town where your mom worked from right next door to Lottie. You’d been friends since the day you moved in, going door to door looking for someone to play with. 

You were the only person Lottie told about the voices she couldn’t quiet inside her mind; they were quieter around you. And when they weren’t, or when the medication she took made her feel like she was floating outside her body, you held her hand and distracted her with stories and jokes. With you, Lottie felt the most like herself, which was why you were the first person she thought of when she tried to figure out who the hell she’d get to go on the double date with Van and Tai, who they’d believe was really Lottie’s girlfriend. 

You agreed easily, telling her it’d be fun. Lottie wasn’t sure lying to her teammates for a whole evening would be fun, but with you, it couldn’t be too bad. 

You played the part well, hanging off Lottie’s arm and ordering a milkshake with two straws like the two of you were in some kind of movie. Van called you cheesy with an undertone of affection, and Tai and you bonded over your shared love for government class. They took a liking to you, and Lottie somehow found you even more admirable. 

She hung on every word you said, wiped whipped cream from your nose with a bright smile, and sank into the show you two were putting on deeply. There were moments during the date when Lottie felt herself forgetting it wasn’t real. It startled her when she came to, realizing just how easily she could imagine you being with her for real. 

Lottie thought of holding your hand on walks, sharing more milkshakes, and laughing like each other were the funniest people on the planet. It made her stomach twist as the night pushed on. She had never looked at you as more than her best friend, but in the lighting of the old-timey diner, Lottie started to. 

After paying, Van and Tai left to ‘not make out in the car,’ and you and Lottie lingered outside the diner. 

“I think they bought it,” you said. 

Lottie nodded, swallowing the emotions that bubbled in her throat. You rocked back on your heels, smiling at her in a way that was more mesmerizing than the moon above. 

“Maybe they’ll invite us out again,” you said after a beat of Lottie’s silence. 

She blinked. “Oh, uh, you don’t have to do this again. I’ll just make something up that we broke up.” 

“Oh,” you replied, your smile melting from your lips. “If that’s what you want, then…okay.” 

Lottie folded her arms over her chest in the gentle breeze, shivering from the lack of your bright smile. “I mean, we’re not really dating, so…” she trailed off, and you shrugged half-heartedly. 

“Right, yeah, I know.” You sucked in a breath, voice too gentle for Lottie to handle. You were always gentle, especially with her. But you didn’t treat her like glass, like her parents sometimes did when they remembered she was still just a child, really. It was only ever one extreme or the other with them. 

You, however, were the only consist one in Lottie’s life. 

“I had fun tonight, though,” Lottie rushed out. “A lot of fun.” 

“Me too,” you said, gaze drifting away from Lottie’s face and onto the sidewalk under your feet. “Maybe we could do it again?” 

“With Van and Tai?” 

You shook your head. “No, just the two of us.” 

Lottie looked at you oddly. “We always go out.” It was never some formal thing. You both hardly even asked anymore. Either she’d show up at your front door or you’d sneak in through her bedroom window. It was simple, casual, friendly. 

“I mean, we could go out like this,” you gestured between the two of you. “On a date.” 

For a moment, Lottie thought she had misheard you, but after you repeated the word ‘date’, she nearly tripped over thin air standing still. “On a date-date?” she asked, waiting for you to change your mind or explain that wasn’t what you meant. But you didn’t. 

Instead, you nodded. 

Heat spread across Lottie’s face as she smiled. “O-Okay.” 

You stepped forward tentatively and placed a quick kiss on her cheek, lighting her skin on fire with the simple pressure of your lips against her cheek. 

[fourmula1]

max/daniel. 606 words. franz and frank hermann.

-

It took awhile to figure out the time difference and nail down something that worked for both of them, but when the Facetime call connected and Daniel’s smiling, bearded face filled his screen, Max felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders.

Daniel’s big, beautiful, perfect smile was the balm Max needed for the stressful race season he was having.

“Congrats on Imola, mate,” Daniel said, beaming. He was outside somewhere on the farm, looking golden and rested and both like the same old Daniel but also something entirely new. His face was fuller, the beard bushier, but the smile was more real.

“Ah yeah, congrats to Frank. His brother Franz sends his regards,” Max laughed, bright and happy and comfy in his living room.

He watched Daniel on screen, watched his smile flicker in a way most might not notice, but Max did.

“What?” Max asked, shifting a bit in the sofa and holding his phone a. it closer, as if he could maybe see Daniel’s thoughts. On screen, Daniel’s eyes glanced to something out of frame, darting for a moment before he cast his eyes down. “Daniel, what is it?”

“Maxy. What if…” Daniel started. Max watched him swallow, nervous. “What if maybe they. If Franz and Frank. What if they were actually married. Not brothers.”

Max’s heart fell into his stomach. He felt his lungs squeeze. Felt like he might black the fuck out.

What if?

What if Max’s every fantasy of the last ten years came true?

“Probably Daniel I think that this of course is the best idea you’ve had in a long time,” Max says, unable to help the way his own smile is blooming, his cheeks no doubt blushed pink the way Daniel often teases him for.

They’re not and have never been anything but friends. They’ve never so much as kissed, but Max knows that both of them have been with men before. It was never more than friendship between them; as much as Max had wanted it to be he was scared of losing the connection they had and just never made a move for it.

But they’d always had chemistry. They’d always had love for each other. There’d always been an ease of it just working, between them. Max loved Daniel in so many ways and having the connection they did was enough.

But he’d never deny that he’d wanted more.

“Been thinking about it. You.” Daniel’s smile is softer now. At ease. Soft and gentle and sweet, pure, Daniel. “I reckon I’ve had a lot of time to do a lot of thinking and it just seems like what’s supposed to happen.”

“I do!” Max says, grinning when Daniel bursts out a laugh. It’s music to Max’s ears.

“I think you have to wait for a minister to ask if you take me to be your lawful wedded husband first,” Daniel cackles and Max doesn’t care.

Husband. Daniel could be Max’s husband.

“It’s preemptive! I do! Tell me when and i’ll be there!”

He can’t.. or maybe can, really, believe how easy this is. It’s yes. The answer is yes. Even if there hasn’t technically been a question. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

“I think I’ll come to Canada,” is what Daniel says and Max nods. It’s perfect. Daniel won his first race there. Canada lets two men in love get married.

Max could be Daniel’s husband in less than a month.

What feels like a lifetime of wanting, but a settled acceptance of being grateful for what he had, and Max doesn’t need even a moment to think about it.

Yes.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello beloveds!!

Do you have any recs with Aziraphale being disgustingly smitten with Crowley, maybe trying to woo him and Crowley being utterly oblivious?

Thank you for everything you do 💛 I've found so many favourites here!

Hi! We have #oblivious crowley and #wooing tags, so check those out. Here are more fics along those lines...

Yellow by Dancer_in_the_rain (G)

“What is it with you and this colour anyway?” Aziraphale almost choked on the sniff of daffodils. He coughed long enough for Crowley to start patting him on the back with a sympathetic expression. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”, asked Aziraphale when he could speak again, tears in his eyes and face red from his coughing fit. Crowley rolled his eyes. “Really, angel, I thought we talked about you dodging uncomfortable questions like this. You know damn well, what I mean. Whenever you see something in this shade of yellow, you just got to have it. And when I question you on it, you get all flustered like just now. So, what’s up with you and yellow?” Aziraphale was very quiet for a while, not looking at Crowley and opting for fiddling with the daffodils instead. Ultimately, Crowley sighed. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, I’m not forcing you. You could just say so though, I was only asking.” “It’s stupid, really.” Or: Crowley notices over the years how Aziraphale seems to prefer a certain shade of yellow and eventually asks him about it. The answer is not at all what he expects.

to have a heart to break by moonagedisasterr (NR)

Crowley, for his part, knows he can’t say anything. That’s up to Aziraphale now. Beyond that, though, he doesn’t want to talk anymore. He doesn’t have anything left to say. He wanted Aziraphale down here so he could see, so he could feel. In Crowley’s experience, feelings have always done much more than words.

I Could Drink A Case Of You by mandysimo13 (T)

Everything had gone quiet. The end of the world was averted. Satan had crawled back into his hole. The Four Horsemen dissolved back to their respective corners to lick their wounds. Shadwell and Madame Tracey popped onto her little scooter and started for home. Anathema let Newt follow her back to her cottage so they could discuss the future. Adam’s real father had collected the Them and driven them back to their own homes. Aziraphale and Crowley were left alone. Together, they learn how to live in semi-retirement while learning how to nurture the love they held for each other for so long, now that they are free to do so. But when Aziraphale begins working on a secret project, Crowley can't help but become suspicious.

The ducks and the bees by Yoite (E)

"Um", the angel cleared his throat. "Well, as we know, when humans like each other, sometimes, they, er, give each other a.. special hug." "Are you asking me to sleep with you?" Aziraphale wants to investigate what this whole sex malarkey is all about, but nothing goes according to plan.

moonstruck by foolishlovers (M)

Crowley finds solace in the stars, the moon, in the soft glow of distant lights. He treasures these moments of quietude, gazing up at the night sky through the windows of his favourite café - a small sanctuary from his hectic life as a professor. Yet his peace is disrupted when a new bartender, annoyingly cheerful and unreasonably cherubic, takes it upon himself to strike up conversations Crowley never asked for. As the months slip by, however, he catches himself getting more and more involved… and maybe a little less irritated than he’d care to admit.

Forsaken by VerdantVulpus (E)

Aziraphale has quietly loved his frenemy for a very long time. It had been a simple, innocent love once, but grew overtime in its abundance and complexity. It was ever present, at times bothersome or painful, other times driving him to acts of courage he didn't think possible. Always quiet, though. There was no point sharing his feelings with a demon. Demons were incapable of love. So imagine Aziraphale’s dismay to learn that not only had Crowley loved him terribly for just as long, but that Aziraphale had missed all the signs and the demon had given up hope. Now Aziraphale must organize his own thoughts and feelings and learn how to woo a demon before Crowley moves on for good.

(Mind the tags on this one!)

- Mod D

[strayingawayy]

like real people do...

...where hyunjin fails (but only when it comes to you)

it seems like forever since you and hyunjin have more than 10 minutes in each other’s arms, breaths synchronised and hearts beating to the rhythm of the other. more than 10 minutes since your i love yous are interrupted by work calls or members, and never more than 10 minutes without either of you falling asleep due to the comforting presence of the other.

you mean more to hyunjin than he can ever put into words, or songs, or pictures, or movement, or paintings. because while you are his muse, you also remind him at the end of the day that he fails as an artist when it comes to you.

hyunjin always thought that love is meant to be captured through his art, he always thought that it's the only way he can translate his love so it can mean something more than it ever really is.

but he knows now that he was lied to.

hyunjin fails as an artist when it comes to you and that, to him, is the greatest honour he’s ever known. because he knows that the love you share cannot be limited to melodies or words. because he hasn't yet figured out how and when you entangle your soul in his and show him that perhaps the love that you share isn’t one he is capable of putting down on paper. because your love for each other is so deep and vast that, truthfully speaking, he’d have to put the pen through his head before he can capture it.

with the asian leg of the tour wrapped up at long last and your exhausting week of work and classes finished, you and your boyfriend find yourselves seated on the living room sofa, wine bottles in hand and warm yellow lights illuminating hyunjin’s skin ever so beautifully.

“i knew stay would say that i'm returning to my coconut phase," says the man with a growing tuft of hair, wiping away a tear of laughter with the chilled bottle of alcohol in his left hand.

you hiccup and nod frantically in response, not trusting your voice with the amount of wine in your belly. the reaction only makes hyunjin throw his head back in laughter and your heart stops at the sight.

hwang hyunjin truly is ethereal, a man you could’ve sworn is sculpted by the gods himself, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, a man who promised you the world and rolled his eyes when you said he is your world, a man who loves you, for all that you love him too.

hyunjin is no stranger to it, but he's had no love like your love. and he's so immensely grateful for it because he knows that you'll love him even when he's no longer hwang hyunjin of stray kids, no longer a versace ambassador, no longer a rapper and dancer, no longer a man who steals the hearts of millions but simply a man who wishes to grow old with his spouse.

hyunjin knows that you'll love him exactly for who he is, and there is no greater peace than that.

he exhales, his free hand resting against your knee, thumb brushing over your skin absentmindedly. the warmth of your body against his is something he will never tire of. you fit against him like you are always meant to be there.

"you're staring," you murmur, voice laced with amusement.

hyunjin hums, but doesn't look away, bringing your hand up to press a kiss against where a vein runs on your wrist. "i like looking at my darling."

your lips curl into a small smile. "do i have something on my face?"

"just beauty," he says, and it's so terribly earnest that you can't help but laugh, shaking your head.

"you're ridiculous," you tease, pressing your fingers into his cheek lightly.

he leans into your touch without hesitation. "i mean it," he says, quieter this time. "sometimes i look at you and i think... i don't know how to make this last forever."

your fingers pause against his skin. "what do you mean?"

he hesitates, trying to find the right words. "i've spent my whole life creating things. trying to make moments eternal through art. but i can't do that with you. i can't paint you, i can't write about you, i can't dance this feeling into existence. nothing i make will ever be enough."

you watch him carefully, taking in the slight furrow of his brows, the vulnerability in his gaze. "maybe you're not supposed to," you say softly.

his lips part, but he doesn't say anything, waiting for you to continue.

"maybe some things aren't meant to be captured," you murmur, your fingers slipping down to intertwine with his. "maybe they're just meant to be lived."

hyunjin's breath catches. he looks at you like you've just given him the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.

"then i'll just have to spend the rest of my life living this," he whispers.

you squeeze his hand gently. "maybe i will too."

he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally, finally, your lips. it’s soft, slow, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. because for once, he does.

tonight, there are no interruptions, no time limits, no fleeting moments. just this. just you. just love.

[emrowene]

You know what, I'm sick of trying to play marketing games on other social media. I'm just going to rant about what I like about my book, because if anyone will appreciate an autistic special interest dump, I hope it'll be tumblr.

so if you like gay books and epic fantasy, read on!

This is Fractured Magic! The cover is by the incredibly talented @littlestpersimmon.

Fractured Magic is a sprawling epic fantasy with a big cast of characters, intricate politics, and a romantic "they were best friends but one thinks the other is dead and when they're finally reunited they're both angry with each other and act like they went through the world's messiest divorce" pairing. the divorcees in question:

before I go on, just know that there's a KICKSTARTER YOU CAN FOLLOW that will include ebooks, paperbacks, and other really fun goodies!

there are ALSO assassins, ghosts, secret identities, descents into madness, and an ancient dragon god who was trapped in a human body and wants revenge about it. to touch on some of these a little further:

-ghosts: are they ghosts? are they zombies? are they simply metaphorical manifestations of the characters' grief? are they real, honest-to-god, send-things-flying-off-shelves ghosts? the answer is yes! all of the above!

-secret identities: if you like those moments reading or watching something where you're like "holy shit, that character was ACTUALLY XYZ THIS WHOLE TIME?!", then you'll like Fractured Magic.

-descents into madness(TM): I mean this in the most gothic sense possible. our hero's in possession of a dark magic that is slowly corrupting him from the inside out. afraid of its power, he pushes everyone away, but he's never dealt well with loneliness.

-ancient dragon gods: this one is pretty much what it says on the tin.

you'll also like fractured magic if you:

-like gothic literature.

-are a big fan of old school fantasy (zelazny, moorcock, weis and hickman) but wish it was more for the gays

-watched this scene from howl's moving castle and had your brain chemistry changed a little:

-or this scene from pride and prejudice:

well, that's all I've got! if you've read this far, thank you. seriously. due to the aforementioned autism, I....have a very hard time with promoting myself on social media. I really want people to like this book because I really like this book, but I get too caught up in tone and then everything just kinda flops.

and, to be honest, I'm really worried about this kickstarter not funding! so here's the link to it again. if you hit the follow button, you'll be notified when the campaign goes live: KICKSTARTER

[smoochiemee]

Jealous Talk

"I'm just confused why you keep letting all your fans think that-"

"Y/N why does it fucking matter? I'm with you!"

The heated argument had been going on for the past 30 minutes. Hamzah who just came home from filming with Martin didn't expect to find you huddled in the corner of your shared living room on the verge of tears.

You didn't want it to get like this; you just wanted him to understand how you felt. How much you hated seeing his fans ship him with Claire when you were his girlfriend.

You remembered the moment you all met, 2020 during quarantine. You never knew if Claire liked Hamzah, but you always noticed their closeness. During FreakShow4 you weren't a member, but you helped a lot behind the scenes. You had been the one to introduce the four to each other.

Somewhere down the line, you and Hamzah got together, and you've been like that for the pat 4 years, going on 5. You never made much of an appearance on slushynoobz but you had your own lifestyle channel that did really well. You were a medical student, and it was hard you for to balance it all at once, but Hamzah supported you through everything and never forced the camera on you.

You guys were inseparable, and you even moved to Canada when Hamah got deported to start your life with him. However recently you couldn't help but feel a massive feeling of jealously because Claire was always around now.

Hamzah and you had lent her the guest room, and she would constantly book a trip to Canada after you all rekindled the relationship between the group.

At first it was fun really until Clarie started to make an appearance in the videos, thanks to Hamzah. She wore matching clothes, thanks to Hamzah. She was always next to Hamzah when it was time to take a picture, thanks to Hamzah.

You couldn't handle it anymore. This all wouldn't be happening if Hamzah had told his fans he was already in a relationship with someone else, you. So now here you in a screaming match with your boyfriend begging him to clear the air

"I know that but your fanbase doesn't. I don't like to see ship after ship or edits of you guys acting like you're the only one's in the room. I hardly make an appearance on your channel and it's hard for me." Your braids still in the messy bun you threw it into after your 8-hour shift at the hospital. You were beyond tired, but your emotions had got the best of you. Your face was now red with angry, and it didn't make it better that Hamzah was staring at you without a single expression on his sorry face.

"... I'm not like you, I don't know how to ignores comments or the fan edits." Now tears were streaming down your face. "When I see those edits, it convinces me that something is really going on between you two." You clutched your scrubs in hopes you could get him to really understand you. But all you were met with was complete silence.

Your boyfriend was looking at you like you were an idiot, like you were making everything up.

"Y/n, I never thought you'd be so insecure. I don't control the thoughts of my fans, and you know how crazy my fan base is."

Your face had fallen at that point. You didn't know how Hamzah would react, but this was not what you were expecting at all. It was like someone you had never met was speaking to you. What happened to your sweet, caring boyfriend.

"You honestly need to be real, don't you think if I wanted Claire, I'd be with her. For crying out loud, you leave for hours at a time and it's just Claire and I, if we were fucking you would have no idea."

"That's exactly my point! you don't clear things up instead you both act like you don't see it. And why on earth was she wearing your sweatpants in her latest TikTok."

"Y/n get the fuck out of my face, I've been filming all night, and I can't do this jealous talk." It was like your legs at given out and your body had moved on its own. Head in hand you cried again, in the very spot he had found you.

"What about our promise?" You lifted your head back up only to be faced with Hamzah's back. "... we're supposed to never go to sleep angry."

He kept walking, you heard the bedroom door creak and then close. Leaving you in living room. How pathetic of you, you were never supposed to feel this defeated but yet-

You felt your body leaving floor and into the hands of Hamzah. "I don't want to fight, Y/n." He continued to carry you into the bedroom, closing the door behind you with the swing of his foot. Setting you down on the edge of the bed. He lowered his body onto the carpet, completely kneeling down to you.

"Y/n, you actually think I'm at cheater. You think after all these years, I'd leave you for someone I see as a sister."

"I don't love anyone other than you. I can't believe you've bottled all your emotions up until this point." His hand left his side and reached out for you. For you to accept his affection. You closed the distance between the two of you by settling yourself into his lap.

"I didn't want to make things awkward-"

"That would never happen baby, everyone in our real life knows we're dating and if I even for a second felt like Claire was flirting with me. It'd be over, I'd never speak to her again if it meant losing you."

For the second time that night you both stared into each other eyes. Nothing but silence and the heavy tension in air. He pulled your hand making your body collapse onto his. Wrapping your hands aound his body his hit his head into his corner of your next. You both fit into each other perfectly.

"I love you," you both declared at the same time. All your worries flew out the window. You had nothing to worry about.

You felt tears stream from your eyes once again but not for a different reason that night. You let your insecurities get the best of you and let yourself create a narrative or someone that would never purposely hurt you.

"Why'd you walk away? I thought for a second you really didn't care about me... about us." You felt his arms hold you closer.

"I- I couldn't bare seeing you cry." You felt a tear hit your shoulder and that told you he was crying. "I also didn't want to say more things I regret." You nodded because that's all you needed to hear.

"Now that this is settled, let's get you out of these scrubs."

[onlygirlaliveinnyc]

so fix it [18+] ᝰ.ᐟ

pairing: 1996!noel gallagher x fem!reader genre: smut !!, soft!filth, soft!dom noel kinda ? word count: 1290 warnings: oral, face fucking, riding, praise, fingering, unprotected sex summary: you see him again at maine road, ten years too late. he’s older now, harder to look at, harder to leave. but there’s history in the way he says your name like it’s still his. a/n: based of anon's request— i hope you enjoy!! + made this maine road noel bc... yeah #needthat,, also this photo set lorddddd my baby :{

the venue buzzed like it was alive—bracing for the storm of a sold-out oasis show at maine road. you could feel it in your chest, that humming energy, all nerves and adrenaline and something else you couldn’t quite name. nostalgia, maybe. or dread.

you’d known for weeks that they were coming. of course you had—everyone in manchester knew. oasis, home for a massive fuck-off gig, two nights in a row. it was all anyone could talk about

you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. not really. bands came and went through your life now—load-ins, soundchecks, backstage passes handed out like sweets. this was just another night. just another job.

except it wasn’t. because he’d be here.

noel.

you hadn’t seen him in—fuck, what, five years? seven? not since he’d gone off and become a bloody rockstar, all swagger and smirks and stories in nme. and maybe you’d kissed a few times when you were younger, given each other head between boyfriends and years of being each other’s soft place to land. maybe you’d thought, once or twice, that it could’ve been something. before it wasn’t.

and now here you were, laminated pass slung round your neck, clipboard in hand, standing just offstage while the crew ran final checks.

you weren’t expecting to see him. not really. the band had handlers now, managers and security and all the other things fame wrapped around people like armor. you figured you’d catch a glimpse from the wings. maybe that would be enough.

but then he walked in—guitar case in hand, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair messy like he’d just rolled out of bed—and you froze.

he didn’t see you at first. didn’t recognize you. just nodded a little as he passed, eyes scanning the room like he was already somewhere else.

your heart dropped.

but then—he stopped. turned back. did a double take.

“no fuckin’ way,” he said, voice rough with disbelief, murmuring your name under his breath. 

and that was it. just your name, low and stunned, like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

you smiled, soft and a little sad. “hey.”

he blinked, and you could see it—the flicker of recognition behind his eyes, like the years peeled away all at once. like he was a teen again, and so were you.

“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, stepping closer. “it’s been—jesus. how long’s it been?”

“too long,” you said. “you look the same.”

he huffed a laugh. “liar. i look knackered.”

“you are knackered,” you teased, and something in his face softened.

for a moment, the noise of the venue faded. it was just you and him. noel and you. history between you like static.

he rubbed a hand over his face, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “didn’t think i’d see you after i left.”

you shrugged. “yeah, well. manchester’s small.”

he looked at you—really looked. and that was when it happened. the shift. the change—like he remembered everything.

you saw it in his eyes. the nights you’d spent on his bedroom floor with a record spinning between you. the cigarette burns on your jeans from sneaking out back of gigs. the way you’d curled into him once, shivering and stupid with need, and the way he’d held you like you were his whole world.

“you free after the show?” he asked, voice quieter now. hopeful.

you nodded, furrowing your brows. “yeah. but don’t you want to go to the after p—”

“nah,” he cut in, too fast. his eyes didn’t leave yours. “don’t care about all that.”

you blinked. “your own after party?”

he shrugged, half a smirk tugging at his mouth. “been to a hundred of ‘em. all the same—too loud, too many people talkin’ shite. rather just…” his voice trailed, but the weight of it hung between you. rather just be with you, it said, unspoken but clear.

you tried to play it off, to keep your voice even. “you’ve gone soft, gallagher.”

he tilted his head, grin sharp now. “maybe. or maybe i’ve just been waitin’ for a night like this.”

you didn’t have anything clever to say back. your throat felt too tight.

he leaned in, voice dropping lower. “say you’ll let me come ‘round. just for a bit.”

there was something in the way he was looking at you. something that felt like home.

so you nodded. “yeah. alright.”

and the smile he gave you then—quiet, crooked, real—nearly knocked the wind out of you.

—

your flat was small but warm, lived-in. cluttered in a way that made it feel like you—records stacked in messy piles, postcards taped to the fridge, a pair of beat-up boots kicked under the coat rack. noel took it all in like it was holy. like every detail reminded him of you at sixteen—laughing at some stupid inside joke, humming songs he didn’t know yet.

“still got your smiths poster,” he muttered, smiling faintly at the wall in the hallway.

“you used to take the piss outta me for it,” you reminded him, toeing your shoes off, but your breath caught when he stepped in closer, slow. 

that look in his eyes again—cocky, curious. hungry. and beneath all that, something warm and impossible to name.

“y’know,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek, “i used to think about this.”

“what?”

“bein’ here. with you. takin’ what we never got ‘round to.”

he kissed you before you could ask what that meant—low, filthy, soft only in pressure, not in intent. his hands gripped your waist like he meant to fuck you through the walls already.

you moaned into it, let him back you toward the bedroom, past stacks of records and a flickering candle.

and when he laid you out on the bed, it was with this quiet sort of awe, like you were something rare.

“still so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered, dragging his hands down your thighs, moving to undo the button on your jeans. “dunno how i never got my hands on you properly.”

“cocky prick,” you breathed, blushing.

“nah. just been waitin’ to ruin you since we were nineteen,” his hands slid down your hips, fingers rough and familiar, tugging your jeans and underwear down in one slow motion. he didn’t rush—just took his time, eyes dragging over you like he was memorizing.

you bit your lip as he pushed your knees apart and settled between them. his hands hooked under your thighs, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, breath hot against your cunt.

“and i’m not leavin’ till i do,” he added, then dragged his tongue slow up your slit—wet and heavy and so fucking sure of himself it made your head spin.

“fuck—noel—”

“shh, let me eat my girl in peace,” he muttered against you. "used to dream about this.”

you gasped at my girl but didn’t get a chance to speak—his tongue was back on you, filthy and slow, while two fingers slid in with ease, curling just right.

“tight little cunt,” he groaned, like he was praising himself. “can feel you already.”

your hips bucked. he held you down with one hand, pushing your thighs apart wider, tongue relentless.

“you gonna come just from this?” he asked, confident but amused. “my pretty girl gonna let go all over my tongue?"

and god—you did. fast, shaking, crying out his name. you clenched hard around his fingers and he groaned like he’d just won a game he always knew he’d win.

“knew you’d be sweet,” he muttered against you, licking you up again. “like honey, fuck.”

he dragged his mouth up your thigh, tongue lazy, lips wet and warm. you were still trembling, your cunt slick and throbbing where he’d just made you come, but he wasn’t done. not even close.

he kissed your hip, then your stomach, slow like he had all the time in the world, before lifting his head and looking at you—properly looking at you.

“shit,” he murmured, settling between your legs like he’d lived there all his life. “you always fall apart like that, or am i special?”

“fuck off,” you whispered, flushed, still trembling.

“y’know,” he muttered, smirking as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “could’ve had me years ago if you’d just said the fuckin’ word.”

you scoffed, breathless. “i did. you were too busy shagging other girls and pretending i didn’t exist.”

he grinned, leaning over you like a shadow. “yeah, well. none of ‘em sounded like you do, did they?”

he leaned in close, lips brushing your jaw. “and you’re soaked for me. who’s the real problem here, yeah?”

your breath caught, lips parting, but he was already pressing down—crowding you, grinning like he had you exactly where he wanted.

“fuckin’ killin’ me,” he muttered, grinding against your thigh slow. “walked in like nothin’s changed, like you’re not drivin’ me fuckin’ mad.”

you blinked up at him, cocky now. “poor thing.”

he laughed—short, sharp—and kissed you again, harder this time. more teeth than tongue, all heat and hunger and tension that’d been coiled tight for over a decade. and as he ground against you, slow and filthy, you knew there was no coming back from this.

he pulled back just enough to breathe you in, hand sliding down your thigh to hook it over his waist.

“never fucked you before,” he said, almost like it pissed him off. “what a fuckin’ waste.”

you blinked up at him, flushed and wrecked and aching. “so fix it.”

he didn’t answer—just stood, eyes locked on yours, and shoved his jeans down in one rough motion. his boxers went next, cock already flushed and heavy, springing free. he watched you watch him, smirking just a little.

“knew you’d be like this,” he murmured, crawling back over you, hand sliding under your thigh to hold you open.

he sank into you slow at first—like he wanted to feel every inch of it. 

“christ,” he breathed, hips pressing flush to yours. 

you moaned, back arching, clinging to his shoulders. he didn’t move for a moment—just stayed buried deep, eyes locked on your face.

“look at me,” he whispered. “fuckin’ hell, baby. already squeezin’ me like that?”

he started to move, smooth and steady, dragging every inch out before pushing back in just as slow. his cock thick, leaking against your walls. the stretch was perfect—just enough to make your breath catch, to make your thighs tremble where they wrapped around his waist.

his hands were everywhere—one gripping your hip, rough and grounding, the other sliding under your thigh, holding you open like he owned it. his thumb brushed soft over your skin when he wasn’t squeezing, grounding you even as he fucked into you harder.

he leaned in close, mouth at your ear now. “been thinkin’ about this for years,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “gettin’ you like this. takin’ my fuckin’ time.”

you whined, hand fisting in the sheets. “noel—”

“uh uh,” he muttered, speeding up just a bit. “eyes stay on mine.”

you looked up at him, wrecked, your mouth open in a moan as he kept hitting that spot inside you—deep, sure, almost unfair.

“that’s it,” he panted, eyes dark and locked on yours. “there’s my girl. all needy for me. takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

he didn’t stop—not even when you clawed at his back, not even when you gasped his name over and over. his cock dragged against your walls perfectly, his tip leaking inside you, making it wetter, messier, filthier.

“you feel so good,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. “feel made for me. fuckin’ made to take my cock.”

your moans started to break, louder now, desperate. your thighs trembled, your nails dug in.

“you’re gonna come for me, yeah? come on my cock, baby. i’ve got you.” he whispered, still rocking into you, slow but so full.

and fuck—you did. hard. full-body, shaking, eyes rolling back, clenching around him so tight he groaned low in your ear like he was unraveling.

he didn’t come yet. he held you through it, kissed your temple, praised you over and over. “so good to me. that’s my girl."

then—just when your legs went limp—he pulled out.

you blinked, dazed and slick and fucked-out beneath him. his cock was flushed, glistening, leaking against his stomach as he sat back on his heels.

“get up,” he said roughly, hand wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking slow. “wanna see that pretty mouth on me.”

you sat up slowly, still catching your breath, and got on all fours in front of him. your mouth hovered over his cock, swollen and shining with how soaked he was from being inside you.

his fingers found your hair, guiding you down.

“that’s it, love,” he murmured. “don’t be shy.”

you opened your mouth, took him in, tongue curling around the head. he groaned low, hand tightening in your hair.

he started to thrust—slow at first, then deeper. mouth-fucking you like he owned it. you choked softly around him, tears gathering in your lashes, but you didn’t stop. didn’t want to.

you reached down between your legs, desperate to touch yourself—but his hand caught your wrist.

“nuh uh,” he rasped, hips still moving, voice like gravel. “you don’t get to touch. not unless i say.”

you whimpered, eyes glassy, throat full of him.

he groaned at the sight. “fuck—look at you. all mine like this.”

then he pulled out suddenly, breath ragged. cupped your face in both hands, kissed you like he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“ride me,” he whispered, voice rough and aching. “wanna see that fuckin’ face when i come inside you.”

you nodded, dizzy and soaked, letting him fall back against the pillows. you crawled into his lap, and he held your hips as you sank down onto him again.

you were soaked—his cock slid in with no resistance, just that perfect stretch that made your mouth fall open.

you started to move, hips rolling slow, and he let you—his hands guiding you, eyes locked on yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

“that’s it, baby,” he whispered. “show me how much you missed me.”

your hips moved slow at first, circling, grinding down until his cock hit deep. he groaned beneath you, eyes fluttering shut for a second like he couldn’t believe how good it felt.

“fuck,” he breathed. “look at you. making me feel so fucking good.”

you braced yourself on his chest, thighs already shaking. he kept one hand on your hip, guiding, grounding—his thumb brushing the soft skin there like he was touching something fragile. the other came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“eyes on me,” he said, soft but firm. “wanna see you fall apart.”

you nodded, breath catching, trying to keep pace—but he felt too good, the stretch too much, the way he filled you too deep.

“go on,” he rasped, watching you ride him. “show me how much you want it. want me.”

his cock throbbed inside you—still slick, still hot, leaking against your walls. you clenched around him hard, and his fingers dug into your hips, just enough to sting.

“fuck—this fuckin’ cunt,” he muttered, looking down where you were joined. “grippin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

you whimpered, head dropping to his shoulder. “noel—can’t—gonna—”

“you can,” he murmured, hand trailing up your back, pulling you in closer. “want you to come while you’re on top of me, baby.”

he fucked up into you now—meeting your movements, matching your rhythm. the pressure was too much, too perfect. you buried your face in his neck, gasping, trembling all over.

his hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, perfect circles.

“there,” he breathed, voice shaking. “that’s it, come on. give it to me, love.”

your body locked up, thighs squeezing tight around him, a moan breaking from your throat as you came hard. your second orgasm hit like a wave—sharp, overwhelming, wet.

he groaned, still moving, coaxing you through it. “so fuckin’ good to me. that’s my girl.”

you clenched around him as he came, and he lost it—hips jerking up, head falling back, a rough cry tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, cock twitching deep.

his arms wrapped around your back, holding you tight as he came. your chest was pressed to his, the heat between you dizzying.

he didn’t pull out—not right away. just held you close, lips brushing your temple, hands smoothing up and down your back.

he cupped the back of your head, kissed your hair. “gonna keep you like this. not lettin’ you go again.”

“was yours already,” you mumbled against his skin, voice small.

he kissed you again—slow, open-mouthed, lazy like he was trying to memorize you. your hand brushed up into his hair, fingers tangling, and you stayed like that for a while, tangled and quiet, not saying what you both knew: that if you moved, if you got dressed, if you let time start again, it’d all fall apart.

—

you woke to sunlight creeping through the blinds, soft and golden. he was still there.

laying beside you, one arm under his head, the other thrown across your waist like he’d meant to keep you in place.

his eyes were already on you—half-lidded, sleepy, but watching.

“mornin’, gorgeous,” he rasped.

you smiled before you could help it, voice still rough. “hey.”

he tugged you closer, burying his face in your neck. “dunno how the fuck i’m supposed to let you go."

he kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, slow and sweet. “missed you, y’know. all this time. even when i didn’t know i was.”

you huffed, soft but disbelieving. “liar.”

his head lifted just enough to look at you, brows furrowing like you’d insulted him.

“oi,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “not lyin’. never about that.”

“you were off shagging half of london,” you said, not bitter—just tired. honest. “you didn’t miss me.”

“i did,” he said, firm now, like he needed you to believe it. “i did. i just didn’t know what i was missin’ ‘til i saw you again.”

his hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking just under your cheekbone. “was always you, love. even when i was too fuckin’ stupid to see it.”

your throat tightened. his voice was rough with sleep and truth, warm breath ghosting over your lips.

“swear it,” you whispered.

he leaned in, kissed you slow. “swear on every shit song i ever wrote.”

[darius-shack]

in TBOB, the one scene after Puppet Hour where Bill makes him feel like his limbs are being pulled out of socket, he says;

slight ANGST IDEA. bill makes ford forget any intimate experiences they had as teens. practicing kissing. moments theyre cuddled in the same bed because one has a nightmare.

Stan tries to bring it up on the boat, when they're out on deck relaxing in a couple chairs. Asks whether or not it was real. Ford's confident, "No, I don't remember that happening. You feel that way about me? I have always sort of thought I had a... 'forbidden' attraction to you."

Stan's sure all of his memory is back. he's been feeling pretty damn normal. Something that meaningful between them would be hard to forget even with getting his mind erased. "Sixer, I don't mean to tell you you're wrong, but I'm 99% sure that we did that. You sure that triangle didn't mess with your head at all when he was in it?"

Ford gets a far off look on his face and then he looks sad, remembering word by word what Bill had said to him. "I..." He turned to Stan, and spoke uncomfortably, "I don't know. Maybe..."

He doesn't know what to do, but Stan does while hesitating. "Maybe, we can... make some new memories for you, then?"

A moment of contemplation passes with Ford's cheeks flushing pink. "Yes, um, I'd like that-"

Stan gripped his jacket and brought him close, "Good, cause I've been waitin' 40 years for you to get back to me." Ford glanced at his lips, Stan picking up on the desire written across his face. So, he leaned forward and brought him closer, feeling his brother's anxious breath against his skin before they meet lips. Their eyes immediately close, it's soft and warm between them.

It's been ages for Stan but it's still as thrilling and right and perfect as it was the first time. For Ford, it's like a light bulb turns on in his head then immediately explodes. It's weirder for him because it felt distinctly familiar, and he pulled away too quick for Stan's liking.

Stan saw the tears in his eyes, the unhappy look upon pulling back. 'Shit, Sixer, I didn't mean-"

"It's not you," Ford replied quickly, "It's him, I- I think you're right... That he took something from my memories." He shamefully looked away, but Stan's hand dragged him back to make eye contact.

"I can help, like you helped me," Stan's gravely voice offered, watching his twin nod. So Stan proceeds to talk and goes in depth about the first time they kissed, what they'd said to each other. How many times they practiced before Stan was kicked out. How Ford got a little mad at him for being too rough the time they practiced before prom.