#and the more light hearted stuff like this

[em1i2a3]

Instant Crush

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

Summary: Bob has been avoiding you and when you find out the reason why, you decide that the only way to make it up to him would need to be thorough and obvious.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (the triforce of doom I say lol), Bob and Reader have known each other since the beginning, this takes place about a year into living in the compound together. There is a lot of miscommunication happening here between reader and Bob regarding their feelings for one another, and I frickin love that trope. Jealousy from Bob/Sentry, and The Void puts Bob down a bit for not being more forward with his feelings because he would actually have her if he tried. Oh. And Bob stutters in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I don’t need to tell y’all to wrap it up do I?), Semi Public Sex Acts (sex doesn’t happen in the area, but there is a lot of stuff that does happen before they need to stop themselves), Breast Play, Worship/Praise Kink, Bob is absolutely touch starved and he can’t get enough of the reader touching him, and he can’t stop touching her either, Oral Sex (both Male and Female Receiving), Hair Pulling, Messy Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Eating, Biting (with marks left), Bob and reader ar both switches (trust me on this one y’all will see lol), and some edging.

Author’s Note: This was a request made by @bellaisasleep , I loved putting my own little angsty twist on things, because a lot of people have been requesting more angst lol! Hopefully you enjoy!! I loved writing this sososososo much! Thanks for requesting it :) Also side note: I literally blasted through writing this because I listened to a live album by Daft Punk. I think I’ve found my Red Bull replacement lol.

Word Count: 21,222 (whoop whoop)

Bob Reynolds was the kind of man who made you believe in quiet things.

He made you believe in stillness, in silence, in softness not born of weakness, but of discipline so complete it bordered on sacredness. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, he wasn’t the first to speak or one to interrupt. He just was–in the way the moon just is above the Earth…Constantly pulling the tides of your heart before you even understood what direction you were moving in.

You met him during a mission–before you joined the Thunderbolts officially–that should’ve broken both of you. And maybe it did, in some sort of poetic, irreversible way. Because ever since that night–with blood dried on your tactical gear, and your hands trembling from adrenaline as he whispered ‘you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay’–you had not really been the same.

And neither had he.

Something tethered the both of you together after that. Something deeper than any language could explain. It wasn’t love, not at first at least. It wasn’t romance. But it was something that took refuge in your bones and your soul. Something that pulsed like gravity beneath your skin every time he walked into a room.

And for a while, that was enough for you to survive off of.

You shared everything–your time, your food, your silence. You’d have late-night check-ins, and breakfasts eaten side-by-side. You would pass books back and forth with scrawled notes in the margins, sometimes you’d sit with your legs over his tracing your fingers over his handwriting, smirking at his comments and making light of what he was mindlessly writing when he was reading.

You knew how he took his tea, and coffee. You knew what his favourite drinks and snacks were, and what his preferences were in almost anything. You knew how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, and how he fell asleep faster when you were near–only because when you sat together on the couch you would hear him snoring within minutes.

You knew his rhythms and he knew yours.

Sometimes he brushed your knuckles and didn’t pull away. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And you often considered turning to him and asking ‘what are we?’, but the answer already lived too loud between your ribs to speak it out loud.

So you smiled through it, and neither of you said a word.

Because whatever it was–it was fragile. Sacred. And the both of you were too afraid to shatter it by asking for more and overstepping.

And yet–somewhere in the folds of all that closeness, you started to ache. Because as much as Bob let you near, you still never quite knew what was going on inside his head. You didn’t know what lived behind that long, glassy eyed look he gave you when you made him laugh, nor did you know what it meant when he lingered outside your room before you turned in, like he wanted to cross the metaphoric line, but never did.

You didn’t know if you were special, or if he was just kind. Or if the way he touched your arm to steady you after a mission was the same way he’d touch anyone. If his gentleness toward you was a language he spoke to everyone–or if you were the only one fluent in it.

And maybe you were afraid to ask, because deep down you didn’t think you stood a chance. Not with someone like him.

Not with someone who was part god basically. Not with someone who saw every part of you–your scars, your rage, and your weaknesses–and still folded himself smaller around you like you were something worth protecting somehow.

He deserved someone better, someone far more stable and less scarred. Less haunted by the things that she needed to be strong for.

Maybe he thought the same thing about you…Maybe he thought you deserved someone less fractured, less burdened, and less…Him.

So you both stayed in each other's orbit, close enough to feel the warmth, but too far to burn each other.

Until one night–stupid, and thoughtless–you came home from a bar with Yelena and Ava, laughing too loud with a glow in your cheeks that wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a grin, drunk on your three tequila pineapples.

”I don’t even know how many numbers I got, but it’s like they were handing them out like coupons!” You exclaimed, waving your phone around. Yelena and Ava had laughed with you at this comment, and you divulged in details.

What you didn’t know was Bob had been walking past the common room at that exact moment. You hadn’t heard his footsteps pause behind the wall, and you certainly didn’t see his shoulders tense up. You didn’t realize your voice–bright, careless, and sweet–carved something open inside him.

Because to you, it was a joke, but to him, it was proof.

Proof that the attention you deserved was already out there–waiting for you in the hands of someone who could say what he couldn’t. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate or stammer. Who wouldn’t hold his feelings behind walls made of fear and light.

Bob went quiet after that night. Not cold, or angry…Just…Distant.

A slow withdrawal, like the tide was pulling out to sea.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing, maybe he was tired or stressed.

But every time you passed him in the halls and got a stiff nod instead of a smile, every time you curled up on the couch alone and stared at the empty spot where his knee used to brush yours, and every time he walked into a room and kept his eyes down like he couldn’t bear to meet yours…

You felt it.

The ache.

The fracture between what you thought you were to each other and what you maybe never were at all.

You missed him, and maybe that was the cruelest part–because he was still there. Still Bob. Still your friend,

But he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That being near him was enough. That friendship–real, solid, soul-deep–was a gift not everyone got, and you should be grateful for it all. That you had no right to want more from someone who already gave you so much.

But your heart didn’t care about rights, it only cared about the shape of his silence, and how it shifted.

And it wasn’t the safe kind of shift–to the soft, companionable hush that always existed between the two of you like a favourite song on low volume–but it was something colder, and distant.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a door being slammed shut. It was becoming worse and worse by the minute.

Because now he couldn’t even look at you–his eyes used to linger on your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and now they seemed to look off into space all together.

And it only made you spiral into trying to figure out what you had done to deserve something like this. You turned every event over and over in your mind like a worry stone, each day shaving another layer of calm off your nerves.

Did you somehow push too hard, or did you say something wrong? Was it something you didn’t say to him that was making him this way? You had no clue.

But you knew you missed him so much it was settling in your chest like a bruise. Because the truth–the raw, bitter truth–was that you didn’t just miss your friend. You missed him. The way his voice dropped when he said your name to get your attention. The way he leaned in when you spoke like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. The way his gaze would fall to your lips to see the way they wrapped around the words you were saying, or how they tilted up into a smile.

You were afraid that if you reached for him, you’d ruin everything.

So you didn’t.

That’s what brought you to Yelena’s room that night. Not to confess, but to collapse. You didn’t knock. You just pushed the door open and stepped into the scent of gun oil, candle wax, and citrus-scented dry shampoo that clung to the air and made your lungs burn.

Yelena was stretched out on her back across her bed, with one leg bent, and blade sharpener balanced on her stomach. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the ceiling she was looking at just moments before.

You didn’t speak, you just walked in, and fell face-first into the spare pillow beside her with a loud flop. She didn’t say anything at first, but it seemed like she was expecting a visit from you.

The quiet filled the space between you like water in a sinking ship.

Then, finally–

“What happened now?” She asked, shifting a bit to look at your collapsed figure.

”I don’t know what I did to Bob that made him ignore me…” Your voice was muffled against the bedding, “But it’s starting to really get to me.” You added, flipping onto your back to stare up at the cracked swirl of white stucco that coated her ceiling. Yelena’s eyes lingered on you a second longer, then she sat up, legs crossing under her, abandoning the knife sharpener to her nightstand.

”You didn’t do anything.” She replied, this earned her a side eye from you.

“That’s what people say right before they tell you that you did.” You commented, picking at the dry skin around your nail bed, which was already raw from the prior days.

“I’m serious,” She insisted, “You didn’t do anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

”Then why won’t he look at me? Why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? Your voice cracked, “I feel like I’m going insane. I thought we were–“ You stopped as the word ‘closer’ got caught in your throat like a splinter. You could see Yelena hesitate, just long enough for you to notice.

“What?” You demanded, sitting up a little, perching yourself on your elbows so you weren’t lying against the spare pillow anymore. “You know something.” You accused.

”I’m not supposed to–“

”Yelena.” You interrupted. She closed her eyes for a second, then sighed, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.

”Three nights ago,” She started slowly, “He showed up at my door in the middle of the night. I thought he was gonna pass out in the hallway.” You stared at her, a worried expression pulling at your eyes.

”Bob?” You confirmed, just to be sure, and she nodded.

“He looked wrecked. He was pale and shaking. His hands literally wouldn’t stop moving–it was like he was trying to wring the thoughts out of his bones.” You now sat up completely, your breath catching at the images that began to snap through your mind. The nervousness, the wreck that you had seen countless times before, it was easy to picture because you were the one that normally helped him through these little bouts, but this time he didn’t come to you.

”He said he heard you the other night,” She continued, “When we got home from the bar. The whole thing about getting all those guys numbers…He said–“ She swallowed nervously, “He said it felt like someone had hollowed him out.” You could feel your heart gallop at those words, stuttering even, like it stopped for a second before resetting.

“He kept saying it wasn’t your fault. That you deserved it–all the attention, and that it made sense that you wanted someone who could give you what you need. Someone who wouldn’t make you wait.” You could feel your stomach drop into the floor, like it slipped out of you and all you could feel was emptiness.

”Then he said…”Yelena’s eyes flicked to you, “He said he knew he should let go. That maybe he had finally been shown the truth–that you were meant for someone less…Burdened than him.” Your throat burned at her words, as you tried to blink away the tears that began to form in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s not true.” You said quietly.

”I know that,” Yelena snapped, “But he doesn’t.” Your fists clenched the blankets beneath you.

”Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” You asked, staring at her, watching as she shook her head.

”Because I shouldn’t have to,” She said, “Because you’re both idiots.” Your jaw clenched.

”Excuse me–“

”You’re both in love and too scared to breathe wrong around each other in case it breaks the spell,” She said, eyes flashing with anger, “I’m not your emotional translator, but I’ll put it plain and simple for you so your brain can understand. You want to know why he’s acting like a ghost? It’s because he thinks you found someone better. And you want to know why you’re sitting her on the brink of fucking tears on my mattress? It’s because you think you were never enough for him.” You were stunned by the way she had lost her composure on you. Rarely did Yelena snap like this, but it had become something that burdened her so much and killed her to witness that she just needed to let it all out, and unfortunately you were the one she lost it on.

“All you’re doing is killing each other with all this stupid silence. All this pretending. All this worship-from-a-distance bullshit.” You stared at her, the heat of her words stinging like a slap to the face.

She shook her head, quieter now.

”“What do you want me to do? Force the two of you to talk? Drag you by the hands into a room and lock the door until one of you finally confesses? That only works in movies. Real people don’t change when you corner them–they break.” You closed your eyes tightly, and sighed.

”He really thinks I want someone else?” You asked, gently.

”He thinks you already have them.” Yelena’s gaze softened–just barely, “And he thinks he missed his chance.” You shook your head, scratching the back of your neck with more pressure than needed, feeling your nails sting your skin.

“I didn’t even keep those numbers. I deleted them the second I woke up the next morning. I didn’t even think he’d care.” Yelena’s expression didn’t shift when you said this, but her voice did.

”Of course he cares,” She said, the words clipped and firm, “Because it’s you.” She stood, pacing once to the edge of the bed like she couldn’t sit still any longer.

“You know how fragile he is when it comes to you,” She continued, measuring the tone of her voice perfectly, “You’ve seen it. Felt it. You know how he quiets down when you walk in the room. How his hands settle when you’re near. How he breathes easier when you touch his arm, or sit beside him, or just fucking exist in his line of sight.”Your throat tightened, and your gaze dropped from hers, but she didn’t stop.

”And it’s not just Bob,” She added, “You know how all his other counterparts feel about you too.” Your chest stilled.

”Sentry…And The Void…” You whispered, not even considering what they must’ve been doing to him at this point. Yelena nodded.

”You think he was jealous? That was before The Void started whispering in his head about how someone else would be undressing you. How someone else would get the version of you he’s spent months trying not to dream about.” She said it without cruelty–but the truth hit like lightning to the ribs.

”You think Sentry’s any better? That part of him worships the ground you walk on…And you know how emotional he gets when it comes to being challenged.” You stared at the floor, with your stomach twisting in grief. You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak in your bones, but it ached the same either way.

“I…I need to take care of this.” Yelena looked at you, and finally she eased up a bit. The tough love flickered down into care.

”You really do…It’s time. Just push all your thoughts out of the way, and for once in your life, don’t overthink it. Make it clear, and for the love of god…Make it obvious, because I don’t think either of you can survive another miscommunication.” You gave her a nod, then got up, feeling your heart fluttering.

Because this time…You weren’t going to be seeing Bob, wondering if he wanted you. You were going to be seeing him knowing he did.

——————

The next morning you had gotten ready. The sun had not even fully risen yet. It was early–so early the light outside still looked like a haze of dark purples and light blues. The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you padded down the corridor, slipping some socks onto your feet in the process. The tower was still asleep. But you knew where he’d be.

And sure enough, you found him.

Bob stood in the living room, half-crouched as he fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. He looked like he hadn’t slept–at least not well. His shoulders were hunched, his hair damp like he’d just showered in a rush. The navy blue hoodie he wore was tight across the chest now, the fabric catching slightly as he moved. His black sweatpants clung to the muscle of his thighs, hinting at the training he’d been doing in silence for weeks now.

But it wasn’t his body that made your breath catch.

It was his face.

The exhaustion in it. The hollow weight behind his eyes.

His irises were darker than they used to be. Still blue–but not quite. Not only blue. It was like something black was blooming out from the center, bleeding toward the edges like ink dropped into water.

It wasn’t just sleep deprivation.

It was The Void.

You recognized the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was trying to stay grounded in his body. Like he was fighting voices you couldn’t hear.

You cleared your throat gently.

He looked up, startled–then confused.

“…Hey,” You said quietly. “Mind if I join you?”

He blinked at you, slow. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like his brain was buffering, unsure how to process the request.

“I–Uh…I was j-just…”

”Heading to the mall,” You finished for him, offering a soft, warm smile, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, “You…Mentioned it a few times this week. Something about your clothes fitting too tight and stuff…” Bob’s pale skin flushed slightly at the comment, as his gaze fell to the floor.

”Y-Yeah…I g-guess so.” You took a careful step closer, slowly closing the space between you both, wanting to see how he would react–he didn’t move back.

”I’ve got my car,” You added, “Might be easier than taking the bus…” He looked up at you again and this time you saw it: the hurt still flickering at the edges of his face, the wall he’d put up, and the little white dots that began to form in the middle of his pupils.

Bob could hear the voice scraping away on the inside of his skull.

“She’s just being kind…She’s taking pity on you, you know how she is. She doesn’t mean it. Don’t read into it. Don’t be pathetic. You’re not her first choice, you’re nobody’s first choice. She deserves someone better than you.” The Void hissed. Bob swallowed hard, feeling a burn tingle the back of his neck.

”…A-Are you sure?” He asked finally, voice rough around the edges, “I–I don’t want to be a b-bother.” You tilted your head.

”You wouldn’t be.” And then, with just enough softness to cut through the static buzzing behind his eyes you added, “I want to.” His hand was still on the strap of his bag, tightening around it enough to turn his knuckles white. You watched him for a moment longer, and then you reached out and brushed your fingers against his forearm. The contact was barely there, just the tips of them grazing the fabric, but you could see his entire body tense up, like something deep inside him folded at the contact. Like your skin reminded him where he was.

His breathing steadied slightly, and you didn’t comment on it, you just gave him a small smile.

“C’mon, I’ll drive.”

—————————

The drive was quiet to say the least.

It wasn’t awkward, it was just heavy, in that unspoken way that happened when hearts were too full and throats were too afraid to work. You didn’t push it.

You let the silence bloom between you. It was strange how familiar it felt again–like muscle memory. Like you’d both spent so long in each other’s rhythms that even this quiet was something you shared.

Bob sat beside you with his hands tucked in his lap, his back pressed to the passenger door like he was trying to stay small. His eyes stayed mostly on the window, but every now and then they drifted–toward the dash, toward your hands on the steering wheel. Once or twice, you caught him glancing your way, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice not to tremble.

You cleared your throat softly, your eyes on the road ahead.

“Have you been sleeping?” You asked, keeping your voice low, careful not to sound like you were prying. “You look…” You trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t wound, “Tired.” Bob shifted slightly in his seat.

”Y-Yeah, I guess.” He replied, but it wasn’t convincing, because he wasn’t telling the truth, it was obvious. You gave a small hum, gaze flicking toward him before returning to the road.

”Haven’t really seen you around much this week…” His fingers curled tighter in his lap, and you caught the motion in your peripheral, how his knuckles pressed into the soft fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to hold onto. Like he needed something to fiddle with.

“You’ve been…Kind of distant lately,” You said, and even though you tried to keep it neutral, the words came out soft, almost close to hurt. Bob exhaled quietly through his nose, eyes locked on the window like he was trying to will the city into blurring away.

”J–Just been in a mood…T-That’s all.” You nodded slowly, one hand loosening its grip on the wheel.

”Care to share why?” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Then his head gave a short, silent shake.

“It’s n-nothing,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “Just something stupid.” But even as the words left him, something twisted deep in his gut, and then The Void spoke again.

“That’s all you are to her, isn’t it? Something stupid. Clinging to scraps, sitting beside her like a dog begging for food.” The voice was slick, slow and unmistakably cruel–like molasses laced with venom. Bob’s stomach clenched, and his eyes stung. For a second his bottom lip trembled, and he turned his face a little more toward the window, trying to hide it, willing himself not to break. He couldn’t crack now, not here, not when you were being so kind to him.

You noticed the shift though. The way his shoulders locked up, the way his breath hitched in his throat like he was swallowing something too big for his chest.

You didn’t press though. You just let your voice drift gently over the space between you, like a blanket being unfolded in soft hands.

”…Okay,” You whispered, nodding slowly, “Well…I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” Bob let out a shaky breath and dragged one hand up to his face, rubbing his palms hard across his eyes like he could erase the wetness threatening to spill.

“O-Okay…” He responded quietly, but the sound of it cracked in the middle, and the fragility of it nearly shattered you. The silence returned, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft around the edges, like warm fog curling up against the windows.

When you finally pulled into the mall parking lot, the sun had risen enough to cast a thin gold glow across the tops of the buildings. It wasn’t crowded yet–just the early shoppers beginning to trickle in, and a few food court workers gathered near the entrance, sipping coffees out of paper cups. You shifted the car into park, then turned slightly toward him.

He was still staring down at his lap, his jaw tight, his hands curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

You let your gaze linger on him a second longer before speaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, and when he looked up at you, your voice dropped just enough to make him flinch slightly. “You know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even the stupid ones.”

He blinked at you. His mouth opened like he might try to argue. But he didn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” You added, your expression gentle, but firm. “Not ever.”

For a moment, Bob just…Stared.

And then your next words slipped out like sunlight between clouds:

“You’re my favorite person to sit in silence with…But I’d rather listen to your voice than anything else…”

His breath caught.

His heart stuttered like a blown fuse, and a faint red crept into his ears. You saw it happen in real time–the way his face flushed, his lashes lowered, and his entire body seemed to pull inward just slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising under his skin.

He fumbled for the door handle a beat too late, awkward but endearing, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

You bit back a smile, then slipped out of your side of the car.

He followed you a moment later, hood tugged up, bag slung loosely across his chest. You waited until he stepped beside you, shoulder to shoulder, before moving toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the scent of polished floors, faint cinnamon from a bakery down the hall, and the sterile chill of early-morning air conditioning.

The mall wasn’t busy yet–just soft ambient music echoing through the wide halls, janitors mopping along the corners, and the distant hum of espresso machines powering up.

Bob walked beside you in silence, but it felt…A little different now.

Not as heavy.

He didn’t look at the floor this time. He looked at you.

Like maybe he was starting to believe he hadn’t missed his chance.

———————

The coffee shop inside the mall was one of those early-bird places–half-lights still dimmed, pastries just hitting the racks, and the first drip of espresso perfuming the air like warmth incarnate. The floor glowed underfoot with the reflection of sleepy pendant lights, and the hum of milk steaming was the only thing louder than your breath.

Bob hesitated near the register for a moment, before you stepped up and began to speak.

”One medium caramel macchiato with light vanilla, and one medium Earl Grey with two milks and one pump of honey please.” You said, voice casual and kind, “And two plain croissants, one warmed…Thank you.” Bob blinked at you, his eyes wide behind the lashes that immediately dipped toward the floor when you gave the drink order like it was muscle memory.

“H-How did you remember my order so e-easily?” He asked softly, a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. His voice was low–barely above the murmur of the espresso machine–but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he said it. A quiet awe.

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the warmth blooming under your ribs. “I used to make it for you every morning, remember? Before you decided it was–” You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice into a teasing register, “–‘too much for my busy schedule.’” You even put up air quotes around the phrase.

Bob’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His lashes fluttered and a pink flush crept up his neck and spread over the apples of his cheeks. You saw it rise like candlelight catching a wick. He ducked his head with a soft, embarrassed breath of a laugh, then reached for his wallet with fumbling hands.

“R-Right… I remember…” He mumbled, pulling out a folded bill and sliding it toward the barista.

You didn’t stop him from paying.

You just smiled quietly to yourself as the two of you stepped to the side of the counter to wait, tucked in that little corner beside the bakery case where the light hit just right through the large window. You could smell cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air, mingled with the scent of warm milk and the faint cedar wood cologne that came from Bob’s hoodie.

He stood so close that you could feel his warmth radiating off him–steady and grounding. Not overwhelming. Just…Comforting. Like the first time you sat shoulder to shoulder on the Thunderbolts couch after a mission, both of you too tired to speak, but not ready to separate. His presence filled the space beside you like heat seeps into a cold mug–slowly and entirely.

You glanced sideways at him.

He looked tired. Still quiet. But something in his shoulders had eased. And god, you wanted to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him everything–the longing, the ache, the nights you couldn’t sleep without thinking about how he used to hold your wrist loosely in his sleep when you nodded off beside him on the couch.

But now wasn’t the right time, you just stayed still and waited for your order, sipping on your drink when it came, and nibbling on your croissant.

——————

The first store you entered was some midrange basicas place��comfy fabrics, soft lighting, warm neutral palettes. It smelled faintly like cotton and burned plastic. It seemed like the store may have been under renovations or it was new, but it had a wide range to offer.

You wandered between the racks with Bob, fingers brushing hangers and the occasional sleeve. He didn’t speak at first, just lingered near you, letting the space between you stay comfortably small.

Then, after a while, he pointed at a sage green hoodie.

“Y-You think this would look okay?” He asked, lifting the sleeve with a tentative expression. You tilted your head, eyeing the color against his pale skin.

“It looks really flattering.” Your voice came out even, but a little softer than before, “Might make a few people swoon.” Bob looked away so fast you nearly laughed.

”D-Don’t say stuff like that…” He mumbled, ears turning a beet red. You gave a shrug and kept moving.

”Just being honest.” He ended up gathering a couple of things: the green hoodie, two crewneck sweaters, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that looked impossibly soft.

“I–I think I’ll try these on,” He said, holding the small stack close to his chest like it might slip out of his grip if he didn’t hug it tight.

“I’ll hold your tea,” You added, taking the cup gently from him as he moved toward the changing room.

You leaned against the wall just outside, sipping your own drink slowly, content to wait.

And then, after a minute or two, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched.

Because there he was–soft grey sweatpants hanging just right off his hips, cinched gently at the waist. A dark green hoodie with the tag still half-tucked under the collar, the fabric just snug enough to outline the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms you always forgot he had until they were on display like this. His hair was still a little messy from earlier, his cheeks still pink, and there was something so painfully Bob about the way he stood there–awkward, shuffling his feet, eyes flicking up and then quickly back down like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I-Is it…Okay?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful. “It feels…Like me, I think…” He looked like home. Like warmth poured into fabric and held in your hands. Like something you’d missed even before you’d ever had it.

You didn’t answer his question at first, you just let your eyes sweep over him, memorizing every line and fold.

Then you nodded, your voice barely more than breath.

”It looks great.” And for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just a small sincere curve of his lips.

But it was enough to show you that you were breaking through to him.

Bob let out a quiet breath, still standing in the doorway of the fitting room as if unsure whether he was allowed to be seen like this—so soft and unguarded. But when you gave him that look, the one that reached all the way down to the place in him that still doubted he was wanted, he stepped out fully.

“I–I’ll get them then,” he said quietly, gathering the small stack of new clothes against his chest again. “I…Uh…N-Need things that fit anyway…” There was a shy smile tugging at his mouth now–nervous, but real. The kind you hadn’t seen in weeks.

You handed him his tea back with a gentle brush of fingers, and he looked down at the cup like it was more than a drink. Like it was proof of something unspoken. Something important.

You walked beside him to the register, watching as he paid–hands fumbling a little with the card, thanking the cashier too softly, shifting awkwardly in place while they bagged his items. You could practically feel how tightly wound his nerves were, like the very idea of doing this in front of you was enough to set off a whole chain of overthinking in his head. But he kept glancing at you, too–like he needed to make sure you hadn’t left.

You didn’t.

You waited. Quietly. Steadily.

And when he turned back toward you, you smiled again. Not big. Not loud. Just steady.

The two of you wandered the mall after that, nowhere in particular–just drifting from one store to the next like nothing had broken between you. Like the silence hadn’t once turned sharp enough to bleed. You lingered near a small bookstore where Bob picked up a paperback and flipped it open with a flicker of interest; you guided him briefly through a stationery shop, pointing out pens you thought he’d like. There was something gentle about it all–something close to healing, like you were on that brink of mending everything back together.

You were standing near a shelf of scented candles in a small boutique that sold a strange mix of home goods and novelty items–everything from mugs with sarcastic quotes to little booklets of affirmations and bath bombs shaped like animals. Bob was beside you, thumbing the edge of a journal with a soft leather cover, his thumb tracing the stitching like he was trying to decide if it was worth picking up. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up again, and you could see a faint pink mark at the bend of his elbow–maybe from leaning against a counter too long, or maybe a training bruise he hadn’t noticed. It made your chest ache a little, how much you’d missed these small details. How much you’d missed him.

Your gaze drifted up–just idly, like looking for the next thing to wander toward–and then froze.

Across the mall’s broad walkway, nestled beneath a curved arch of dark wood and glass, sat a boutique lingerie store. You knew the kind. Low golden lighting. Sheer curtains hanging in the windows, filtering the sunlight into a soft, honeyed glow. The mannequins in the window weren’t the aggressive kind with red corsets and feather boas. No–these ones were elegant. Understated. They wore lace bralettes in blush pink, satin in deep forest green, high-waisted sets trimmed in delicate embroidery, and sheer robes that caught the light like whisper-thin smoke. The whole store was intimate without being overt. Classy. Soft. But undeniably sensual.

You could almost smell it from here: some blend of vanilla, amber, and whatever fabric perfume they used on the delicate silks and velvets.

You blinked.

Yelena’s voice echoed through your head, sharp and clear:

“Make it obvious.”

Your heart gave a strange little stutter. And then–without warning–a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. A slow, sly thing that bloomed without permission. The idea came out of nowhere, but it stuck. Bright and stupid but brave.

You glanced sideways at Bob.

He hadn’t noticed your change in expression yet. He was still reading the back of a candle labeled “Blueberry whipped icing.” The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady now. A good sign. He looked a little more grounded than earlier–still quiet, but a kind of quiet that meant he was starting to feel safe again. With you.

You didn’t want to push too hard. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile warmth that was finally returning between you.

But…

You wanted him to know.

So you cleared your throat lightly.

“Hey,” You said, careful to keep your tone breezy, “Can we check out one more store before we head back?”

Bob looked up, startled, blinking once.

“Uh–y-yeah, sure. W-Which one?”

You nodded subtly toward the other side of the walkway.

His gaze followed yours.

The moment he saw it his entire body stiffened, like someone had yanked a string inside him. You watched his jaw tighten just slightly. His eyes flicked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the faint pink rush to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

”Wanted to just browse, see if I can find something.” You said, already beginning to walk toward the storefront, “I’m due for a little bit of a closet upgrade myself.”

Bob walked behind you, just a step off pace, like his feet weren’t quite sure they were allowed to follow. His grip on his shopping bag had gone white-knuckled, and the tea in his free hand barely sloshed–it was held that tightly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rolling off him in thick, clumsy waves–nerves and tension and that unmistakable Bob flavor of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid he’d combust the moment he opened his mouth.

The motion sensor bell above the entrance gave a delicate chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing you noticed. The air was heavy with scent–rich amber, something floral, and a hint of musk that made you think of bare skin and tangled sheets. The walls were soft matte cream, accented with blush pink panels and gold railings. Velvet display tables lined the floor with bralettes folded like secrets and panties laid out in precise rows, every pair a whisper of silk or mesh or lace. The mannequins were tall, faceless, draped in slip dresses and see-through robes that shimmered when the light hit them. The ceiling lights were low and gold-tinted, casting everything in honey.

It didn’t feel like a store.

It felt like a bedroom someone loved you in.

Bob hovered just inside the threshold, blinking once, twice. His eyes flickered towards the displays and then were quickly pulled away–like just making eye contact with a lace thong might ignite him on the spot, because all he could picture was you in them. His jaw worked as he swallowed, throat visibly bobbing.

You moved casually to one of the racks, fingers drifting across rows of soft underwire and balconette bras. Pale lilacs, buttery creams, deep navy satins. You held up one and studied the lace against the light, just enough stretch to hint at comfort–just enough sheerness to suggest anything but.

Behind you, Bob stayed rooted.

He looked like he was trying to figure out how to hold his breath and exhale at the same time.

“Wonder who she’s going to wear that for…”

The whisper was cold. Low. Inside his skull, it slithered between his thoughts like oil on water.

“Probably someone who can touch her without trembling. Someone who doesn’t have to fight off every part of himself just to keep his hands at his sides.”

Bob stiffened.

The Void didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. He only had to lean close enough that the words touched a nerve already raw.

“You think she’ll let them take it off slow?” The voice purred, mockingly curious. “Or will they rip it off with their teeth?”

Bob shut his eyes at that comment, trying to shake it off as much as he possibly could, attempting to not show any weakness, or to make you aware of the fact he was hearing something.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding two bras–one powdered blue, and the other a dark red–in one hand, and a sheer black babydoll slip in another. You glanced up at him with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable.

Casual, but not distant. Confident, but not arrogant.

Intimate.

Then you turned to the nearby fitting room attendant–a woman dressed in a long mauve cardigan and platform shoes that made her look taller than she was–and asked:

“Do you allow, like…Second opinions in the fitting room?” Motioning to Bob behind you. She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled.

”Course we do…Happens all the time.” You turned back to Bob, and this time your smile was unmistakable.

”Perfect, cause I’m going to need your opinion.” You said softly.

“I-I don’t know much about l-lingerie…” Bob stammered, frozen in place like his shoes were bolted to the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, tone light but edged with something quieter. “But you definitely know what would look good.” You turned just slightly, letting your voice drop just a little–low and warm, like a match striking the dark. “And maybe I value your opinion.”

That did it.

Bob swallowed so hard you heard it.

“…O-Okay,” He murmured, nodding once. His voice cracked just slightly around the edges, and he followed you past the velvet rope into the fitting room hallway.

The rooms were small–just a few feet wide–but the space inside felt private. Dim golden lighting pooled softly overhead, like candlelight filtered through sheer fabric. There was a bench beneath the mirror, a small side table holding a glass bowl of lavender-wrapped mints, and a faint scent of fruity body spray hung in the air–berries and peach and something a little more sugary than it needed to be. The floor was carpeted in pale rose, and the door had a long mirror mounted across it, angled to reflect the whole space in a soft, diffused glow.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the bench as you placed your items on the hook. Bob obeyed without argument, setting his shopping bag beside him. His knees knocked slightly as he sank down, hands fidgeting in his lap.

You reached for the hem of your sweater.

He inhaled sharply.

You peeled it over your head slowly–not teasing–but it still left the air crackling. Beneath it, you wore a soft, ice-toned bra that hugged your figure perfectly, the lace delicate across the cups, and the straps tucked lightly over your shoulders. Your skin was warm from the air in the store, flushed faintly from the earlier walk.

Bob didn’t dare speak. But his breath hitched again.

There was a mirror in front of you. You met his eyes in it.

He was already looking.

You lifted the two bras, powdered blue in one hand and dark red in the other, the lace delicate and soft beneath your fingers.

“Which one should I try on first?” You asked, keeping your tone even, but watching him carefully in the mirror.

His lips parted. “W-Whichever one y-you want,” He said, too quickly. His voice wobbled a bit, but he didn’t look away.

“Hmm.” You considered. “Then blue it is.”

You turned your back slightly–not to hide, but just enough to unclasp the bra you were wearing. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, slow and smooth, the lace sliding down your skin like a secret. You didn’t cover yourself immediately. You didn’t rush. You let your chest rise with a slow breath, your bare skin catching the warm light like satin, full and soft, your nipples slightly pebbled from the air.

You could see him in the mirror.

Bob looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

His knuckles were white against the bench. His thighs were tight. His eyes locked on your reflection with reverence and disbelief, lips parted like he was about to speak, but couldn’t find words. Like he was choking on awe.

You clasped the powdered blue bra in front first, then twisted it around your torso to hook it at the back. The lace molded to your breasts beautifully, lifting them just enough, shaping you with a soft elegance that made you smile faintly to yourself.

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head at your reflection, “Wait…I’m missing something.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants, and began to push them down slowly–inch by inch, letting the soft fabric slide along your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of them in just your red underwear.

They were lace-trimmed–soft, but revealing. Dark red against your skin, high at the hips, clinging just enough to show the dip of your waist and the curve where your thighs met.

“I guess you’ll just have to picture the matching color,” you said, voice warm and coy, glancing back at him through the mirror.

Bob looked like he might combust.

His eyes darted from your back to your hips, then quickly to your reflection again. His jaw was clenched tight, but his breathing was uneven–shaky in that way you’d come to recognize when his emotions were spiraling between restraint and something far deeper. Something harder to control.

You stepped closer to the mirror, smoothing a hand over your hip.

“I like the way this one fits,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him, but still loud enough to let it hang in the air like perfume. You ran your palms lightly down the lace of the powdered blue bra, watching your own fingers in the mirror–how they traced the delicate embroidery along the cups, how the fabric hugged your shape like a secret.

Bob’s breath was shallow. You didn’t have to turn to know. You could feel the heat coming off him from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He was already looking–face flushed, mouth parted slightly, the soft tremble of his hands now visible where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“I-It looks…” He started, voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly. “…It looks really nice.”

You raised a brow, a smirk drawing up on your lips. “Nice?”

His gaze flicked away instinctively, but he couldn’t keep it there. His eyes found you again–first your reflection, then the lace against your chest, and back to your mouth.

“I–I mean it looks…r-really good. On you. I mean…” He was unraveling by the syllable. You let the silence stretch for a beat, then hummed softly as your fingers continued gliding over the cups. You shifted your weight a little, hips tilting as you turned sideways in the mirror.

“Definitely a contender,” You sighed thoughtfully.

Then, without turning around, you reached for the next piece.

The babydoll slip–black, sheer, soft as smoke in your hands. It shimmered subtly in the golden lighting, the thin mesh draping across your fingers like a sigh.

You unclasped the powdered blue bra again, letting it slide from your body with one smooth motion. You didn’t cover yourself.

Bob’s inhale was so sharp it sounded like pain.

You stepped slightly back from the mirror, barer now than you had been before–shoulders relaxed, chest lifted with slow breath. Your nipples had peaked again in the cold air. You knew what you were doing. But you weren’t mocking him. This wasn’t a power play.

It was clarity. Honesty. Boldness.

You bent forward slowly to slide the babydoll over your thighs, letting the hem fall like liquid ink as you straightened. The mesh was translucent–barely there–and the neckline dipped into a deep, soft plunge that framed your chest beautifully. The fabric caught on your curves in all the right places before settling delicately around the swell of your hips.

Bob stared like he’d forgotten his own name.

Because when you bent forward, his eyes had dropped–not out of lechery, but because something inside him shattered. The long slope of your back, the shape of your ass in those red lace underwear, the stretch of your thighs beneath sheer fabric–it burned into him like holy fire.

And then–

“She is divine.”

The words didn’t come from Bob.

They rang in his head–low and velvet and terrible in its beauty. Sentry’s voice.

“She’s carved from the very atoms that undo me. She was made to be worshipped. Look at her. Look at her and tell me that heaven doesn’t kneel at her feet.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide and glassy.

Sentry wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding control. But he was there.

Watching. Wanting.

“Let me touch her,” The voice whispered again, smoother this time. “Let me hold her the way she deserves. Just once. Just once, I swear–”

Bob pressed his palms hard to his thighs. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because even without Sentry’s voice curling like gold-leaf flames through his thoughts, the image in front of him would’ve undone him.

You adjusted the thin straps gently, your fingers brushing across the neckline. The mesh hugged the curve of your breasts and fell soft as shadow over your waist. You looked like something from a fever dream–ethereal, vulnerable, and completely, deliberately real.

Then you turned slightly, catching his gaze again in the mirror.

The hem of the babydoll swayed just above mid-thigh, sheer and impossibly delicate. You brought your fingers down to it, rubbing the mesh slowly between your thumb and forefinger–absently, like you were testing the texture, like this was just another thing to consider.

But it wasn’t absent.

Not with the way his eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to your hands.

You turned around slowly.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, his back rigid against the wall, his hands planted hard on his thighs like they were the only things anchoring him in place. His jaw was slack, his lips parted. His pupils were blown, but not entirely black–there was still a sliver of that tender blue left in them, touched now with something gold and shimmering around the edges. The faintest glow. Like sunrise barely breaching the horizon.

They weren’t just his eyes anymore.

They were all watching you.

And god, he looked so beautiful like that–wrecked and reverent, trembling and quiet, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His eyes trailed up your body–your thighs, the curve of your hips beneath the mesh, your waist, your breasts barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric. And then they met yours again, wide and pleading.

And then, quietly, hoarsely, like the words were made of splinters:

“W-Why are you doing this t-to me?”

His voice cracked in the middle–soft and aching. He looked up at you like you had your hands around his ribcage and were squeezing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to let go or hold tighter.

The lighting in the room caught his face just right–glossed over and glowing. You saw it clearly now, that strange shimmering in his irises–blue and gold, and something ghost-white blooming near the pupils. A storm barely held at bay.

You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, your tone laced with innocence.

“Doing what?”

His breath hitched.

“T-Torturing me…Y/N…”

The way he said your name–it landed like prayer in the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough for your knees to touch the edge of the bench, close enough for the hem of the slip to brush his knuckles.

His fingers twitched. Tightened. Dug into his thighs like he was trying to keep them there. Trying not to move, not to reach, not to shatter.

You shook your head softly.

“I’m not torturing you…” You murmured.

Then you leaned down slowly, slowly–until your lips hovered near his ear, until your voice was a secret you whispered against his skin.

“I’m making it obvious.”

And then you took his wrists.

Gently. Carefully. Like he was something sacred.

You guided his trembling hands up, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like ribbons, until they reached the curve of your hips. You placed them there–held them there.

Warmth.

His palms grazed the mesh first, then the shape of you underneath. He didn’t grip. Not yet. His breath stuttered like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. But then you gave him a tiny nod–barely perceptible, but real.

He got the hint.

His fingers spread slightly, molding to your skin. One thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the lace waistband. His breath caught like it physically hurt, and he looked up at you like you’d handed him the sun and told him not to blink.

He was already shaking.

You watched his expression shift–fear and awe, restraint and need, all woven together. The Sentry’s reverence. The Void’s hunger. And Bob’s aching, terrified love.

“Y/N…” He breathed, like your name was the only thing holding him together.

Then you just whispered:

”Touch me Bob.”

He gulped audibly, before he began to move slowly, like he thought rushing might wake him from a dream he wasn’t ready to lose. His palms traced the curve of your waist with agonizing care, sliding from the edge of your hips down over the soft slope of your thighs. His fingers splayed slightly, grazing the lace along the top of your underwear, then drifting lower. Each pass was like worship–like the act of memorizing, not exploring. He breathed out softly, the sound shaky, a quiet exhale against the electric silence of the room.

You let go of his wrists then and brought your hands up slowly, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw until your palms framed his face, cradling him with a tenderness you hadn’t dared give voice to until now.

His skin was warm–feverish almost. You rubbed your thumbs lightly under his eyes, brushing along the shadows there, and his breath hitched. His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting just slightly, like he was absorbing every ounce of contact through his bones.

God, he was touch-starved.

You could feel it in how he leaned into your hands without even realizing it, like he was afraid if he pulled away, he’d lose the only safe thing left in the world.

You leaned down.

And pressed a kiss to his cheek–slow and gentle. You felt the tremble run through him like a current.

Then you whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Bob?” His jaw clenched. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your fingertips–right before his nails grazed your thighs, dragging lightly through the skin just beneath the mesh. Not enough to scratch. But enough to leave a trail of heat in their wake.

He shook his head.

Not in disbelief–but like the truth was too big to imagine. Too painful to hope for.

You kissed his other cheek–longer this time. Slower. Your breath curled against his skin as you whispered:

“I’ve liked you since the very beginning…” Your voice cracked just faintly with the weight of it. “…I thought I was unworthy of you.”

His head snapped slightly–not harsh, just desperate–as he finally opened his eyes and looked at you again. And for a moment, all you could see was grief. Longing. The pain of every silent night and missed opportunity that had nearly broken the two of you apart.

And still, his hands didn’t stop moving.

They drifted up again, this time underneath the sheer babydoll, sliding over the skin of your waist, and your ribs slowly. He stopped at the waistband of your underwear–just resting there, barely touching, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your hips like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

You leaned in again–closer this time.

And kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. Sensual.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

It was the kind of kiss you gave someone who’d been starving for too long. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted in the open. Someone who still didn’t believe he was enough.

Bob moaned into it–so soft, so desperate it broke something inside you.

His arms wrapped around your waist before he even realized they had moved. He pulled you in tight, like gravity wasn’t enough on its own. His hands slid along your back and dipped beneath the mesh to hold your skin like it anchored him to this moment. His lips trembled slightly against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of the space that had existed between you ever again. What started as soft and reverent turned hungry in a heartbeat. Bob’s mouth opened just slightly, enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, the faintest scrape sending a spark straight to your core. You gasped into him–eyes fluttering–and your fingers tightened in his hair, threading through the golden strands and tugging gently, just to feel the way he responded.

He groaned.

It was guttural–low and raw and laced with a desperation you hadn’t heard before. It rumbled out of his chest like he couldn’t contain it, like your touch had coaxed something from the deepest part of him that had been waiting for permission to surface.

His hands slipped downward, slow but deliberate, ghosting over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs–and then suddenly he was gripping you, lifting you just enough to guide you into his lap.

You straddled him.

The motion made your sheer slip flutter like smoke around his knees, pooling soft against his hoodie. Your thighs slid across the firm shape of his lap, settling on either side of him. You could feel him now–hard beneath you, restrained but unmistakable–and it made your breath catch again, the heat between your legs pulsing in time with your heart.

Bob’s hands curled into your thighs, like he needed to hold on or risk falling apart completely. His mouth found yours again with more force this time–messier, wetter, desperate in the way he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in. There was no hesitation anymore. Just need.

One hand slid up your back, warm under the slip, his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, pulling you down into him. The other stayed low, gripping the swell of your thigh, fingertips brushing against the crease where your leg met your body. The way he held you–tight and trembling–sent shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly into his mouth, rolling your hips once against him–slow and intentional. The friction made both of you gasp. He bucked up instinctively, just slightly, just enough, and you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead pressing to his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. His chest heaved beneath your hands as you smoothed them along his jaw and down to his collarbones, feeling the pulse hammering in his neck like it might burst through skin.

“I–I don’t know h-how to stop,” He whispered, voice frayed and cracking like old paper. “You…Y-You feel like heaven…”

You smiled softly, still breathless. Your hands cupped his face again, grounding him.

“I know.”

His hands moved again–one sliding along your ribs, the other dipping beneath the hem of your underwear now, just barely brushing the curve of your ass. You shivered.

“I’ve w-wanted you for so long…” He admitted, like it was being torn from him. You kissed him again–quicker this time, mouths opening, tongues brushing in heat–but as your hips rocked once more against him, you felt the coil tightening too fast.

His hands were trembling. His breath was shaking. And you knew if you didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched–just once–before you pulled back.

Still straddling him, still shaking, still so close it felt like any more contact might ignite both of you into ruin. But you reached up, pressed your hands to the sides of his face, and whispered through ragged breath:

“…We can’t do this here.”

Bob’s eyes searched yours–wide, dazed, glassy with restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I want to,” You continued, voice low, your forehead resting against his. “God, I want to. But not like this. Not here. Not where I can’t fall apart properly. Not when I can’t take my time with you.”

He made a sound in his throat–half-groan, half-whimper–and his hips rocked up into you once, instinctively, helplessly.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his erection pressed against your center through the thin layers. Heat bloomed through your core like wildfire.

His hands trembled against you.

”I-I agree…” He whispered. But his voice crack, like it nearly broke him to say it, “I d-don’t want our f-first time t-to be rushed. I c-can’t…” His words were barely audible now, and you could hear the raw self-control in them, stretched to its limits.

With shaking hands, he shifted beneath you, guiding your hips off him gently–like it hurt to let you go. His fingers gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, adjusted awkwardly, then quietly, discreetly tucked himself up into his waistband to conceal the obvious hardness straining against the fabric. He hissed through his teeth at the contact–too sensitive now, too desperate–but he made himself breathe through it.

You slid off his lap fully, legs still trembling, and reached forward with slow, tender hands to fix his hair where your fingers had tugged it out of place. His eyes closed at your touch, his whole body leaning forward like he was still chasing the heat of you.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. Your voice was a hushed vow.

“I’m gonna change,” You murmured, pressing one last kiss to his jaw. “Then we’re gonna buy these…”

You stepped back just enough to meet his eyes fully, gaze dark with promise.

“…And speed back to the compound. Because I want you so fucking bad right now it hurts.”

Bob nearly collapsed.

His knees buckled slightly where he sat, his head tipped back against the wall like he needed the cold surface to keep from slipping under. A choked noise escaped him–almost a laugh, almost a moan–and he covered his face with both hands, exhaling like your words had hit him in the soul.

You leaned forward, just close enough to murmur in his ear before pulling away.

“Get ready, Bob. Because when we get back…I’m not holding back either.”

And then you turned toward the hooks on the wall, your slip still clinging to your skin, your thighs still warm from where you’d pressed into him.

Behind you, Bob stayed silent.

But if you had looked, you would’ve seen his hands still trembling in his lap… and a faint golden glow returning to the edges of his irises–bright, divine, and waiting.

———————

The drive back to the compound was electric. You could feel it in the air–like static clinging to your skin. Bob sat in the passenger seat, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, his hands folded neatly in his lap for the first five minutes.

But then…His hand slid to your thigh.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t accidental.

His palm settled there slowly, like he was testing a boundary he was terrified to cross–but desperate to claim. The weight of it was warm, grounding. But his fingers…They weren’t still.

They flexed.

Gripped.

Curled gently into the softness of your skin where your sweatpants were bunched up mid-thigh. His thumb dragged a slow, agonizing stroke along the inside, brushing just beneath the fabric, right where the heat of you still pulsed from earlier. The contact was searing. Deliberate. Just barely restrained.

You sucked in a quiet breath, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

Bob didn’t say anything. But you could see it in his jaw—the way it flexed, locked, trembled. He was holding back. Every time his fingers inched higher, he stopped himself. Every time your legs shifted wider to invite him closer, his hand tensed like he was fighting himself not to slide his fingers past the waistband and straight into the wet heat waiting for him.

His forehead pressed lightly to the passenger window, eyes shut tight, breath fogging the glass. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was thinking.

It was written all over him.

I want her. I need her. I can’t lose control. Not yet. Not here.

But god, it was killing him.

And it was killing you.

The second you pulled into the underground garage of the compound and shifted the car into park, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire drive. His hand slid away reluctantly, fingertips dragging along your thigh like he didn’t want to leave the heat of you.

You didn’t speak. You just moved quickly–grabbing the shopping bags, handing him his, your hands shaking faintly as you both made your way across the garage toward the elevator.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

And the moment they closed behind you–

He dropped everything.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time. No fear. No silence.

Just lips crashing into yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat to survive. His mouth devoured yours–hot, messy, open. Tongues sliding, breath catching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

You moaned into it–high and breathless–and your fingers flew to his hair, threading through the light brown strands and tugging, pulling, just to hear the noise it dragged out of him.

He groaned into your mouth–deep and ragged–and the sound nearly dropped you to your knees.

His hips pinned you gently to the elevator wall, just enough pressure to feel the tension simmering through both of you. One hand gripped your jaw, the other slid under the hem of your hoodie, palm splayed wide across your back, hot and insistent.

You didn’t stop kissing him. You couldn’t. Your hands slid down his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the hoodie that still smelled like cedar and warmth and him, clinging as his tongue swept against yours again, this time slower. Dirtier.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open–

Empty hallway, no shoes, meaning nobody was there.

Thank god.

You broke apart with a gasp, both of you breathing like you’d just survived something. Bob’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

Without a word, you both grabbed the bags–awkwardly, fumbling through the haze–and half-stumbled into the hallway. The bags were dumped just inside the entryway, forgotten the second they hit the floor.

Then he grabbed you again.

Lifted you.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, arms flinging around his shoulders. He kissed you again immediately–hot, breathless, unrelenting. Your back hit the hallway wall once, a gentle thud, before he adjusted you higher, hands gripping under your thighs.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid over yours again, kissing like he was burning from the inside out.

And he was.

Bob groaned against your lips, stumbling forward as he carried you–still wrapped around him–down the hallway, toward his room. You nipped at his lower lip, then kissed it better. You dragged your hands through his hair again, tugging just enough to make him gasp your name into your mouth like a confession.

He barely made it into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, his hand still pressed flat against it while the other clutched you tight to his body–your thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and mingling as he chased your lips again like a man starved. He didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He didn’t need it.

The afternoon sun spilled through his window in golden ribbons, catching in his messy hair and painting long streaks across the floor, the wall, your bare thighs where they clung to his hips. It made everything feel dipped in amber–molten and slow and holy.

He pulled back for just a second–just to look at you–and then carried you toward the bed in a few staggering steps. The second his knees hit the edge, he dropped you onto the mattress with a breathless grunt.

You bounced lightly on impact, letting out a startled giggle as your back met the sheets. Your hair fanned across his dark comforter like a halo, and your eyes sparkled in the soft light. Bob just stood there for a second, staring.

His hair was a complete mess–flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling fast beneath his hoodie, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he was still catching up to what was happening. But his eyes looked like they were drinking in the sight of you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaned over you, catching your mouth again in a kiss that was gentler this time—slower. He kissed down your jaw next, reverent and shaky, then down your throat, his lips soft and open, trembling against the skin of your neck.

And then, like it broke loose from him before he could stop it, he whispered—

“G-God, I can’t believe you’re on m-my bed right now.”

His voice cracked on the word “bed,” and the wonder in it made your heart catch.

You laughed softly, breath brushing his cheek as you reached up and cupped his face.

“Well…” You murmured, stroking your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You better believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, glassy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with all the softness you were offering. You traced your fingers down his cheek, and he leaned into the touch instinctively–then turned his head and pressed a kiss to the very tips of your fingers. One, then two, then three. Each kiss was slow, sacred, like a promise he couldn’t speak out loud.

And then–wordlessly, breath trembling–he sat up just enough to tug the hem of his hoodie over his head. His shirt followed, wrinkled and clinging, and when it came off, your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way–though that was undeniable. He was all lean lines and pale shimmering skin, scattered with light brown freckles and stretch marks that caught in the light like constellations. But it was the rawness of him that undid you–the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his stomach tensed as your eyes moved over him, the way he looked down like he was afraid you’d flinch or look away.

You sat up without a word and ran your hands slowly along the ridges of his stomach, smoothing your palms over the heat of his skin. He gasped quietly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just below his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Then another along the edge of a faded scar near his ribs.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Bob,” You whispered between kisses. “Do you know that?”

He shook his head–too stunned to respond–and you laughed softly against his skin, letting your mouth trail lower. You kissed the slope of his abs, the dip of his waist, the notch between his hip and belly, letting your lips worship every inch like it was sacred. His hands hovered near your shoulders, shaking slightly, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or to fall to pieces.

“I could do this forever,” You whispered.

He let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his hand coming to rest lightly at the crown of your head. Just the tips of his fingers. Just enough to anchor him.

You looked up at him from where you knelt between his legs, kissed his navel one more time–and then you felt it.

His hands sliding down slowly to the hem of your sweater.

They hesitated.

Shaking.

“C-Can I?” He whispered.

His voice was so reverent. Like he was asking to peel back the sky.

You nodded.

“Please.”

And then–very carefully, like he was unwrapping something fragile—Bob tugged your sweater up and over your head, slow and tender, his fingers brushing your skin like he didn’t trust himself not to tremble.

The sweater hit the floor, and the golden afternoon light spilled over your body like it was meant to find you there. His hands hovered midair–still trembling slightly from where they’d dragged your sweater off–his breath held tight in his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look, even now. Even after everything. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze dragging slowly over every inch of you like he was memorizing a prayer in real time.

Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what you weren’t. But because it was you. Because you were here. In his room. In his bed. In his light.

The sunlight struck you like it was trying to worship too–glinting off the curves of your collarbone, catching in the soft line of your bra, painting warm shadows between the valley of your breasts and the slope of your shoulders. You looked almost surreal like that–so warm and real and close. Like a daydream he hadn’t dared put words to.

He exhaled–slow and ragged–and brought one hand forward, palm outstretched, fingers splayed like he was reaching toward something celestial.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Awed.

“Y-You’re…You’re r-radiant…”

The word barely made it past his lips.

You gave him a small, teasing smile, though your heart ached with the way he looked at you–like you were something sacred that might break if touched too roughly. Like if he blinked, you might be gone.

“You make it sound like I’m glowing,” You whispered.

He nodded without hesitation.

“You are.” And then finally, he touched you.

His fingertips met the soft skin of your waist first, brushing just above the band of your underwear, and sweatpants.

They lingered there, delicate and trembling, as if your warmth might scorch him. Then he slid them up slowly—achingly slowly—over your ribs, along the side of your body, until his palm flattened just beneath your breast. He stopped there. Just breathed. His forehead gently bowed until it pressed to your sternum like he was saying grace.

“I-I don’t…” He murmured against your skin, “I d-don’t know how I’m s-supposed to survive this…”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head, and whispered against the crown of it, “Think we just need to take it one step at a time…I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

He groaned quietly–like the weight of that kindness broke something in him–and kissed the center of your chest. Then he kissed lower. And lower. His mouth moving with aching gentleness, like every kiss was a vow.

When he reached your bra strap, he paused. Pressed a final kiss to the edge of the cup.

“C-Can I take this off?” He asked, voice hoarse with restraint.

You nodded slowly, arching slightly to help him.

He unclasped it with careful fingers–then pulled it away like he was parting the curtain of a temple. His eyes drank you in with a hunger that was soft, not frantic. Worshipful. Full of wonder and heat. His eyes drifted over the soft slope of your chest, the way your breasts rose and fell with your breath, the subtle curve of skin that caught the golden afternoon light like it had been painted there just for him. He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled slowly, shakily, like the air itself was too heavy to hold.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head.

The first kiss he pressed to the top of your breast was featherlight. His lips barely grazed your skin before pulling back again, his breath shaky as he let his mouth trail across the other side. A small, broken sound escaped him.

“Oh my g-god…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Y-You feel…you feel so soft…”

He brought his hand up next–tentatively–his fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the underside of one breast. His thumb brushed gently along the outer curve, then rose higher, tracing lightly across the peak without quite touching your nipple. His palm was warm–big and careful, like he didn’t want to squeeze too hard and break the moment.

“I-I didn’t know skin could be this s-soft,” He stammered, his breath catching again as he glanced up at you–eyes glassy, wide, rimmed faintly in gold and white. “Y-You’re…y-you’re beautiful. You’re–y-you’re so–”

He broke off, shaking his head slightly like the words just couldn’t come fast enough. Like none of them were enough.

Then he dipped his head again–lower this time.

His lips trailed slowly toward the center of your chest, kissing along the swell until they hovered just beside your nipple. His breath fanned warm against the sensitive skin there, and he hesitated for a beat–watching your face.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Your fingers slid gently into his hair, threading through the soft waves at the crown of his head, grounding him.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He leaned in and kissed right beside your nipple. Softly. Gently. Like a promise. Then again, this time a little closer. Your breath hitched, your grip tightening just slightly in his hair. His lips brushed over the hardened peak, not yet sucking, just dragging over it, teasing. His tongue flicked once, testing the heat of you there.

You gasped.

And that sound made something snap loose in him.

He groaned–low and shaky–then parted his lips and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

The heat of it sent a shock through you. His mouth was so warm, so tender–his tongue swirling softly as he drew you in deeper, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch beneath him. His eyes didn’t close. They stayed open–locked on yours, half-lidded and burning with something too big for either of you to name.

You saw it then–the faint shimmer of white blooming in his pupils, gold dust clinging to the edges like light at the center of a storm. But it was still him. He was in full control.

Your head tilted back as you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked harder, moaning softly against your breast like the taste of you undid him. His other hand rose to cup the untouched breast, squeezing gently, thumbing the nipple as his mouth continued lavishing the other. You could feel his fingers shake, even now. Could feel how hard he was trying to stay grounded, to stay present. Not because he didn’t want to lose control.

But because he wanted you to know he was choosing this.

Choosing you.

Every second. Every touch.

He moaned again against your skin, then pulled back just slightly–your nipple slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His lips were red now, kiss-swollen and damp, his breath heavy and ragged. He looked up at you again, and god, the look in his eyes–

Wrecked, and still trying to believe this was real.

“S-So beautiful…” His mouth was already moving to your other breast. His tongue traced a slow, trembling circle around the nipple first, warm breath hitting the damp skin as his hand continued to gently knead the other. Then he sealed his mouth over the soft peak and sucked.

Your back arched, a sound slipping from your lips that wasn’t quite a moan but something deeper, hungrier. He moaned too–low and hot–against your chest like the taste of you was dragging the restraint from his bones. His hips shifted at the same time, a slow grind of heat against heat, and the sudden pressure of him rubbing up between your legs made you cry out softly, gasping.

Your fingers threaded tighter into his hair.

He grunted softly against you, and then his free hand–shaking but sure–found yours, linking your fingers together like he needed to anchor himself. His grip wasn’t tight. Just intimate. A promise made skin-to-skin.

He pulled off your breast with a soft, wet pop, and his mouth was pink and glistening now, his lips parted and jaw slack like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you looked writhing beneath him.

“G-God…” he whispered, breath hitching as he rutted forward again—slow, desperate, a grind that made your hips twitch up to meet him. “I–I want to worship every inch of you… I–I wanna taste every goddamn part of your skin until you’re c-crying my name.” Your eyes blew wide at that. Your breath caught. A sound–needy, wrecked–escaped you.

“Bob…” He sat up, only for a second.

Just long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. He glanced up for permission–barely–but you nodded, hips lifting instinctively. That was all he needed.

He peeled them off slowly–achingly slow–dragging the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, baring more of you with every inch, and he hummed at the sight of the red underwear before him, smiling. Your fingers curled into the comforter beneath you.

“Bob…Please…” He looked up sharply at that–like the sound of your desperation hit him somewhere primal.

And then he bent forward.

His mouth pressed kisses to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

Then he did it again–lower. This time, his lips parted, and his tongue slid out just enough to lick a stripe upward along the soft skin near the edge of your underwear. You cried out, hips twitching, and his hands immediately pinned them gently down–holding you steady, grounding you.

He groaned–louder now–pressing his nose briefly to your inner thigh, his breath hot as he inhaled the scent of you. It made his whole body shudder.

You were soaked.

The dark spot on your underwear was undeniable, and when his eyes locked on it, he cursed again under his breath.

“Y-You’re so wet…”

“Bob,” you whimpered, breathless and shaking, “Please…Please touch me. I need your mouth, I–I need it so bad, I’m fucking aching.”

He pressed a kiss just beside the wet spot.

“Shhh…I-I’m gonna take my time with you…” He murmured–his voice lower now, slipping toward something more controlled but just as desperate. Bob pressed another kiss to your soaked underwear–right at the center this time–his lips lingering just long enough for the damp heat to soak into him, his breath shaking as he pulled back slightly.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Each one slower than the last, his mouth dragging across the wet fabric like he wanted to memorize the shape of you through it.

You whimpered, thighs trembling beneath his palms.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, voice cracking, “Please, please don’t tease, I c-can’t–god, I need you–need your mouth…” A broken sound spilled from his chest. Somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Y-You don’t even know what you’re d-doing to me.” His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear, and you lifted your hips for him, trembling with anticipation as he slid the lace down your thighs–inch by aching inch. His knuckles brushed the heat of your slick folds as he worked the fabric over your legs, and his breath caught sharply.

When they hit your knees, he paused–pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then slid the panties the rest of the way off.

He balled the lace softly in one hand.

Then tossed them aside like they were no longer necessary in the world.

His hands returned to your legs, and this time he gripped them firmly–fingers splayed wide as he lifted them, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned in until your thighs framed his face like a crown.

You gasped, hips twitching upward toward him, but he just…Looked.

Stared like he was witnessing something holy.

And then he exhaled–slow and trembling–and lowered his hands to your stomach.

His palms spread flat against your skin, fingers splaying across the soft curve just above your hips. The warmth of them grounded you, anchoring you, keeping you from floating away.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice trembling with awe. “About touching you here…K-kissing you here…Tasting you…” You whimpered again, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets beside you. Your thighs quivered over his shoulders as he bent lower, his thumbs sweeping lightly over your skin, just enough to soothe, but not enough to still the trembling that rolled through your body.

Then he kissed your belly, right at the center.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that left a trail of heat behind it, and when he pulled back, he blew softly against the spot–his breath cooling the wet spot.

He did it again. Lower.

Kiss. Warm. Lingering.

Then another gentle puff of air that left you gasping, your thighs tightening around his shoulders like your body was trying to anchor him closer.

“Bob,” you whimpered, arching just slightly beneath his touch, your hips shifting like they couldn’t stay still, not when he was this close, not when every breath against your skin made your core pulse with need.

He kept going.

Slow. Measured. Torturous.

He trailed kisses downward–along the soft curve just above your mound, the edge of your pelvis, the place where your thighs met the heat of your center–but never quite where you needed him. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and blown wide with awe, his lips pink and swollen from kissing every inch of you but the one you ached for.

Your hips jerked.

One of your hands clenched the comforter; the other tugged desperately at his hair.

But his hands never moved from your stomach.

He held you there, palms splayed like a vow, thumbs brushing softly across your trembling skin while your legs shook around his neck.

You whimpered again–helpless, broken–and your head tipped back with a soft cry.

He lowered his head.

Pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

Then another, closer to the edge of your folds.

Then, maddeningly slow, his lips brushed the crease just beside where you needed him the most–so close your whole body jerked.

You choked on a sob.

And then you felt his breath.

Hot and heavy.

And his voice–fragile but burning–just beneath it.

“G-God,” He whispered, eyes still locked on yours, “You’re so pretty when y-you’re begging me for it…”

Your breath hitched, before you let out a small laugh. High, shaky, and helpless.

Because it was true.

You were begging him. Practically sobbing for his mouth. And it was ridiculous and perfect and raw.

Bob gave the faintest smile–soft, wrecked, reverent.

“I-I know I’m gonna regret m-making you do that later,” he added, voice cracking just slightly, “Because when you get me back for it… It’s g-gonna destroy me.”

Your laughter melted into a groan.

”I’m…I’m glad you r-realized that…” Bob’s breath shuddered as he hovered there—face so close you could feel the heat of him, the faint tremble in his jaw as he fought to keep it together. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours again. You were already wrecked, trembling, breathless, soaked.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

“W-Well then,” He whispered, his voice hoarse and reverent, like he was offering an apology and a prayer in one, “L-Let me make it up to y-you…”

And then he leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue made your entire body jolt.

It was slow–just one, long, deliberate drag from the base of your folds all the way up, thick and warm and unhurried. You cried out, hips twitching helplessly, and his hands slid firmer over your stomach to ground you again. His moan vibrated against you, low and guttural, like the taste alone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Oh my g-god…” He whispered, his voice cracking apart at the seams. “You…You taste like heaven. L-Like I always knew you would…”

Then he dove back in.

It wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t shy. It was consuming.

His mouth worked against you like he’d been starved for it–like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. His tongue slid into you, slow and deep, curling with purpose as he moaned against your heat, tasting the slick arousal that pulsed out of you with every trembling breath. He moved like a man who had dreamed of this for too long, cataloged every detail of you in silence, and now, finally, was committing every second to memory with his mouth.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, high and broken, “Oh my god–”

He groaned again at the sound, the vibration rolling into you as his tongue worked in slow, reverent thrusts–in and out, savoring every drop of you before moving higher. When his mouth finally slid up to your clit, he licked over it once, twice–teasing, lazy strokes–before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking. Hard enough to make your hips jerk.

Your cry shattered the quiet.

Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, your back arching off the bed as pleasure slammed through your core like a wave. He held firm–anchored between your legs, groaning low as he kept sucking, then pulled back just slightly.

His mouth hovered, glistening and open, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked wrecked–lips swollen, chin slick with you, pupils blown wide with lust and awe.

“I-Jesus Christ…” He whispered, his voice lower now, stripped down to something darker. “You taste like sin and sunlight…”

Your breath caught. Your entire body pulsed with heat.

“…And I-I’m never gonna get enough of it.”

Then he was back on you again.

His mouth latched to your clit like he needed to drink from you–his tongue circling, flicking, then flattening to drag over you in waves that left you gasping. One of his hands slid off your stomach, reaching for the fist that was still tangled in the sheets beside you. He laced his fingers with yours, palm to palm, gripping tight as his tongue pressed against you again–wet and hot and desperate. You sobbed his name. Over and over, like a prayer.

“Bob–Bob–I can’t��please, I’m gonna–”

He moaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your entire body. He looked up at you through his lashes–eyes glowing faintly now, gold shimmering at the edges of blue, burning with care and awe. And he didn’t stop. He kept licking, sucking, and teasing you with his mouth like he meant to worship you apart, one tremble at a time.

Your hips bucked. Your thighs trembled. And your fingers tightened around his.

And still he didn’t let go.

As if holding your hand was the most important part. As if every sound you made, every tremor, every sob of his name was sacred, and he was anchoring you to the earth with his mouth and his touch. And you knew you were close.

Because your vision began to blur and your breath stuttered.

His grip only tightened. His mouth sucked harder. His tongue swirled with purpose. And he groaned again like he could taste how close you were. Your thighs trembled harder now–quaking around his head like they were begging to close, to pull him in and keep him there forever. Your chest heaved, hips rising again, trying to meet the maddening rhythm of his mouth. But then–God–

Bob changed.

He growled softly against you–low, primal, almost possessive–and then he truly devoured you.

His lips sealed tighter around your clit, and his tongue pressed harder, flicking and circling in messy, hungry swirls. No more teasing. No more restraint. Just heat. Pressure. Purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the room, slick and desperate and perfect, and your body–already on the edge–snapped.

Your fingers twisted violently in his hair.

Your other hand, still laced with his, squeezed hard–so hard your knuckles went white.

Your whole body arched off the bed as you cried out–loud and raw, his name a sob torn from your throat.

“Bob–oh my God–I’m coming–I–!”

You were writhing beneath him, bucking, legs trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering against his face, and he groaned against your core like he loved it–like he lived for the way you shattered under his tongue.

And he didn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitched. Not when you whimpered from oversensitivity. Not when your body shook so hard it felt like you might fall apart. He just kept licking–slow, filthy drags of his tongue, drinking down every drop of your release like it was sacred.

He moaned against your entrance again–tongue sliding in one last time to taste you at the source–then up to your clit, giving it one final suck that made your whole body jolt.

Only when he felt your trembling finally ease–when the spasms softened into aftershocks and your fingers went slack in his hair–did he finally pull back.

His lips were slick. His chin was drenched. His eyes were glazed and golden and wrecked.

He looked like a man undone.

And then–without a word–he kissed your inner thigh once. Then the other. Then the soft curve just above your mound. Worshipful. Devout.

And then he crawled back up your body.

Kissing as he went.

Your hips. Your belly. The center of your chest where your heart still raced. Your collarbone. The underside of your jaw.

By the time he reached your mouth, you were already panting again, lips parted and waiting.

And when he kissed you–it was filthy.

He didn’t hold back. His mouth was slick, desperate, open. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what you’d done to him–how drunk he was on your taste, how ruined he was from the act of loving you with his mouth. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you moaned loudly into him, tasting yourself on him–warm, sweet, dizzying.

And he groaned at the sound, deep and low in his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest.

When he pulled back, his lips were still brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

And then–voice wrecked, rough, so low it was almost a growl–he murmured:

“Y-You taste like you were made for my mouth…And I swear to god, I’d spend the rest of my life between your thighs if you let me.”

Your breath caught. Your legs twitched. Your stomach clenched with fresh heat. You were wrecked and soaked and trembling, and you still wanted him so bad it hurt.

You swallowed, tried to catch your breath–and then smiled, slow and dark and shaking with need.

Your hand slid over his chest.

Your lips brushed his ear.

And you whispered–

“Your turn.”

He blinked—once, then twice—like his brain was trying to catch up to what you meant. And when it finally did, when the meaning soaked through the haze of lust and reverence still clinging to him, he nodded—slowly, shakily.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a plea. He swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling fast beneath your touch. “B-But you need t-to take it easy on m-me… I’ll e-end up finishing really quick…”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh–gentle and wicked all at once.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his, “Wasn’t planning on making you finish that easily.”

Bob let out a half-choked groan–part embarrassment, part arousal, part awe.

“O-Oh God…”

And then he did exactly what you wanted–let himself fall back against the bed. His hair mussed further into the pillow, cheeks flushed, neck exposed, arms slightly bent at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. Desperately. But he didn’t. He let you take control.

You moved slow.

Straddling him gently, you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth–then his jaw. Then lower.

The edge of his throat. The hollow of it. The line where his neck met his shoulder.

He shivered.

Your lips traced down to his collarbone, teeth grazing it lightly before you kissed the center. He was so warm. So tense beneath you. You felt it all–every twitch, every catch of breath, every time he shifted beneath your hips like he was already aching.

You smiled against his skin.

Then moved lower.

Your mouth trailed down his chest now, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pecs–those warm, honey-colored constellations that dusted his pale skin like someone had painted the stars on him. You kissed each one that caught your attention.

He whimpered.

Then gasped when your teeth grazed the meat of his pec, a little nip just beside his nipple.

“F-Fuck…” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets at his sides now, his eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t handle watching you do this to him. “I-It’s t-too much–y-you’re…”

You kissed the center of his chest again. “You okay, Bob?”

He nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah, y-yeah, I just–y-you’re killing me…”

You continued your descent.

Lower now. Down the gentle slope of his abdomen, where muscle twitched beneath his skin at your touch. You traced your tongue along the soft trail of hair that led lower, then kissed the spot just below his navel.

That’s when you felt it.

The hardness beneath his sweatpant and boxers–thick and straining, the outline unmistakable against the fabric. He was ready. So ready it nearly made you groan just from the heat of him pressing up into your thigh.

But you didn’t rush.

You kissed around it.

Along his hips. His lower stomach. The spot just above the waistband.

He whimpered again–this time louder, more desperate.

His hips shifted up instinctively, trying to get friction, contact, anything.

You just smiled–sweet, dangerous–and looked up at him.

“Bob,” You murmured, brushing your hand slowly over the waistband, teasing your fingers just beneath it, “What do you say?”

He was panting now. Eyes wide, lips parted, sweat gathering at his brow. His voice cracked when it came.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry f-for teasing you…”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh?”

He nodded frantically, breath hitching again as your hand slipped fully beneath the waistband–but didn’t pull it down yet.

“P-Please…” He gasped, chest arching up toward you. “I-I’ll never do it again…P-Please, I-I c-can’t–just–please…” Your smile turned downright sinful.

“Good boy,” You whispered.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together–tugging them down slowly, until the fabric cleared his hips and the tension finally gave way.

You sucked in a breath as he sprang free–thick and flushed and already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-cum and twitching ever so slightly as the cool air hit him. He was…Big. Bigger than you’d expected. Bigger than anyone you’d ever seen before. Long, heavy, impossibly hard, the flushed head slightly curved and swollen with need. And the moment you stared, it hit you in a new way.

His thighs were trembling, his chest heaving. His whole body was braced like he was fighting not to lose it just from being touched.

“Holy fuck, Bob…” You breathed, and the awe in your voice made him twitch again.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes wide and desperate, golden light faint at the corners of his irises now.

“I-It’s n-not usually… I mean–I-I don’t–” His voice cracked, flustered, like he was about to apologize for the way his erection stood proud and leaking for you, like he was embarrassed for how ready he already was.

You reached out and wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, fingers barely managing to meet. You gave the slightest stroke, thumb brushing along the underside–and watched the way his breath stopped. His hips stuttered upward just barely, like he was trying not to buck.

”Don’t apologize.” You cooed, licking your lips slowly as your eyes dragged up to meet his again. You leaned down, so your breath ghosted over the tip, and his whole body stiffened.

Then your tongue flicked out.

One slow, teasing lick–just a soft, playful swipe across the head, collecting the salty bead of pre-come that had formed there. The taste hit your tongue, warm and slick and uniquely him, and your mouth curled into a smirk as you pulled back just enough to speak.

”You taste so good Bob.” And he felt his arms give out. He dropped back to the bed with a helpless groan, one hand flinging over his face, the other clutching the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

“I-I c-can’t–oh fuck, I c-can’t survive this…”

You let your grip slide higher along his shaft, fingers gliding with slow, steady pressure until your hand circled just beneath the head. He twitched again, and your thumb gently teased the tip.

“Poor thing,” You murmured, voice syrup-slick and sinful, “Already shaking for me?”

His head tipped back with a moan. “P-Please…”

You bent down again–this time kissing the tip, soft and slow.

Then you opened your mouth.

You took just the head in first, lips sliding over the crown, tongue swirling gently as you let him sit heavy and hot on your tongue. He moaned loudly, his hips twitching again, barely restrained, and his hand shot up to grip the pillow behind his head.

You pulled back, slowly, with a slick pop, then looked up at him again–your lips glossy, your voice low.

“You okay?”

He nodded frantically. “I-I don’t know how m-much of this I-I can take…”

You grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Then you took him back into your mouth–this time deeper, slower, letting your lips stretch around him, inch by inch. You felt every pulse, every twitch of his erection as your tongue pressed beneath the shaft and your throat adjusted. He groaned so loud it echoed through the room, raw and wrecked.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, slow and firm, while your tongue swirled and licked, teasing that sensitive ridge just beneath the head as you bobbed up and down in a rhythm that had him panting.

“F-Fuck–oh god–please–you’re gonna–g-gonna kill me…”

And you just moaned around him–low and hot–sending vibrations through his entire body. You didn’t stop.

Not when his thighs tensed. Not when his breath hitched. Not even when his hand left the pillow and dropped to your shoulder, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

You kept going. Letting him slide deeper with each pass of your mouth, your lips gliding down his shaft as your tongue pressed and curled beneath him–dragging along the sensitive underside just to hear the way he gasped, then choked, then whimpered your name.

Your hand worked in tandem—fisting around the base of him in slow, steady strokes that kept time with the rhythm of your mouth. And the sounds he made were everything. Guttural, helpless, and pleading. Like he didn’t know whether he was supposed to worship you or fall apart for you.

Then his voice cracked.

“J-Jesus–” He gasped, hips stuttering upward as you took him deep again. “I-I’m–f-fuck, I’m close–!”

You pulled off instantly.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just smooth, controlled, intentional.

His erection slipped free of your mouth with a slick pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to the tip as it twitched in the air–wet, flushed, leaking.

Bob choked on a sound–half sob, half whimper–and his eyes flew open, dazed and pleading. His chest heaved beneath you, rising and falling in uneven, desperate bursts as his hand shot forward like he didn’t understand why you’d stopped.

You licked your lips.

Saliva coated your mouth, your chin, even your cheek, and you wiped at it absently with the back of your hand–eyes locked on his the entire time.

He looked destroyed. Pink-cheeked and sweat-damp, pupils blown wide and blinking like you’d just left him in the middle of a battlefield without a weapon.

“W-Why’d you…?” He whispered, voice cracking on the edge of devastation. You giggled, sweet and sinful all at once. Then leaned in–close enough for your lips to brush the underside of his jaw.

“I told you,” You murmured, voice velvet-wicked and dripping heat, “I wasn’t planning on letting you finish that easily…”

Bob whimpered again–audibly this time–and his hips twitched like they couldn’t handle the tension coiling inside him. He looked down at himself–still fully hard, twitching, slick from your mouth–and then back at you like you’d committed an act of holy betrayal. You smiled wider.

Then, slowly, you let your hand curl around the base of his erection again–just enough to feel him throb beneath your touch.

He gasped–eyes fluttering shut, head falling back onto the pillow.

“And besides…” You added, voice lower now, dripping promise, “If you’re going to cum anywhere…” You leaned up, brushing your mouth beside his ear, your breath hot and deliberate as your body shifted higher–lining yourself up along the length of him, not yet taking him, just letting him feel the heat of your soaked core hovering, “…It’s gonna be inside me.” His whole body jolted at your words–like the thought of being inside you, of finishing inside you, hit him somewhere primal.

His hands found your hips–hot and trembling–his fingers splayed wide like he was trying to hold himself together with touch alone. You watched the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered down to where your body hovered just above him, and then back up again.

“I-Is it…Is it safe?” He asked softly, voice frayed and wrecked and barely holding together. “I-I mean, f-for you…?”

You smiled–slow and knowing–and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the way his breath stuttered.

“Yes, Bob,” You murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his. “I’m clean… and I’m on birth control.”

He exhaled–shaky and hot, like he’d been holding the breath in his chest for days–and the sound of it ghosted across your lips.

But before you could tease him again–

He moved.

Fast.

You let out a surprised yelp–half laugh, half moan–as he rolled you underneath him in one sudden, fluid motion, his body moving like instinct, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and your hair splayed across the pillow as you looked up at him–eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.

“Bob!” You gasped, breathless with laughter.

But he was already there–already kissing your neck.

His mouth found the pulse point just below your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as you laughed and moaned beneath him. One hand cupped your hip while the other braced beside your head, his chest flush to yours, heat rolling off his skin in waves.

“I-I knew…” he whispered between kisses, his voice ragged and thick, “I knew you’d be the person who w-wrecks me like this.”

Your breath caught. And then you smiled–soft and wicked and full of everything you hadn’t said yet. You reached up, cupped his face gently between your palms, and you kissed him like you were trying to pour the very ache of your love into his mouth, like you needed him to feel how much you wanted this–him. Not just now. Not just physically.

But all of him Forever, if he’d let you.

He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking down instinctively, grinding the thick length of his erection against your soaked core. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tightening against his jaw as he rutted forward again–slow, teasing strokes that slid his length right through your slick folds, nudging against your clit every time he rolled his hips.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked with need, “Y-You feel so wet…I-I can feel how bad you want it…”

“I do,” You breathed against his lips, “I want you so bad, Bob. I want all of you…”

That undid him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you–really look at you.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes damp at the corners. His lips were kiss-swollen and pink, and his breath stuttered as he propped himself on one elbow and reached down between your bodies with his other hand.

You felt it when his fingers wrapped around himself again–heard the soft, wet sound as he dragged the flushed head of his erection through your folds one more time. Up and down ever so slowly.

Your hips twitched.

And then he found your entrance.

He paused, just for a beat.

His eyes flicked up again, searching your face, checking one last time.

“Y-You sure?” He whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure,” You breathed, hand sliding down to rest over his thudding heart.

That was all he needed.

He pushed forward.

The first inch made your whole body tighten–heat blooming in your core like something sacred breaking open.

He was thick. Stretching you already. But he went slow like every second mattered. His breath stuttered as he pressed in deeper, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted, a soft moan falling from your lips as you felt him sink inside you, inch by careful inch, filling you with such deliberate tenderness it made your eyes sting.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, back arching slightly, thighs trembling, “B-Bob…”

He was shaking too–sweat beading along his brow, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it from just the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“G-God…” Bob gasped, voice shaking as his hips rolled forward another inch. “You’re t-taking me s-so well, Y/N… You’re stretching around me so g-good…”

Your breath caught, hips twitching as he filled you deeper, the weight and width of him making you gasp. You could feel everything–every slow inch of him, every tremble in his arms as he held himself up, every quake in his breath as he tried to keep from sinking into you too fast.

Your arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back—not harsh, not clawing, just enough to leave small crescent reminders that you were there. That this was real. That he was inside you.

And still he pushed deeper.

Bit by bit.

Agonizing. Perfect.

Until he bottomed out–his hips flush with yours, the thick head of his cock pressed just barely against your cervix.

You gasped, your whole body jolting softly beneath him. “Ah–B-Bob–just a little careful…”

His eyes flew to yours, wide and wrecked. He nodded quickly, breathless. “Y-Yeah. Y-Yeah, I got you. I-I’ll take it slow…” You nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip as your legs curled tighter around his waist. He was trembling now—arms braced on either side of your head, his body a taut wire strung between reverence and restraint.

He kissed you.

Soft and deep, his mouth pressing to yours with a desperation that made your chest ache. Then he pulled back just enough to move–slowly.

He slid out–inch by inch–until only the tip remained inside you, slick and hot and pulsing. And then he thrust forward again.

Gentle.

Deep.

Your moan was soft, trembling, like it had been carved from somewhere sacred inside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and his were already there–locked on yours.

And oh god, the way he looked at you.

Like he was drowning in the sight of you. Like your face was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His hips rolled again–smooth and slow–pressing into you with that same impossible depth.

You whimpered softly, your nails digging into his back again, and for a second, you half-worried that it might hurt him–but he didn’t react.

Not a flinch.

He just kept moving steadily. Like your body was the temple and he was made to worship inside it.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice cracking as he whispered:

“I-It’s like you w-were made to hold me l-like this…” You whimpered again, hips rising slightly to meet his next thrust, and the friction—slow, full, rhythmic—made your toes curl.

His hand slid to your face, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. He kissed you again–deeper this time–tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that matched the motion of his hips.

“I-I love the way you sound…” He murmured against your lips. “Love the way you look at me like I’m s-someone worth this…”

You moaned into his mouth, your body trembling beneath him, and he didn’t stop.

His thrusts stayed slow, steady, deep.

His praises never stopped either.

“You’re so b-beautiful…You feel so fucking good around me… I-I could stay inside you forever…”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering as another slow stroke dragged a cry from your throat. “B-Bob…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Always.”

And he rocked into you again, his breath ragged and mouth still brushing yours as he filled you over and over, every thrust a promise, every kiss a prayer.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and your voice–low and breathless–shook against his mouth.

“F-Faster, Bob… please.”

His hips paused, his breath catching. His eyes opened just enough to meet yours–wild and warm and so full of emotion it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“You sure…?” He whispered, his voice cracking with restraint, with reverence.

You nodded, lips brushing his cheek. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He groaned like you’d just ripped something out of him–deep and raw and ragged. Then his hips rolled forward again, a little harder this time. A little deeper. You gasped, your head tipping back against the pillow as he started to move faster–still gentle, still careful–but with a new kind of rhythm. One that made your whole body arch to meet him.

Every thrust dragged a soft cry from your lips, and he swallowed each one with kisses–down your jaw, across your cheek, then lower, to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, just beneath your ear, and you shivered as his breath caught.

“I c-can’t stop kissing you,” He whispered. “Y-Your skin–your neck–fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever needed…”

Then he bit you.

Just once–just enough to leave the faintest mark. And before you could even moan his name, his tongue was there, licking the spot like he could soothe it back to calm. But it only made you shake harder beneath him.

“F-Fuck, Bob–” You gasped, nails dragging lightly down his back now, digging in just enough to make him whimper. “You feel so good–so deep–God, you’re perfect—”

He let out a broken noise, hips stuttering, and the next thrust hit deeper, grinding gently against the soft barrier of your cervix. Your moan was wrecked—high and ragged and unrestrained.

“Y/N,” He moaned hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Y-You’re squeezing me so tight–I-I can feel you pulling me in–I can’t–fuck–”

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips as he kept thrusting, deeper and faster now–wet and hot and slippery with everything you’d given him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room like something sacred and messy and alive.

His moans were desperate–soft at first, then deeper, throatier, more broken with every roll of his hips. You could hear the tremble in them, like he was fighting himself with every breath, trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You’re so good for me,” He whispered against your mouth, voice frayed with awe. “Y-You’re everything–I can’t–I don’t ever wanna leave this body, this bed, this moment–”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his shoulders now, your whole body rolling up to meet each of his thrusts, matching his rhythm even as your legs trembled around his waist.

“I’m s-so close,” You gasped, “Bob, I–I’m gonna–”

“I feel it,” He moaned, and he didn’t stop moving—just kept pushing deeper, grinding slower at the end of each thrust now like he was trying to drag your orgasm out of you with his body. “C-Come for me, baby–please–I-I wanna feel you lose it–I w-wanna feel it all–”

And it was messy now.

So messy.

Your slick was coating him, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your moans were tangled with his–louder now, echoing off the walls, hot and unfiltered and desperate. He was shaking on top of you, muscles taut, chest slick with sweat, the tension in his body barely held together by the grip of your hands on his back.

Your nails dragged down his spine again, and he let out the loudest moan yet–a broken, reverent cry against your shoulder.

“I-I can’t–I c-can’t hold it back much longer–” He gasped.

“Don’t,” you whispered, panting against his mouth, “Don’t hold back. Just f-fuck me, Bob…P–Please.” You whimpered.

He growled–soft and wrecked–and his next thrust was deeper, smoother, the angle perfect. You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave–rolling through you in waves that left your whole body writhing, crying out, sobbing his name. Your thighs locked tight around his waist. Your arms clung to him like a lifeline.

And he felt it.

Felt you tighten, clench, squeeze him so hard it almost pushed him over the edge with you.

He groaned–loud and hoarse–and kissed you through it, his thrusts slowing just enough to ride out the quake of your orgasm, whispering broken praises between each kiss.

“You’re so b-beautiful like this–so perfect–so good–so fucking good for me–” His hips stuttered once–then twice–shallow and trembling as he tried to hold on. But the way your walls pulsed around him, still fluttering from your orgasm, dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“F-Fuck–I’m gonna–oh my god–” His voice cracked, and then he thrust deep.

All the way in.

One last, hard, perfect stroke that ground right up against your cervix–flush, thick, shaking.

And he came.

You felt it.

The hot flood of it–spilling deep inside you, thick and molten. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling as he clutched you, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a small, broken sound.

“Ah–fuck–ngh– Y/N–” His whimper was soft and wet, lips brushing your skin as he moaned through his release. He stayed buried inside you as he came, throbbing, pulsing with every wave, hips twitching in small jerks until it slowed–until all he could do was breathe. His arms folded under your shoulders, and he let himself settle on top of you with a low, shaky sigh. His weight was warm and grounding, not heavy–just enough to make you feel wrapped in him, surrounded by him.

You sighed too–soft and slow and utterly wrecked–and your nails grazed lightly up his back, dragging in gentle, satisfied lines over sweat-slick skin.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, your voice breathy with awe and disbelief.

Bob let out the faintest laugh–hushed and dazed and still short of breath. Then his lips started moving again. Everywhere. Pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the space beneath your ear. Tiny, messy kisses. Adoring ones. He couldn’t stop.

“Y-You’re unreal…” He murmured against your skin. “C-Can’t believe I’m here. With you. Inside you. Like this…”

You smiled, your heart fluttering.

He shifted–just enough to raise his head and look down at you, cheeks flushed, lips red, hair a golden, tangled halo. You reached up, cupped his face with one hand, and ran your thumb gently along his cheekbone, pushing his hair out of his face int he process.

“Hi,” You whispered.

His chest rose with a warm, broken laugh, and his hand came up to cradle your face in return–his palm cupping your jaw like it was precious.

“Hi,” He breathed, voice still trembling.

You both giggled–giddy, overwhelmed, barely able to process the way the world still felt like it was glowing from within.

Bob leaned in, kissed you softly–slow and messy and open-mouthed, like he was still drunk on you. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and sat up slowly, his cock still sheathed inside you, twitching slightly from overstimulation.

You whimpered softly at the shift, and his hand rubbed along your thigh.

“I-I’m gonna pull out,” He informed quietly. “Just…Real slow.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He moved gently–so gently–and as he slid out of you, you both gasped softly. You could feel it instantly: his cum already dripping out of you, thick and warm and sticky against your inner thighs.

Bob saw it too. His eyes widened slightly. He let out a soft groan.

“Y-You’re already leaking…”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, trembling slightly, before carefully gathering what had come out of you on them and pushing it back into you. You jolted at the suddenness, back arching slightly with a small gasp.

“B-Bob!”

“Shhh,” He murmured, kissing your knee as he slowly pushed his fingers deeper. “W-Want to make sure you keep a l-little bit of me in you… F-For a little bit longer.”

Your cheeks burned.

He pulled back just slightly and watched–mouth parted, breath trembling–as his fingers glistened, slick with the mix of you both. He looked enchanted by it. Awestruck. And when he pulled them out, you reached for his wrist before he could wipe them clean.

You brought his hand to your mouth.

And licked.

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You wrapped your lips around the tips of his fingers and dragged your tongue along them, tasting the arousal still warm on his skin. The mix of your essence and his. His breath hitched sharply. His other hand gripped your hip.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice barely holding together. “That’s… god, that’s so hot…”

You smiled against his fingers, slowly letting them slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes dark and glassy.

And then he said it.

Voice low. Reverent. Almost dreamlike.

“I could die right now…And it’d still be the most beautiful moment of my life.”

You laughed softly–your laugh shaking a little this time, because of how honest it sounded. How completely undone he looked saying it.

And then you tugged him back down into your arms.

Because you needed to feel him again.

Because his body, warm and wrecked and trembling, belonged right there–with you.

He let out a small, contented sigh, nuzzling his nose gently into your cheek as his arms wrapped around your waist. His body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, and he was warm–so warm, like his skin was humming with leftover sunlight and your name.

“…Y-You know…” He murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and shy in a way that was almost too soft to hear. “I-I really…Really like you. R-Right?” You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest–sweet and wrecked and giddy.

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile tugging crookedly at your lips as you whispered, “If that mind-blowing sex wasn’t a testament to that, I’d be interested to see what is…”

Bob flushed deep red. His laugh cracked as it left him–quiet and breathless, like it had been knocked loose by your words. He kissed you again–softly, lovingly, like he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, he was still smiling, cheeks pink and eyes glassy.

“We…W-we should drink some water,” He said, voice low and dreamy and still a little unsteady. “A-And then do it all over again…M-Maybe in your room this time…”

You arched a brow, your grin turning sly. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For evenness.” He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For symmetry.”

You laughed—loud and unrestrained this time, the sound muffled only slightly by his lips as they brushed along your shoulder.

“Get the water bottles,” you said, running your fingers slowly through his sweat-damp hair, “And I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He groaned softly against your skin, already rolling off the bed with a dizzy grin whispering, “A–Anything for you.”

[for-a-longlongtime]

Queer fic rec - Joel jerking it to gay porn for the first time... that's it.

ANON!! I love this request. Fitting to be my first fic this Pride month 💜 Thank you for sending it to me, I hope you like this one!

Construction Corner - Joel Miller

Warnings: Explicit 🔞🔥 🏳‍🌈 Masturbation, watching m/m porn with deep throating, rimming, anal play, gay panic (momentarily), oral (f receiving), PiV. [Light editing] Word count: 2.6K

read on AO3 | main masterlist

Sarah is gone for the weekend, leaving Joel with some rare free time for himself. That’s how he finds himself here. Friday night with the curtains closed in his living room, a couple of Blockbuster rentals on his coffee table. The adult flicks come in white, unmarked VHS boxes - “for your discretion” - which is why he didn’t pay too much attention to what he grabbed; he knows the shelves that generally hold stuff he likes to get off to. It’s why he doesn’t wait to see the intro once he hits play, and instead gets himself another cold beer.

By the time he settles in on the couch, the camera has just finished panning over a construction site and is now zooming in on someone putting down lumber. “Can’t get away from work for a damn second,” Joel mutters as he takes a swig of his beer, contemplating whether to switch out the tape for another one - it’s not like he’s exactly thrilled to see yet more of a workplace much like his own.

The stunted dialogue doesn’t really register with him as he watches two guys talk - both dressed in jeans, the younger one without a shirt and clearly sweating as he’s holding a rotary tool. Craftsman, or Milwaukee, Joel guesses as he squints to make out the brand name. A little nagging voice in his head bitches there’s really no reason to whip out a Dremel tool for that pile of unfinished lumber on screen.

“Wouldn’t be there for that job,” he mutters to himself as he takes another drink of his beer, trying to stop himself from fact checking equipment in a damn porn movie. “And that’s not a quarter inch pip—OH.” He nearly chokes on the hoppy beverage, barely able to avoid a coughing fit as he stares at his television screen.

Young Guy is on his knees for Older Boss Guy, tugging down the man’s unzipped jeans and groaning as a seriously big dick is revealed to him.

For a split second Joel wonders if the kid at Blockbuster pulled a prank on him by swapping out the tapes. But, no - it must have been an accident with these unmarked VHS boxes. His instinct is to reach for the remote so he can turn off the movie and put in one of the other tapes. But his mouth goes dry as he watches Young Guy slowly lick the older man’s cock, the camera lingering on every detail. 

Base to tip, his tongue tracing the thick vein on that large dick, and oh - Joel bites his lip hard when he notices the man is uncut. Just like him. Thick but trimmed pubes, yet another thing he hardly ever sees in porn. Maybe it’s the novelty of that, or that it’s been a very long time that he’s seen someone’s mouth on a cock that - minus the length - reminds him of his own. But when he sees the younger guy greedily suck on the fat dick head, drops of saliva sloppily sliding down the length, he feels himself twitch unmistakingly in his boxers. 

By the time that cock is buried into the guy’s throat, Joel’s hand is on his sweats, stroking himself through the soft fabric - his heart racing a hundred miles an hour, as if someone could suddenly catch him in the act and ask him what the hell he was doing.

What is it exactly that he is doing?

It’s fine. 

This is fine, he tries to tell himself. He’s just… wound up. 

It’s been too long since he’s dated anyone, or even had a one night stand. The last time was with that pretty woman who kept flirting with him at Sarah’s school. After they hooked up, she told him that ‘technically’ she was still married, but she was no longer attracted to her husband - which was a level of drama he didn’t want to get into, especially not since their kids were in the same class. It had been over a year ago, maybe two at this point, as there was hardly any time to breathe between work and raising Sarah, and all the never ending chores.  

He just needs to get off. Really, really badly. 

That’s all. 

Rub one out quickly because he’s too tired to get up and change the tape. 

That’s all this is.

“Goddamnit.” He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath while staring at the tv, but when Young Guy cups Boss Guy’s balls in his hand, the air just whooshes out of Joel’s lungs with an embarrassingly loud sound. Both actors moan, and Joel’s breathing gets heavier when he sees Young Guy’s mouth travelling south, back down the throbbing length. Fuck. Is he gonna…

He watches the kneeling guy lick those heavy balls, teasingly and messily. He sucks one into his mouth, then tries to fit the rest of the ballsack into his mouth - and somehow, that is the thing that just fuckin’ breaks Joel and chases the last bit of hesitation out of his head. 

He pushes his sweats down quickly, cock hard and leaking against his stomach as he leans over to grab some lotion to help him out. The cool creaminess makes him hiss for a moment as it touches his hot skin, but as he generously spreads it over his dick, everything immediately feels so, so much better now that he’s giving into it. 

The tight fit of his hand around his cock is both relief and torture, and he roughly strokes himself up and down, matching the pace he’s seeing on the television. It has only been a few minutes, but he is achingly hard already, more turned on by porn than he has been in a long, long time. 

He gasps when the guy on the screen teases the other man’s foreskin, clearly riling him up and then backing off again - until he seems to have pushed him too far.

With a growl, Boss Guy grabs the younger man by his hair and tugs him up to his feet. But before Joel can be disappointed about the interrupted blowjob, the camera angle switches and shows Younger Guy being shoved back against the wall. Leaving no doubt about who is in charge, Boss Guy’s large hand is immediately wrapped around the base of the slighter man’s throat - not choking him, but nevertheless a clear display of dominance that makes shivers run down Joel’s spine. 

Young Guy whines as he stares back at the older man. His chest is heaving as he fumbles to undo his own jeans; not just pulling his cock out, but shoving his pants all the way down. 

“Please. Fuck my ass.” 

They’re the first words said during the movie that actually register with Joel, and his cock once again responds with resounding affirmation. On the tv, the guy is roughly being put on all fours, and then Boss Guy is on him like a starved man. Strong hands kneading his ass, spreading him wide to admire his hole - and when the Young Guy whines again, it’s because there’s a tongue up his ass and a hand firmly wrapped around his cock, starting to jerk him off.

“Jesus.” Joel’s breathing stutters as he’s enraptured by the view, his hips bucking up as his mind is reeling - hell, even imagining it. How it would feel to be pushed down like that and have someone eat his ass like that. Tongue, lips, fingers… He bites his lip hard as he watches a thick finger slip into the guy’s ass, making Younger Guy moan loudly, and all of a sudden Joel is mentally transported back to a holiday fling he’d had in his twenties. 

She - he couldn’t remember her name - was a lot more forward than he was used to. Barely an hour after she had made the first move at him in a bar, they were fucking at her apartment. She’d slipped the tip of her finger into his ass, right when he was about to come down her throat, making him orgasm so hard that he thought he was going to black out for a moment. It had been exhilarating, the shock of the sudden surprise lessened by the amount of alcohol he had consumed - and it had never happened again afterwards. He probably hadn’t even thought about it anymore… 

…until now. 

Until he watched the guy on the screen arch his back, drunk on pleasure as Boss Guy continues to eat him out and open him up. How Younger Guy grabs his own dick, starting to jerk himself off as he surrenders to how the other man handles him, getting him ready to get fucked. 

Joel’s breathing is heavy, hips thrusting up as he fucks his fist hard, unable to stop the thoughts that are suddenly embedded in his mind. Which one of the two guys did he wish he could be? The one getting the rimjob of a lifetime, or the older, broader guy who held him down and was about to take him?

He curses as the fantasy slams him over the edge much faster than he expected, and with a loud groan he spills his seed all over his hand and sweatpants, barely avoiding the couch. His heart races as he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, seeing Boss Guy make the Young Guy cry out with his fingers buried into him - and suddenly it’s too much, all of it, right there. 

He fumbles for the remote and turns off the tv, his hand suddenly trembling. As post-nut clarity sinks in, he feels a wave of anxiety wash over him that he hasn’t experienced before. It crawls through his chest, flowing his throat and brain, shoving aside the euphoria of his orgasm. Scoffing at him about what he just did - about what got him so fucking turned on. The nerve wrecking doubt of whether he should report it’s the wrong tape when returning the VHS, or… not.

‘Just play dumb’, that little voice at the back of his brain whispers. ‘Do you really want to have a conversation with the rental guy about how you just got off to gay porn?’ 

He drains the rest of his bottle of beer, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. But they only grow louder, questioning him (‘You hit your mid thirties and suddenly you’re into dick? Are you having an early midlife crisis?’ ), reminding him of all the times in an average week he hears gay slurs all around him. Mr. Adler’s vocal dislike “of those city boys”. Tommy’s asshole friend at the hardware store - shit, Tommy. What the hell would his brother think of him if he knew what he just jerked off to?

Another beer later, still trying to suppress the panic in his brain, he finds himself staring at Tess’ phone number. It’s been a long time since they last hooked up, especially since she’d been pretty seriously involved with someone for a while. But that relationship had recently ended - plus, in addition to living pretty close to him, she is one of the few people he knows who wouldn’t mind a last minute thing on a Friday night.

He sighs as he hits the dial button, his skin crawling when he looks over at the stacked VHS tapes on his coffee table. Sure, he doesn’t have to call her - but the other option is to just sit here and probably get more anxious about the whole thing. He just had to shake it off, spend some time with her, even if it’s just to reassure himself that *that* is what he is actually into.

“Hey, it’s Joel,” he says, eyes still closed and his head tipped back against the couch. “Yeah, all ‘s fine. What are you doing right now?” 

Her laugh, always somewhere between cheerful and mocking, sounds so good to him right now. As he suggests where to meet up, he can’t help but think back of the last time they fucked - it was also a weekend that Sarah wasn’t home, except for that time Tess had ended up at his doorstep. And in his bed, for most of those two days. He almost didn’t go into work that Monday, physically worn out, but god - it had been good.

This will be good, too. Drinks, then her place. No VHS tapes to think about or questions to ask himself.

 —-------

Somehow, less than two hours later, he’s right back on his doorstep again. 

The beer was good. Tess had been more than fine - that perfume he always likes on her had been calling his name, whispering all kinds of promises. Reminding him this was basically a done deal. It felt good when her hand moved to rest on his thigh after the second drink, her eyes much too observant as always, reading him like a book. “My place?” 

Plain, simple, uncomplicated and direct; Tess all the way. Exactly what he wanted. They made out in the parking lot, pressed against his truck, and when Tess had grabbed his hand and guided it into her underwear, he had lost all sense of restraint. 

Joel ate her out rough and fast on the backseat, groaning against her pussy when she came by his tongue alone. Once they made it to her place, they fucked in the bedroom, and it was good - but it wasn’t… the same as usual. 

Even when he was buried deep inside of her, that goddamn video was on his mind. How Boss Guy had been preparing the Young Guy to get fucked, opening him up with his fingers and mouth. And, Jesus Christ, he’d blown his load right into Tess before he even realized it. First time since he was a teenager that he had fucked up so badly. He’d been too embarrassed to stick around, even though she didn’t make a big deal out of it, and that’s how he found himself home again.

Shower, then bed, he decides - especially when his watch signaled that it was close to midnight already. He scrubs his skin hard in frustration with his body wash, leaving the shower on too hot for too long just to get distracted, but once he lays down in his cool bed, he finally feels more balanced. Ready for sleep.

Even after twenty minutes. Thirty.

He’s not sure what time it is when he goes back downstairs. 

The video tape is still in the VHS player, almost taunting him. As if it knows Joel better than he knows himself. 

“Just five minutes,” he tells himself as he settles in on the couch, turning the tv on and hitting play on the VCR remote again. 

Maybe ten at the most. 

Just to see if they do fuck.

main masterlist | follow @longlongtime-updates for fic updates

dividers by @saradika!

Heads up to folks who dropped some love on the announcement post (and some of y'all who might be interested!) (sorry if I tagged you while you already saw it, I forgot to do this last night):

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@courier6sblog @dadskat @almostempty

[dollyswishingwell]

Hi sorry to bother but could you do a version where they have a baby boy and is competing with the lads guys for mcs attention? I think it would be so cute

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s prince

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff and adorable rivalry. i love that all of us are thinking on the same wavelength! i feel like i found my people ₍₍⚞(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ The boys and their mini copies love fighting for mommy’s attention

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun pours in through the curved glass walls of your sea-facing villa, casting shimmering reflections across the marble floor. The air smells faintly of ocean breeze, mango, and expensive packaging paper. Again.

You’re standing in the living room in your nightgown, well, trying to, anyway, because in front of you are six white garment bags, four shoe boxes, a stack of velvet boxes, and two clingy boys locked in a silent war of affection.

Rafayel is lounging lazily on the seashell-pink couch, legs crossed, shirt unbuttoned halfway like always. His pink-blue eyes gleam with mischief as he motions to the open boxes.

“All for you,” he says, smug. “Thomas was furious I skipped the shoot, but I think spending the morning buying out Ileana Versé’s new drop was a far better use of my time.”

“You skipped the shoot again?” you ask, peeling back the layers of tissue paper to find a sheer lavender gown embroidered with tiny starfish. “Raffy—”

“You’re missing the point, cutie,” he interrupts, voice sing-songy. “Put that one on. I want to see it. It’ll match the shell earrings from last week.”

Just as you’re about to step behind the screen to try it, a soft little voice pipes up:

“I made sumfing, too!”

You turn.

Your two-year-old son, who looks like a miniature version of Rafayel down to the middle-parted waves and pouty lips, is standing beside the couch with his arms full of paper, ribbon, and crayon-smudged cloth. His cheeks are pink, part shyness, part fury. He marches up to you and thrusts his gift into your hands.

“Dis one’s for you. Not daddy. Only you.”

You crouch down and carefully unfold the chaos bundle. It’s… sort of a dress? A makeshift halter gown cut from gauze, with shell buttons (some glued on sideways), a messy crayon heart scribbled near the neckline, and “MOMEE” written in wobbly baby handwriting.

It’s clearly been stapled together in places. There’s even a belt made of rainbow ribbon.

“I made it by myself,” he adds fiercely. “’Cause I love you more than Daddy.”

Rafayel sits up straighter, a hand over his chest like he’s been personally wounded.

“You traitor,” he gasps dramatically. “I showed you how to mix pearl dust into paint and this is how you thank me?”

“He helped me cut stuff,” the baby mumbles, wobbling over to your side and wrapping his arms around your leg. “But I made it. So Mommy loves me more now.”

You look between them: Rafayel, still shirt half-undone, looking offended but amused, his gaze flicking between you and the toddler with a smug tilt of his head… and your tiny son, clinging to you, glaring daggers at his dad.

You hold up both dresses.

“…Do I try on both?”

“Obviously mine first,” Rafayel says.

“No, mine!” your son shouts, nearly in tears.

You sigh.

Ten minutes later, you emerge from the walk-in closet in your baby’s handmade “dress,” which is already unraveling at the seams. The shell buttons clink together softly as you walk.

“I’m two steps away from being naked” You deadpan.

Rafayel drops his wine glass.

“…Okay, that is criminally cute,” he mutters.

Your son lights up like a sunrise and runs over to spin you around. “You’re my pwincess,” he giggles, arms up for a hug.

You crouch to hold him, and he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s won.

Except—

Rafayel slinks over and kneels beside you both, pressing a kiss to your temple with a whisper:

“My turn next. I’m buying you a crown.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your home is quiet, too quiet, considering you live with two Zaynes.

You step into the sunroom, the warmth of the afternoon lighting up the pristine space. The air smells faintly of coffee, books, and lavender floor cleaner, Zayne’s usual routine. On the low table is a teacup waiting for you, your favorite lemon biscuit carefully plated beside it. You already know he placed it there.

But what you weren’t expecting is your baby sitting upright on the sofa, his little legs crossed primly, and a stern expression that mirrors his father’s to perfection.

He holds up a clipboard.

“I’ve reviewed your schedule, Mommy,” he says with an adorable lisp. “You forgot to take your 1:30 rest time. I’m escorting you to the couch.”

“…You’re four.”

“Rules are rules, mommy,” he says gravely.

You chuckle and let him lead you to the couch, where he fussily arranges a pillow behind your back and tucks a blanket over your lap. Then he retrieves a medical toy kit and begins tapping your knee with the fake reflex hammer.

“Vitals: perfect,” he mumbles. “But you should eat more fruit. Daddy says you’re ane-anenic.”

“Anemic, my snowflake”

From behind you, a low voice hums:

“You’ve been reading my reports again.”

Zayne walks in, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from his shift at the hospital. He sets down his briefcase and pushes his glasses up as he surveys the scene, his son taking your pulse with a toy stethoscope like it’s the most serious operation in the world.

“He’s mimicking you,” you murmur, hiding a laugh behind your hand.

“I noticed,” Zayne replies, sitting beside you. “His penmanship is better than mine.”

Your son scowls slightly and tucks closer to your side, clearly not enjoying the intrusion.

“I was here first, daddy!” he declares.

Zayne raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the spot where the boy’s tiny hand is wrapped around yours possessively.

“…Territorial. I wonder where he gets it from.”

“I don’t hog Mommy,” he says, voice clipped and dignified, “I just don’t share.”

Zayne leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “I don’t either.”

And just like that, it’s on.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It starts like any normal afternoon in your oddly serene home, Xavier curled up like a sleepy cat in the middle of the couch, a book half-finished on his chest, the ever-present faint hum of classical music playing from the ceiling speakers. The city below buzzes quietly beneath the glass floor of the sky-high penthouse, but inside, everything feels wrapped in clouds.

You’ve just returned from a quick outing, grocery bags in hand, a breeze in your hair, and not even one foot in the door before a soft thump echoes through the space.

“Mommy!”

The words are as measured as they are high-pitched. Your three-year-old son comes speed-walking out of the hallway, looking exactly like Xavier but smaller, puffier, and with even less regard for normal toddler expressions. Silver hair in a sleepy halo, oversized cream sweater sliding off one shoulder, and those familiar pale blue eyes blinking up at you like you’re the sun.

He clings to your leg with quiet urgency.

“You were gone,” he states simply.

“For twenty minutes, my baby,” you say with a smile, crouching to ruffle his hair.

“That’s eighty-one thousand milliseconds.”

You blink. “…Did your father teach you that?”

“Obviously.”

From the couch, Xavier lifts a hand without looking up.

“She forgot her scarf,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “Neck exposure is dangerous this season.”

“Snitch,” you whisper as you walk over and flop onto the cushions.

He smiles, just slightly. “I’m your favorite snitch.”

That’s when it begins.

No sooner have you leaned against Xavier than your son wedges himself between you like a determined little wedge of butter.

“Middle spot’s mine.”

“You were gone,” Xavier mumbles, adjusting his arm around both of you with terrifying efficiency. “Territorial rules apply. I had claim.”

The toddler narrows his eyes. “You’re always asleep. You don’t need Mommy.”

Xavier opens one eye. “Incorrect. Her warmth improves my REM cycle.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “You two do know I’m a person and not a contested heating pad, right?”

“We know,” they say in tandem. They do not let go.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You’re curled up on the velvet chaise in Sylus’s private study, the one with the glass ceiling and one wall covered entirely in ancient weapon displays. Moonlight filters down through the glass, illuminating your silk robe, your tea, and your current situation: no

Two Syluses.

One full-sized and glowering, sitting in his leather armchair like a brooding god.

And one miniature version, three years old, smug as hell, with messy silver hair and glowing red eyes just like his father’s. He’s standing proudly beside you, showing you a paper dagger he made out of blueprint schematics from one of Sylus’s latest prototype vaults.

“Do you love it, Mommy?” he asks sweetly. “I made it for you.”

Sylus’s smile curls like smoke. “Is that one of the blueprints I left in the sealed briefcase?”

“…Maybe,” the boy replies. “But Mommy’s happiness is a higher priority than Daddy’s boring rules.”

You hold up the paper dagger, and pretend not to notice the bomb diagram drawn on the back in crayon.

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

Sylus leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dangerously smooth. “Do you know what this little devil did this morning?”

“I told Mommy already,” the boy cuts in innocently, climbing into your lap and curling into your chest. “You were just being dramatic.”

“He replaced the AI in one of my combat drones with a video loop of himself… giggling. For six hours.”

You blink.

“That’s actually kind of impressive.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” the boy says sweetly, nuzzling your cheek.

Sylus’s eye glows red.

They drag you to bed, it’s cuddle time they say.

You’re lying in bed, reading, when Sylus leans down to kiss your forehead and says, voice low, “Sleep, Kitten. I’ll be back after a quick call.”

But the second the door clicks shut… your son pops up from under the bed with a flashlight and an entire arsenal of plush toys dressed like knights.

“Time for the real bedtime story. I rewrote it.”

He lays next to you, pulling the covers over you both like you’re about to storm a castle. The plush knights are aligned at your side.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful mommy and she was very loved by her tiny general…”

You laugh quietly. “And the dark crow king?”

“Banished to the war room.”

Right on cue, Sylus returns, his brow twitching when he sees the plush knights flanking his side of the bed.

“I was gone for ten minutes.”

“She said I could be king,” the toddler says immediately.

You pause. “…Did I?”

“Probably,” he answers confidently, wrapping his arms around you again.

Sylus glares, but his voice is still amused. “Traitor.”

“Your bloodline is weak, papa.”

“I made you.”

“You made a new enemy.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven penthouse is a war zone.

Or at least, that’s how it feels when your three-year-old son comes barreling down the hallway in a neon-orange, custom-built hovercraft. His pilot goggles are tilted, his flight jacket is too big, and the expression on his tiny face is pure, righteous determination.

“Passenger Princess Protocol initiated!” he yells, skidding to a dramatic stop in front of you, where you’re seated on the couch.

He slaps the little seat behind his cockpit.

“Mommy. Get in. We’re going to the Moon Garden. I’ll fly slow so your hair doesn’t get messy.”

You smile, already getting up.

“Wow, I get a personal pilot today?”

You don’t even make it a full step before a familiar arm loops around your waist, tugging you gently backwards.

“Negative,” Caleb says smoothly, voice warm and annoyingly smug in your ear. “My passenger princess doesn’t ride second-tier hovercrafts. Sorry, bud.”

Your son’s eyes go wide with outrage.

“I built her that aircraft myself! With wings that flap!”

“My sweet innocent babyboy,” Caleb replies with mock solemnity, leaning down to ruffle his son’s hair, “I built her an orbital glider when we were nine. You’ve got a long way to go, co-pilot.”

Your son stamps his foot. “But I made cupholders! And a snack pod! And—and—seat cushions shaped like hearts!”

You bite back a laugh. Caleb just smirks harder.

“That’s cute,” he says, scooping you up bridal style before you can react. “But I’ve been her official flight partner for twenty years. I’ve got seniority, tenure, and a monopoly on her in-flight kisses.”

“Daddy!” your son wails, little fists clenched. “That’s cheating!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Caleb hums, already strolling down the hallway with you in his arms.

You manage to wiggle free from Caleb’s arms just as your son sniffles behind you, his tiny pilot jacket trembling with the sheer betrayal of it all.

“I just wanted to fly her around the lounge,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes. “She said I was a better pilot last week…”

You kneel and gather him into your arms immediately.

“Baby,” you whisper, “you are. You’re my cushion-certified, snack-approved, heart-seat professional. You’re the coziest flight I’ve ever taken.”

He sniffles harder. “Then why does Daddy always win?”

“Because Daddy cheats,” you say pointedly, loud enough for Caleb to hear.

“Nope, Pipsqueak” Caleb calls lazily from the kitchen, pouring himself coffee. “I just have the deluxe marriage upgrade. Full emotional access. Zero cooldown. Comes with permanent boarding priority.”

“I’ll build Mommy a bigger plane!” your son shouts, eyes blazing with renewed resolve. “With a chocolate fountain and mini pillows and her own nap room!”

Caleb nearly chokes on his coffee.

“She’s not living in your hovercraft, cadet.”

“She might if I add a book room.”

“…Okay, now I’m threatened.”

[psformybss]

idk if this is exactly what you wanted but i saw you wanted drew fluff ideas so here! (sorry if its bad lols)

you should write a story about drew and his love interest's actor on obx and how they instantly click when they first meet and decide to move in together while filming is going on, and they become like really really close best friends and fans and the rest of the cast are always shipping them but they tell everyone they are "just friends" even when they fall asleep cuddling sometimes, and reader wears drews clothes all the time (and stuff like that) and then they slowly start to realize they have fallen for eachother. drew takes her on one of their late night drives and confesses his feelings for her and she tells him that she feels the same

again idk if this is bad but its just an idea :) feel free to ignore!

More Than Just Friends

drew starkey x co!star!reader

a/n: i'm back y'all. i loved this idea so much cause i love slow burn/friends to lovers trope. idk if this is my best work tho not writing for a week really made me rusty lol

The conference room door lets out a soft creak as you push it open, just loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation. The noise inside doesn’t vanish—just dips, like a ripple across the surface of still water. Not silence. Not drama. Just that fleeting, collective pause when a new presence is clocked and measured.

Still, you smile. Like your heart isn’t pressing against your ribs, like your palms aren’t a little too warm. You step inside with practiced ease, letting the door fall shut behind you.

The air is thick with the scent of burnt coffee and freshly printed paper. The room is bigger than you expected, sunlit and echoey, the kind of bright that makes your eyes adjust. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast long streaks of light across the polished table that stretches through the center of the space, already cluttered with highlighters, half-empty water bottles, branded OBX pens, and a chaos of cords and chargers that look like territorial markers.

You spot your name card at the far end and start the awkward dance of slipping between chairs and elbows, offering polite nods as you go.

“Look who finally made it,” Madison calls out, her voice lilting with amusement. She’s sprawled in her seat like a queen surveying her court, sunglasses pushed into her hair, iced coffee in hand, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Smug, radiant.

“I’m right on time,” you reply, lifting a brow. “Bet you ten bucks I’m still earlier than JD.”

“Wrong,” JD announces from behind her, voice theatrical. “Already here. Already disappointed.”

You glance over to find him lounging with full commitment—legs spread, chair tipped slightly back, Gatorade in hand, script unopened like it personally offended him.

“Alright, alright,” Chase mumbles from the far end, flipping pages without looking up. “Let her breathe before you scare her off.”

“You think I scare people?” JD feigns innocence, widening his eyes.

“You terrify me,” Madison deadpans, drawing out a round of quiet laughter.

You finally reach your seat—and pause.

He’s already there.

Drew.

He’s settled into the chair beside yours, legs stretched out, ankle resting on one knee. His script is open across his lap, pen between his teeth as he skims the page with a relaxed kind of focus. When he senses you, his eyes lift.

He grins. Not a stranger’s grin. Not polite or obligatory. It’s the kind that tugs at something inside you. Familiar. Knowing.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm, edged with teasing. “Guess I’m stuck with you now.”

You slide into your seat, dropping your bag at your feet. “Was that a compliment or a complaint?”

He leans an inch closer, the kind of lean that makes the space between you hum. “Depends how today goes.”

You shouldn’t feel this at ease. You’ve only met him once—during your chemistry read two weeks ago—but it stuck. The way your lines had synced without trying. The way he’d texted after like you were already mid-conversation. Not flirty. Just...attentive. Like he was curious about you in a quiet, persistent way.

You open your script and try not to notice how close his elbow is to yours.

“Nice of you to show up,” Madelyn says from across the table, nudging a bag of pretzels in your direction. “We were about to start placing bets.”

“I already placed mine,” Rudy adds. “Said she’d be late but would style it out like a pro.”

You shoot him a look. “And?”

He shrugs. “You were cool about it.”

The door swings open again. Austin strolls in, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, coffee clutched in one hand, hoodie halfway on. “Did we start?”

“Do we ever start on time?” Chase doesn’t even look up.

“Touché,” Austin mutters, dropping into the seat beside Rudy.

The door opens once more and this time it’s the director, followed closely by the showrunner and a handful of writers. The shift is immediate. Spines straighten. Phones are pocketed. Scripts snap open.

“Alright, everyone,” the director calls out, clapping his hands once. “Episode One. Let’s dive in.”

Voices layer together as the read begins. A stumble here, a laugh there. JD plays his part with extra dramatics, earning snorts. Madison’s delivery is razor-sharp without breaking a sweat. Chase barely glances at the script, like it’s already been carved into his brain.

You ease into your role with steady confidence. No fireworks. Just setting the rhythm.

Until they call it—your first scene with Drew.

Your name. His. Episode Two, Scene Four.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

No smirk this time. Just a subtle nod, the kind that says, we’ve got this.

The air shifts.

The dialogue between your characters is electric—sharp, flirt-heavy, a verbal chess match where no one really wants to win. You toss your lines like punches, and he parries every one with practiced ease.

“You always talk this much?” you say, tone dry, eyebrow lifted.

Drew doesn’t miss a beat. “Only when I like the company.”

The table goes still for half a breath, then laughter bubbles under the surface, but it doesn’t break the moment. You’re in it. Fully. The rhythm comes easy, like the words aren’t from the page but from your own lips. He plays with the cadence of one line, and it hits different—enough that your smile almost slips in.

He watches you, even when it isn’t his turn to speak. Not intensely. Not in a way that feels staged. Just...like he’s listening. Really listening.

When the scene ends, the silence stretches longer than usual.

Someone exhales. Probably Chase.

“Well, damn,” Rudy mutters. “Guess we don’t have to worry about chemistry.”

“I thought you two were already sleeping together,” JD blurts out.

Madison swats his arm. “Shut up. But, yeah. That was good.”

The director grins. “Alright, let’s take five. Hydrate. Shake it out.”

You stand slowly, your hands still buzzing. Madison appears at your side before you’ve even stepped away.

She leans in. “You two read like you’re already in love.”

You keep your voice casual. “He’s just good at what he does.”

She smirks. “Uh-huh.”

Across the room, Drew catches your eye again. He’s still in his seat, still holding that pen, spinning it between his fingers. He smiles, slower this time.

You look away last.

It’s just a scene. Just a read.

But something lingers.

The scent of smoke and salt rides the breeze, mingling with the faint sweetness of sunscreen and something vaguely citrus—maybe someone’s drink. The sand crunches beneath your sneakers as you step onto the beach, drawn toward the flicker of the bonfire glowing in the distance like a beacon.

Someone had floated the idea earlier—JD, most likely. Maybe Rudy. A night off, no call sheets, no early reports, and the first of shooting finally over. Just fire and sky and a chance to be young and loud under the stars.

You spot the group before they spot you. The fire throws warm light across their faces—Chase waving smoke away from his hair, Madison curled up on a blanket with marshmallows in her lap, JD strumming a ukulele like it wronged him personally.

And then there’s Drew.

He’s sitting with his back to the fire, beer bottle loose in his grip, legs stretched out in the sand. He’s laughing at something Madelyn’s saying, head tilted, flannel shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the wind.

It hits you—how easy this all feels. Like it’s always been this way.

Madelyn sees you and waves, her smile wide. “Hey! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you call, making your way across the sand.

You settle near the edge of the group, close enough for the warmth, far enough to avoid the smoke’s path.

Drew turns, and the moment he sees you, something shifts behind his expression. Softer. Brighter.

“There she is,” he says. “You almost missed JD’s ukulele rendition of ‘Wonderwall.’”

You raise a brow. “Tragic.”

Madelyn snorts. “Don’t worry, he’s got a whole encore planned.”

“I do not,” JD protests, plucking a dramatically sour note.

The night blurs into motion—laughter, marshmallows catching fire, drinks passed hand to hand, the hum of acoustic music weaving in and out of conversation.

When a chill skims over your skin, you shiver before you can stop it.

Drew notices.

Without a word, he shrugs off his flannel and hands it to you. You hesitate, but he just lifts a brow like don’t argue. So you pull it on.

It’s warm. Smells like bonfire and soap and something faintly musky that might be his cologne. You let yourself sink into it.

“You do this for all your co-stars?” you ask.

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine.”

He settles beside you, elbows resting on his knees, shoulder brushing yours.

The fire cracks. The ocean rolls quietly behind the noise. And the two of you—without meaning to—find a bubble of silence between it all.

He tilts his head toward you. “What’d you want to be when you were little?”

You blink. “Random.”

“Go.”

“Broadway set designer,” you say. “You?”

“Astronaut.”

You laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Wanted the helmet.”

The questions keep coming. Silly ones. Real ones. You talk about movies and fears and favorite snacks. He listens like every answer matters. And when he talks, it’s unguarded, honest.

At some point, he leans back, eyes on the sky. “You feel like someone I’ve known longer than a week.”

You glance at him. “Yeah. You too.”

Madelyn walks past with a smug grin. “Just friends, huh?”

“Of course,” Drew says smoothly.

You just smile. Because no one says otherwise. But the flannel stays on your shoulders. And his shoulder stays right there beside yours.

The night settles around you, soft and endless. And whatever this is—it feels like the start of something. Quiet. Unspoken.

But real.

A few days later, the afternoon clings to your skin, thick with humidity. The air on set is heavy, as if the ocean breeze gave up trying to reach you. Sunlight glints off metal light rigs and bleaches the world into a palette of soft golds and heatwaves. You're perched on the edge of a weathered crate, script limp in your lap, words blurring in the warmth. Your focus is fractured — eyes skimming dialogue while your thoughts drift elsewhere.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. Instinctive. Quick. You check it.

It’s the plumber.

You press it to your ear, already bracing.

His voice is apologetic, laced with static and something far more frustrating — uncertainty. The plumbing in the Airbnb is worse than expected. The repairs will take longer than they thought. No promises, no estimates. Just a vague “could take a while.”

Your stomach clenches. You nod even though he can’t see it and murmur your thanks before hanging up. You drop the phone into your lap like it’s burned you.

That’s when Drew walks by. He’s headed toward the craft services table, a bottle of water dangling from one hand, his other swiping at the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off the heat. His gaze lands on you — instinctive, precise — and he changes course without hesitation.

He drops down beside you, thigh brushing yours, and just like that, the air feels easier to breathe.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t ripple past the two of you.

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the gravel at your feet. “The plumbing at my place. It’s a mess. No idea when it’ll be fixed.”

He watches you for a moment, brows pulling together. “You’re still staying at the Airbnb?”

“Yeah.” You exhale. “It’s… not ideal.”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just long enough to make you glance over. Drew runs a hand through his hair, already ruffled from the heat, then turns to you with a kind of simple certainty that catches you off guard.

“You don’t have to do that by yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve got space. A whole extra room I’m not using.” He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Move in. Just until it’s fixed. I mean, if you want.”

He says it casually, but there's something solid underneath it — like the offer comes from somewhere deeper than convenience.

You search his face, and for once, don’t find anything but sincerity.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He grins, that crooked one that always makes your chest feel a little lighter. “You’d be closer to set. And, selfishly, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

For a second, the weight you’ve been carrying lifts. Just a bit.

You nod slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “You’ll fit right in.”

Drew pushes open the door and gestures you in with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome home.”

Inside, the apartment is an organized mess — the kind that’s lived in, not neglected. Sand-dusted sneakers line the entryway. A pile of half-folded laundry claims one end of the couch. On the coffee table, a jigsaw puzzle sprawls between empty mugs and dog-eared scripts. The air smells like sea salt and cinnamon candles, like home that doesn’t try too hard.

You drop your bag by the door and let it all wash over you.

That night, you end up on the couch with Drew, a half-watched movie flickering across the screen. The throw blanket slides from your shoulders and before you even reach for it, he tucks it gently around you. His arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away.

Your feet find his beneath the blanket. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, soft enough to be missed if you weren’t already listening for him.

You tug his hoodie tighter, the scent of his laundry detergent warm against your skin. “Me too.”

The days begin to blur, soft edges folding into something warm and familiar.

Mornings start with shared coffee and overlapping playlists. Grocery runs turn into minor battles — you reach for spinach, he tosses in Oreos. You call him dramatic for choosing the worst cereal, he accuses you of being a health nut. The checkout clerk smiles like she’s seen this a hundred times.

Nights belong to movies and stolen fries and blankets that never quite stay in place. You curl closer without thinking. He never pulls away.

His hoodie becomes yours — unofficially at first. It spends more time on your frame than in his closet, the sleeves always too long, the neckline soft from wear. You tell yourself it’s because the AC is too cold, but even you don’t believe that.

The apartment pulses with cast energy — Rudy’s storytelling echoing down the hallway, Madelyn’s laughter spilling from the kitchen, JD’s endless commentary on whatever game is on. It’s chaotic, imperfect, and somehow… right.

In between the noise and routine, there’s this quiet thread that winds between you and Drew — unspoken but steady.

Weeks have blurred together, and by now, the trailer feels like a second skin. When you step inside, both hands wrapped around a to-go cup like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, everything is just as it’s been for days. The early morning sunlight slips through the narrow windows, catching the same gold flecks in the mirrors, casting that familiar hazy glow across the space. The air carries the usual mix of hairspray and coffee — a scent that’s settled into the walls — and the soft playlist humming in the background might as well be on an endless loop, queued up long before the sun even thought about rising.

You collapse into your usual chair with a yawn and nod at the makeup artist, who greets you with a knowing smile.

“Rough morning?”

“Does it show?” you mumble, taking another sip.

She laughs. “Natural today?”

You nod, already zoning out as the brush glides across your cheek.

Madison lounges on the bench behind you, still half-asleep, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as she scrolls through her phone. She glances up.

“Did you seriously walk out in his hoodie again?”

You glance down — the familiar grey fabric is draped across you, soft and oversized. You hadn’t even thought about it. It had been slung over the stool from last night, right where Drew left it after your terrible Netflix shark movie marathon.

You sip your coffee again, hoping the heat hides the way your cheeks flush.

Madison smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you can reply, the trailer door swings open and lets in a blast of voices. JD and Chase barrel in mid-debate, the kind only they could be this passionate about at seven a.m.

“Ketchup on eggs should be illegal,” JD announces dramatically.

Chase barely glances up. “You’re wrong and uncultured.”

You lift your coffee cup. “Morning to you too.”

JD points at you like he’s just remembered something vital. “You and Drew playing house again?”

You roll your eyes, digging for your foundation sponge. “We watched a movie. That’s it.”

Madelyn drifts over, sipping tea. “A movie that required your feet to be in his lap?”

Chase spits out his drink. “Wait, what?”

“Rudy told me.”

You snort. “Rudy wasn’t there.”

Madelyn just shrugs. “Rudy knows things.”

The trailer door opens again, and in steps Drew — hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess, smoothie in hand. He pauses just inside as the air shifts, the teasing still fresh on everyone’s faces.

His eyes find yours instantly. There’s a subtle softening in his expression — like the chaos doesn’t matter, not when you’re here.

“You left without me this morning,” he says, moving to the chair beside you.

“You were passed out with a cereal box on your chest,” you reply, grinning. “Didn’t want to disturb art.”

Laughter bubbles around the trailer.

“You two are disgusting,” Chase groans.

“Right?” Madison adds. “They have a fruit bowl. A fruit bowl.”

You laugh. “It’s barely a bowl. It’s chipped and was five bucks at the antique shop.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you argued about cereal for twenty minutes,” JD points out.

Drew sips his smoothie, unbothered. “And I was right.”

You smirk. “It’s just sugar and regret.”

“You love it,” he murmurs, and you feel it — that shift. That pulse in the air that always tightens your chest a little too much.

Chase pokes your arm. “You’re wearing his shirt again.”

Drew answers before you can. “Her shirt now.”

Madelyn gasps. “I’m begging you — just kiss already.”

“If you two fall asleep on the couch again, I’m charging rent,” JD adds.

You laugh — but it comes out soft. Tentative.

You glance at Drew.

He’s already looking at you. And beneath the usual teasing spark in his eyes, there’s something quieter. Something that stays with you even when you look away.

“We’re just friends,” he says.

But the words feel like a stone tossed into still water — quiet, but rippling outward.

“They’re just messing around,” you say to him under your breath later, as everyone scatters for rehearsal.

“I know.” He hesitates. “But I don’t care what they say.”

You glance up.

“I like this,” he says. “I like us. You make this feel easier.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, barely whispering: “Me too.”

And then you’re swept into the current again — called to set, scripts in hand, pretending to be someone else. But somewhere between lines and takes, you find his eyes across the room.

And it still feels like home.

Time moves differently now — days folding into each other, marked only by small, quiet rituals. Hours ago, the trailer buzzed with the hum of early morning. Now, the apartment is thick with the scent of cinnamon and browned butter, warm and heady, curling through the air like a promise.

Sunlight, deeper now, spills through the kitchen window in rich, honeyed beams, cutting through the steam rising off the griddle and painting the countertops gold. The rush of earlier hours has faded. This moment feels suspended — still, glowing, unrushed — as if the day itself is taking a long breath.

You stand barefoot on cool tile, hair twisted up in a loose knot that’s barely holding on, sleeves pushed to your elbows. There’s a smudge of flour on your cheekbone that you don’t know about, and batter stains the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt. The fabric brushes against your thighs when you move, clinging slightly from the kitchen’s warmth.

From Drew’s phone on the counter, a lazy Sunday playlist hums along—soulful, smooth, a little ridiculous. “Return of the Mack” starts up, and like clockwork, he’s sliding across the floor in socks, shoulders rolling dramatically as he dances his way back into the kitchen.

You don’t turn. Just flip a pancake with practiced ease. “Don’t quit your day job.”

Behind you, he gasps. “Rude. This is elite choreography. You’re witnessing greatness.”

You bite back a grin. “It’s a health hazard.”

“No,” he says, coming up behind you, “it’s joy.”

He’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the ghost of his body heat brushing your back. He bumps your hip with his as he reaches around to grab a banana slice off the cutting board, snickering when you elbow him lightly in protest.

“Back off. This is a sacred space.”

“I’m assisting,” he says, as if holding a title. “Sous-chef.”

“You assisting means I’ll be cleaning banana off the ceiling in twenty minutes.”

“I bring the vibes,” he says proudly, grabbing a plate from the cabinet.

“You bring chaos.”

He smirks, unbothered. The music’s louder now, and the morning has a pulse to it—warm and bright and just a little bit unsteady.

You flip another pancake, lean down to grab a clean plate from the lower cabinet—and forget, for one stupid second, how close your hand is to the edge of the hot pan.

The hiss comes first.

Then the sting.

“Shit—ow. Shit.”

Before the pain even fully registers, Drew’s beside you. His easygoing rhythm halts completely, brows drawn tight as he catches your wrist. “What happened?”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to wave it off, but he doesn’t listen. He gently, but firmly, guides your hand under the faucet and turns the water on cold.

The stream rushes over your finger, and you hiss again, this time more from surprise than pain. His hand covers yours, thumb resting lightly on your wrist to keep it steady.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, the music behind you fading into a background hum. The air’s changed. Still, but charged.

You nod, blinking. “Yeah. I’ve done worse. Just a dumb mistake.”

“It’s not dumb.”

The way he says it makes you pause. And before you can respond, he lifts your hand—slowly, gently—and presses a kiss to the tip of your burned finger.

It’s feather-light. Barely there.

But it might as well be a lightning strike.

Your breath stalls. Eyes catch. And for a beat too long, you’re both completely still.

His hand stays on yours.

Neither of you speak.

The moment hovers, thick and quiet, like the breath before a confession.

And you can’t take it.

You laugh—too loud, too fast—and turn away, pretending the bloom of heat under your skin isn’t from him.

“I’m retiring from the kitchen,” you joke, shaking off the silence. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted near appliances.”

Drew smiles, but it lingers slower this time, a little softer. “Guess that makes me head chef. Hope you like cereal.”

You smile back, letting the moment dissolve like sugar in tea.

But when he passes you the syrup, your fingers graze—and neither of you pulls away right away.

The weeks blend together after that. Routines settle in quietly, like they were always meant to be there. Shared mugs in the cabinet. His hoodies folded into your laundry. Your shampoo in the shower next to his, your snacks hidden behind the cereal boxes he swears are sacred.

You stop counting the days. And so does he.

The cast still teases you both—but now it’s gentle, like they’ve decided this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t need labeling. Like maybe it’s obvious.

Tonight, the apartment smells like sandalwood and yesterday’s pizza. Filming ran late. Your limbs ache from sun and repetition and adrenaline. You’d both crashed on the couch, limbs draped over each other without thought.

His arm is wrapped low around your waist, steady, grounding.

Your head rests on his chest, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing, soft against the static of the TV. His sweatshirt smells like detergent and skin. His legs are tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

The movie’s long over. The credits have faded. Outside, the sky is bleeding pale pink through the curtains.

You should move. You know you should.

But the shape of you against him feels too easy. Too much like home.

You open your eyes slowly, adjusting to the light. His jaw is the first thing you see—clean lines, soft in sleep. Lashes fanned against his cheek. One hand still rests at your hip, fingers curved gently like they belong there.

You trace him with your eyes, careful not to move. Every breath deepens the ache in your chest, that quiet, persistent pull you’ve stopped pretending not to feel.

Then—he shifts.

Just a little. Barely conscious. His hand tightens at your waist. A slow exhale warms your forehead.

His voice, when it comes, is scratchy and half-asleep.

“This is nice.”

You freeze. Then nod, your cheek brushing his chest. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

Neither of you moves.

Not for a long time.

The sun climbs higher. And when you finally drift off again, curled tighter into his side, there are no dreams.

You don’t need them.

You’re already there.

The day is hot, the kind of southern heat that clings to your skin like humidity and sunburn. The set is between takes, the crew scattered like lazy shadows across grass and folding chairs. Someone’s blasting a speaker. Chase and Rudy toss a football like they haven’t been sweating for hours in full costume.

You’re half-asleep on a picnic blanket, legs outstretched, head tucked against Drew’s shoulder. You don’t remember when it happened—just that he was next to you, and then you were there, leaning into him like your body remembered what your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

His arm is around you. Protective. Unmoving.

He’s asleep too.

You’re both still when JD walks by with his camera. He never stops taking pictures. You’re used to it now. You barely register the click.

It isn’t until hours later—after the scene is wrapped, your wardrobe changed, and your phone vibrates five times in a row—that you notice.

The post.

JD’s photo.

“The cutest nap I’ve ever seen.”

You and Drew, tangled in sleep. Your head tucked into his shoulder, his hand on your arm. Golden hour casting everything soft and slow and tender.

The internet explodes.

“THEY’RE DATING I KNEW IT.”

“Roommates?? Yeah right.”

“This is the slow burn I’ve been waiting for.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Your phone buzzes again. And again.

And then—Drew’s voice. Low. Calm.

“You good?”

He crouches in front of you, brows drawn as you hold your phone out in silence.

He reads. Scrolls. Grins.

“They think we’re dating now,” you murmur, pulse racing.

He tilts his head. “They’ll think what they want.”

You wait for him to say more.

He doesn’t.

You could clarify. Say we’re just friends.

But you don’t.

Because what you felt when you saw that photo—what you’re still feeling now—isn’t panic. It’s a quiet thrum of recognition. Like the world saw something true before you had the words for it.

Drew watches you with an unreadable expression, somewhere between fondness and something more.

And this time, when someone teases you about it, you laugh.

But you don’t deny it.

Not anymore.

The party’s already alive by the time you arrive, tucked into the backyard of a rented beach house where the salty breeze tangles through citronella smoke and laughter. The night air hums with energy — music pulses from a half-open sliding door, drifting through the glow of string lights draped between palm trees like glowing constellations lazily flung across the sky. The faint crash of waves in the distance is a constant hush beneath it all.

Someone’s cranked up a speaker — almost definitely Rudy — loud enough to rattle the fence and earn a few glares from neighboring porches. The whole place feels like a breathless kind of summer, suspended in that golden blur between sunset and too late.

You step into the rhythm of it easily.

A half-dozen voices call your name, familiar faces grinning over red cups and half-empty seltzer cans. Madison finds you first, practically bouncing in her sandals as she throws an arm around your shoulders and presses a cold can into your hand.

“There she is,” she says, squeezing you with dramatic flair. “I was about two minutes away from sending a search party.”

You grin, the knot in your chest loosening slightly. “You know I wouldn’t miss this.”

She pulls you toward the fire pit, where JD and Austin are halfway through a heated argument about whether karaoke should be mandatory at every wrap party. You laugh at something Chase mutters under his breath, dodge Rudy dancing with a drink in each hand like a walking hazard, and let the scene fold around you — warm, bright, familiar.

It should feel easy.

It does, until it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through your second drink when you see him — Drew — across the yard, leaned casually against the edge of the deck. He’s framed by the spill of porch light and shadows, tall and unmistakable even in the half-dark. A drink dangles from his fingers, condensation sliding down the glass. He’s smiling.

Talking to a girl.

She’s tall, tan, hair spilling down her back like sun-bleached silk. Pretty in that effortless, sunkissed way. Her laugh rings high and sweet, and she tilts into him like he’s gravity. Her fingers brush his arm — light, teasing.

He doesn’t step back.

Your heart stutters, then twists. A slow, sinking feeling starts in your stomach, unfamiliar but sharp.

You look away too late.

Madison, beside you, catches your shift in focus and lifts a brow. “You good?” she asks, not unkindly — but there’s an edge to her voice, enough to snap you out of it.

“Yeah,” you lie, mouth pulling into a smile that feels flimsy. “Just zoning out.”

She follows your gaze, hums under her breath. “Ah. That kind of zoning.”

You glance at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she says too fast. “Just… interesting view.”

You roll your eyes and pretend to laugh, turning back toward the fire. But the flicker of heat on your skin doesn’t quite reach your chest. Not where it’s tight. Not where the image of Drew leaning toward someone else keeps replaying like a scene you didn’t want to see.

You know you shouldn’t care.

You really do.

But you can’t stop the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your can, like gripping something will keep you steady.

Later, inside the house, you sink into the edge of the couch, shoulders curled in, the room moving around you in a soft blur of music and muffled conversation. Your drink’s long gone, forgotten somewhere near the fire pit, and your hands are wrapped around a throw blanket like it might hold you together.

You’re trying — really trying — not to replay the moment in your head. But it plays anyway, over and over. Her laugh. His smile.

The couch shifts beside you.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him.

Drew drops down with a low sigh, the kind that says he’s done pretending the party is still fun. You feel the warmth of him instantly, the heat that rolls off his skin, the way his knee nearly brushes yours.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You keep your eyes forward. “Hey.”

He hands you a bottle of water, the condensation cold against your palm. You take it, sip without speaking.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, too fast. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel it — the way he’s watching you, his arm draped across the back of the couch, not touching but close. Too close for you to keep pretending nothing’s wrong.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says after a beat. “That’s not like you.”

You force a shrug. “Just tired.”

His brow lifts. “Tired, huh.”

You glance sideways, catching the faintest curve of a smirk — soft, not teasing. But when you don’t answer, it fades into something more serious.

“Is this about earlier?”

You freeze.

“What?”

“The girl,” he says. “From outside.”

You hesitate, trying to sound casual. “Why would it be?”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Because you haven’t looked at me since.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“She was someone the sound guy brought. Visiting from Wilmington. Thought I was one of the producers or something. I don’t even think she knew my name.”

You glance at him, jaw tense. “You didn’t exactly push her away.”

He meets your eyes now, and there’s something steady there. “Did I need to?”

The question lands between you, quiet and loaded.

You set the bottle down slowly. “I didn’t like it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Not a confession, but close.

Drew doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, just as softly, he says, “I know.”

You turn toward him. “Then why pretend there’s nothing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s been holding this in for days. “Because I don’t know what this is yet.”

Your heart kicks up. “Neither do I.”

“But it’s something, right?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah. It is.”

His knee brushes yours, this time on purpose.

“Then maybe we stop pretending it’s not,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze, everything else fading — the music, the voices, the party.

But you don’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just whisper, “Okay.”

His fingers graze yours, light and deliberate, a silent promise made in the hush between words.

And somehow, that feels like enough. For now.

The set was hushed, golden light pouring through the windows like honey as the late afternoon slid toward evening. Equipment clinked in the background, the soft shuffle of crew adjusting camera angles, murmured direction just out of earshot.

You stood across from Drew in the center of the room, script limp in your hand — mostly forgotten. The scene was simple. A kiss. One line, one beat, one cue.

But the air was thick with everything unspoken.

Drew was already looking at you — not like a co-star, not like a scene partner. Like he was watching for something he wasn’t sure you’d give. There was a flicker of nerves in his eyes, buried under the calm, and it mirrored the way your stomach twisted.

“Ready?” the director called.

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

He stepped in.

The distance between you vanished, dissolved into the warmth of his palms as they settled gently on your waist. Your breath caught. He smelled like clean cotton and something faintly citrus, familiar and grounding. His fingers flexed once.

“Action.”

The kiss started soft — almost tentative, like he was afraid to startle you. Then it deepened, slow and intentional. His hand moved, thumb brushing your side. The rest of the world — the cameras, the lights, the people — dropped away.

There was only this.

When the director called cut, it felt like waking up from something too sweet to last.

You pulled back, breath shaky, heart pounding in your chest like a drum.

“That was perfect,” someone said, but it barely registered.

Drew was still looking at you. “You okay?” His voice was rough, lower than usual.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah.”

But it didn’t feel like acting.

Your fingers brushed when you reached for your things. He didn’t move away.

Something had changed.

And it wasn’t just the scene.

The hilltop clearing was quiet beneath a canopy of stars, the kind that only came out full after the rain — sharp and endless. The air was cool, clean, and carried the scent of wet earth and pine. Drew’s truck rumbled to a stop at the top of the path, headlights casting long shadows across the open field.

Neither of you spoke as you climbed out. The world around you felt too sacred, like even whispering might break it.

He laid the blanket down in a practiced motion, and you sank onto it beside him, shoulders brushing. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full — stretched wide like the sky, heavy with possibility.

Finally, he turned toward you.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, eyes shining even in the dark.

You nodded.

He exhaled, like this had been sitting on his chest for a long, long time.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words didn’t echo. They settled.

“I didn’t plan it,” he continued. “It just… happened. Somewhere between late-night drives and the way you always know what I need. And maybe I tried not to let it show, but I can’t keep pretending this is just friendship anymore.”

You didn’t say anything right away — because you felt it. All of it.

Then you leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It was a slow exhale. A door opening. His hand found your jaw. Yours slid into his hair. It was soft, real, built from a thousand little moments that had always been leading here.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered, forehead resting against his.

And just like that — with stars above and hearts finally bare — everything felt different.

Not uncertain.

Just right.

taglist: @kieeslove, @wuluhwuhmaster

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

I deleted a fic for the first time today. In a week, it's had 2 hits.I write for a small but active fandom, and probably 2/3 the 50+ fics that I've written are whump/angst.

But everyone keeps telling me to give the characters a break, write more happy things, slow down with the dark stuff. It's frustrating.

may I swear? fuck them.

I'm sorry you're feeling this way. more people really need to understand that a fic writer does not write to please them. a fic writer writes for free. for themself. and as long as they rate and tag their works properly, you as a reader have no right to tell them what to do or how to create their art (unless specially asked, of course).

also, of course, there's a difference between "omg poor (insert character's name) 😭 please my baby needs a break" in a light-hearted manner that shows you love and are invested in the story by feeling bad for the character, and "hey can you please stop writing dark stuff and instead write more happy fics?" which is rude and entitled as fuck.

that being said, even if you claim your comment fells in the former group, you also have to understand that an author can and might not see your comment the way you do, and that they may read your feedback as you trying to discourage them.

so I'd like to use this post to remind readers to think before you comment. always be considerate. it's cool to be invested in a story and want to express your feelings, but you should also make sure your comment does not come off rude, even if it's not your intention.

but if you're trying to be a jerk and telling authors what to write/what not to write then you can fuck right off.

I hope you find the motivation to post again, anon. not for anybody but for yourself. don't change your art to please anybody. and for what it's worth, I believe there are people who love and appreciate what you write. and if some trolls try to tell you otherwise again, tell them to fuck off and write their own fics.

[avaredava]

God this woman

Sum: "Yeah totally, girls? Totally not, just guys, but like? Shoko? She's kinda I don't know shut up." This sentence sums it up.

CW: fem!reader, Shoko smut y'all, Shoko is a lesbian and so is reader, fingering, clit stim, established relationship at the end, reader slept with men before but it showed how she didn't really enjoy it later, top shoko ya'll, fingering in the car to her house... And doing more stuff in her apartment, mention of satosugu

WC: 1.6k

-

You and Shoko haven't been, anything. No lovers, no hook ups. Literally nothing. You've been best friends, splitting up into groups of two when you and Geto and Gojo hung out.

It was normal, playing laser tag or just splitting up in the arcade, since you two were so damn similar. You liked the same games, hated some of the games the boys said were peak. Morons.

She never came across as well. I dunno, hot. You always thought she was pretty, attractive even. But she never caught your eyes. She's just a friend.

You've constantly dated boys left and right. Gojo pretending to be your boyfriend when a guy went too far then he went back to drinking his pink skinny margaritas.

But something about the club tonight. You guys were sitting in the back of the club in a booth with the lights flicking in the dim room but the way that Shokos features just made your thighs clench.

You never felt this way before. Especially with girls. You have only hooked up with boys. Probably for some dick. Nothing more, you have never been with anyone for personality.

Some may call you a whore but nothing has been appealing to you. Men are well hot. But nothing makes your heart flutter. You've watched a bunch of tv shows and the strong woman just, make you... feel things.

Could be sexual but sometimes you picture just kissing the character or just wondering what it would be like to be their girlfriend, to be held like they hold there girlfriends.

But it's just for no reason.

Just some stupid celebrity thing.

Some stupid wonder and earth shattering thing that you physically need and maybe you mentally want. Somewhat. Maybe? Oh fuck 100%. Definitely.

You were snapped out of a deep thought when you feel a hand against your thigh making you suck your breath in with a sharp gasp. Shoko started giggling when you acted all surprised.

Geto and Gojo were fighting like kids, you couldn't hear shit because of the blaring music but you knew they were fighting, like usually. You and Shoko giggle about how they should kiss already. (they should.)

But seeing the grin on Shokos face, the sweet dimples and the smile lines made your heart flutter and your stomach hurt in an unusual way. Not bad though.

And Shoko seemed to notice it and she raised her hand, her pinky fidgeting with the trimmed edge of your skirt. Her long nails raking on your skin causing goose bumps.

God this woman.

She's so pretty.

She is so fucking pretty.

Gojo looked across finally and saw you in awe as you stared at her. He did the cocky smirk you never found attractive, even though so many girls did. You just thought maybe you like personality better.

After the club Gojo called you over with a small grin on your face but everyone went in there separate cars. He looked down at you in that daring height that you should find hot.

But you don't.

He smiled at you and before he almost said something you blurted out almost shitting yourself. "Yeah totally, girls? Totally not, just guys, but like? Shoko? She's kinda I don't know shut up."

"I never said anything y/n. You brought that up unprompted." He snickered, borderline evil but you can never tell with him since he's always up to something. "Is that why you said no to hooking up with me so many times? Because you don't like... my demographic."

Your face flushed red as you smacked his chest hard. Making him stumble back into Shoko who heard the commotion. She pushed him off and said in that feminine fucking sexy voice of hers for Gojo to fuck off and stop being annoying.

He did that annoying crooked smile and walked off with a small. "I won't peak." She laughed as he stumbled off. "Looks like I finally got through to him." She didn't, he left because he was an asshole trying to get you two together. And he was 100% peaking.

God, she was so hot though.

Her plump yet slender lips. Like her body.

Her curves.

Her tits.

Her gorgeous tits. You walked in on her changing once. Her nipples a pinkish brown, plump. But fuck they would fit perfectly in your mouth. The curves of the rest of her body as well. Her high heels. God can she step on you already-

"Wakey, wakey you dolt. You've been staring at my tits for two minutes." She said with a hint of delight in her voice. Like she wants you to do that. Like she does it too.

Maybe she does sneak peeks of your ass when you come from missions hurt and when she's done fixing you she "accidentally" drops her pen. Maybe she does drop more items like paper clips so you pick it up for longer.

"I know you like me. Ever had sex with a girl?" She says in a tone that makes you wanna say "yes right now." But you shake your head. You can't lie. Not the way shes looking at you.

It's not even sexual the way she can force the truth out of you. But it makes you feel safe, like you can tell her anything. So it doesn't matter if you can't lie.

"Shoko please just do something with me."

A sweet girl she's liked privately for years wants her sloppy pussy taken care of? She takes the roll very seriously. "I'll drive you to pick up your car in the morning get in the passenger seat. Or drivers if you like the risk. I'm into whatever as long as you don't kill me."

That's how you ended up driving her car since you aren't a pussy, you can drive. But apparently that isn't what she meant.

She was violently fingering you, her fingers massaging your g-spot with every thrust. Fuck she's right, this is hard. You've never felt this good. Her fingers are better than any man's dick. Long and slender, pounding yet kneading at the same time.

By the time you both got to her apartment the drivers seat was sticky and wet. You have come collectively 10 times. You've never went that many orgasms without your fingers or rose toy. How many times do you have to say this?

God this fucking woman.

By the time you got in front of the apartment door you were pushed against it making out, her lips you wanted so long or so soon. But still you want them. So fucking soft and gorgeous. Shes fondling behind you the keys to her door. When she got it she kicked the door in and instantly slammed it.

Her tongue was practically down your throat, you've never done this kind of foreplay, not foreplay at all. Again, you've never been this attracted to someone. Not this bad. Or at all really.

She finally had you on her bed. Her hovering over you, he long brown hair caging you two in as she hovers over you, her hot breath smelling of whisky and cigarettes. You hate the smell but it's so her. So you love it. You love it so damn much.

"You sure you want this?" She asked you, her eyes shooting lasers in your pleasured face as she rubs your crotch with her knee making sure she could never forget this moment. Committing it to memory.

"Too late to ask what I want since we're already doing thi-" you get cut off by a harsh kiss to your lips. Her hands fondle with your clothes and strip them off making your heart flutter.

She was so quick to have you spread out naked, your legs spread and pussy glistening in the small lamp across the room. You look out the apartment window it's big over looking the city.

You were admiring the gorgeous view until you felt kissing down your body. You saw your legs getting pushed your chest and her face neared your cunt.

You started grinding in the air wondering when she was gonna get closer. She finally did after admiring for a few minutes. She licked a low strip of saliva up and down your vagina making your breath stutter with pleasure.

She dug her tongue in collecting your juices, the tip of her nose rubbing hard against your clit making you shudder with pleasure. Your eyes began to tear up because you were already close.

Maybe it was how good she was at this or maybe it was the somewhat intimacy whatever it was you never wanted this to end. Whatever this is.

She slithered her long tongue up to your clit flicking it back and forth making your walls clench around nothing. So she shoved her fingers, hard in you to match the pace of her tongue.

You've orgasmed but never squirted.

You've mentioned that before so she decided to change that.

Her licking started to get more violent with her fingers thrusting against your g-spot making you scream her name. It wasn't forced like it usually is with men. it felt right.

After you came, she didn't stop she got faster. You were overstimulated and shaking with pleasure but she loved it. She made it very clear mumbling stuff to your pussy.

When you squirted she kept moving her fingers, her tongue down violently slurping the juices to embarrass you. But she also loved the taste. You felt bad that she didn't cum and only you did.

But she kissed up your body her lips gently against yours as you taste yourself on those lips you love. "You're eating me out tomorrow and also eating out with me."

You laugh at how blunt she was especially when she was just in-between your legs. And of course, you nod. "You better be good especially when you had sex with eugh men." She made a fake gag noise before men and you slapped he ass.

You grabbed her by the hair making out with her, your tongue mingling with yours. Once again?

"God this woman."

[dee-writes-anime]

Hii!! I really liked the recent fix u wrote with Izuku and dadzawa but I specifically liked the dadzawa part. Any chance you can write more of that? Maybe one where his daughter (or just kidding if u prefer writing gen) sneaks out while she's home alone and he's on patrol and he comes home to find the house empty. He panic, calls her a few time until she finally picks up, and she says some lame excuse like "I went to the grocery store" "at this hour? Without telling me?" Idk I just think that would be rlly cute😭 I love dadzawa💔

Where Are You? I Can’t Breathe

FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)

SUMMARY you're not home, your location is off, and you're not answering your phone. And Shouta Aizawa, for the second time in his life, feels as if his heart might just stop in his chest.

CONTENT WARNINGS healing myself through my characters!!!, angst to fluff, cute parental stuff, worried Aizawa, descriptions of anxiety

AUTHORS NOTE Thank you so so much for your patience anon!! I really hope you like this dadzawa fic, he seems to be quite popular in my asks these days and I can't complain. I love seeing the Aizawa love!! <3

The key turned in the lock with a soft click, and the apartment door creaked open.

Aizawa stepped inside, one hand instinctively brushing his capture scarf off his shoulder and onto the bench beside the entryway. It had been a long patrol—nothing too serious, just a string of petty thefts and some graffiti in the Shinjuku district—but the hours had stretched longer than usual, and his bones felt like they were made of rusted iron by the time he made it home.

He didn’t expect fanfare. He never did.

But he did expect something. A light on. The faint sound of a show playing in the background. The soft hum of lo-fi you usually played while studying. Maybe your curled-up form on the couch half-asleep, a hoodie draped around your shoulders, textbooks open but abandoned.

Instead, there was nothing.

Stillness. Utter, absolute stillness.

His brow furrowed.

He stepped out of his boots quietly, listening for any trace of life beyond the walls. There was no movement. No rustle of sheets, no patter of feet. He padded into the kitchen. The light was off. No late-night ramen cup left on the counter. He glanced down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

Your door was open. Wide.

And the room behind it? Empty.

The comforter was crumpled. Your desk chair askew. A hoodie tossed over the back of it like you’d slipped it off in a hurry. But no sign of you.

He checked the bathroom. Closet. The small balcony out back.

Nothing.

The quiet had teeth now. It crawled up his back like a chill.

You never left without saying something.

His hand was already reaching for his phone before the thought could even fully form.

CALLING: Gremlin No answer.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

He moved toward the couch, like sitting might steady his pulse, and opened the app he only pretended he didn’t obsessively check—your location sharing.

Unavailable.

A long breath hissed through his teeth.

Of course, he wasn’t the panicking type. Not in battle. Not in emergencies. He was the calm in the eye of the storm. The man who could fight off villains on no sleep and handle thirty misfit teenagers with quirks powerful enough to level buildings. But this?

This was different.

He’d come home to an empty apartment, well past midnight, and his daughter was gone. No message. No note. No answer.

He tried calling again. His thumb was tight against the phone screen now, his grip tense, shoulders bunched up beneath the fabric of his coat.

On the third call, the line finally picked up.

“Hello?”

His heart squeezed. “Where the hell are you?”

There was a moment of pause. A shift in your tone as you responded—too casual, too quick.

“…I’m at the store. We were out of milk.”

“You’re what?”

“Just grabbed my hoodie and walked down. I’ll be back in a sec—”

“It’s 1:17 in the morning.” His voice was low now, clipped, laced with the tension that rarely crept into his tone unless someone was in serious trouble. “And you didn’t think to text me? Call? Leave a note?”

“I didn’t think you’d be home for a while,” you mumbled. “You said your shift would run late.”

“I caught a break,” he snapped, rising from the couch and pacing now, one hand dragging through his hair. “And I come home to an unlocked door and a dark apartment. Do you even realize how that feels?”

“…I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You turned off your location.”

“I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t think—"

“You didn’t think.” His voice cracked, brittle with the kind of fear that doesn’t look like fear—not on someone like him. Not on a pro hero. It looks like anger. Like shortness. Like disbelief.

The phone was quiet for a moment before you said softly, “I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”

He exhaled, deep and rough, pressing his palm to his eyes. “That’s not the point. You can’t just leave in the middle of the night. You think the city shuts off at midnight? That villains clock out and go home? I don’t care if we were out of everything. You don’t walk out of here alone, in the dark, without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you repeated.

“I know,” he muttered. “But you did.”

Another silence. One laced with guilt. You never heard that tone from him. He was the kind of tired that didn’t show in sleep—he carried it in his posture, his eyes, his silences. But right now, it wasn’t exhaustion pressing down on him. It was the what if.

“What if I didn’t come home early?” he said, almost to himself now, his voice a murmur of thought spoken aloud. “What if something did happen, and no one knew you were gone? You’re all I’ve got, kid. I don’t take chances with that.”

That hit harder than anything else.

Your voice wavered when you spoke again. “I’m almost home.”

“Stay on the line.”

He moved toward the front door and unlatched it, stepping out barefoot into the cool night air. The hallway was quiet. The streets outside were too. A flickering streetlamp, a few parked cars, a convenience store sign glowing faintly at the end of the block.

You came into view a few seconds later, hoodie pulled up over your head, plastic bag in hand, your gait small and unsure now that you’d realized the depth of your mistake.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just opened the door wider and let you walk through.

You hovered there for a second before finally offering the bag.

“…I brought the milk.”

He stared at it. Then at you.

“…You think I give a damn about milk?”

You hesitated. “And some Oreos.”

His brow lifted. Sharp. Unamused.

“…You are unbelievably lucky that I’m too tired to ground you right now.”

“I know.”

“Put the milk away. Then go get a blanket.”

You blinked. “What for?”

“We’re watching a movie. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until the sun comes up.”

A breath of quiet amusement left you, but you didn’t argue. You slid into the kitchen, and he watched you go, his eyes tracing every movement, like if he looked away, you might vanish again. When you returned, blanket in hand, he was already on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, waiting.

You curled up beside him. Not quite touching—but close.

He reached over after a few minutes, tugging the blanket higher around your shoulders. And then—like it cost him nothing at all—he let his hand settle on your head, thumb brushing through your hair in a rhythm that said you’re here, you’re safe, you’re mine.

“You scared me,” he said again, but softer now.

“I know,” you whispered.

“…Don’t ever do it again.”

“I won’t.”

He didn’t need you to promise. Not really. The fear in your voice had been enough. The crack in your confident facade. You were older now, nearly grown, but the city didn’t care how mature you were. He’d buried too many students to believe youth was protection.

So he held you a little closer.

And as the movie droned on and your head tipped to his shoulder, he kept his eyes on the door.

Just in case.

[lampridius]

Can you do one with an idia x reader where ortho is basically idias guide/comforter with his crush for reader

⋆.ೃ࿔🎐*:･ 𝘵𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 ꒱ 𝘸𝘰𝘯���𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 ✴ ───────── ❝ 𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙤 𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙖'𝙨 𝙜𝙪𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 ❞ －𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘶𝘴 ．．• ♡︎

─ .✦ 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀: idia ──── .✦ 𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 | 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 ──── .✦ 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨: he's so silly i love him

idia was spiraling again. obviously.

he was in his room, hoodie drawn over his head, lit only by the glow of six monitors and his own hair pulsing a quiet blue. he was pacing (dangerous, for someone who barely leaves his chair) and ranting.

“this is bad. this is really bad. they smiled at me today, ortho. what does it mean when someone smiles like that? it wasn’t the generic npc smile - it was like… like a special event smile. am i overanalyzing again? should i be logging this???”

on cue, ortho hovered into frame, his usual peppy tone more therapist than ai sidekick. “nii-san. you’re doing the thing again.”

“what thing?” idia asked, voice going high-pitched. “i have a lot of things.”

“the catastrophic romantic overanalysis thing,” ortho said, spinning a little in midair. “you’re turning a wave and a ‘hi’ into a dating sim’s true ending!”

idia groaned and flopped onto the beanbag, face-down.

“i can’t help it,” came his muffled voice. “they’re like… so cool. and i’m- i’m just me. anime wallpaper and social phobia included. they’d never go for someone like me.”

ortho floated lower, voice softening. “you’re smart. funny. really loyal. and when you talk about the stuff you love, your voice lights up in this way that’s actually kind of cute. you just… don’t let anyone see it but me.”

“…you think i’m cute?” idia peeked up, hair flickering pink for a split second.

“not the point!” ortho beamed. “i think they might like you back, but they’ll never know if you keep running from them like a frightened npc!”

idia rolled over dramatically. “what do i even say?! what’s a non-embarrassing way to exist around them? i said ‘nice weather we’re coding today’ last week. they smiled through it. they’re either kind or too powerful.”

“how about,” ortho said patiently, “you try asking them if they wanna hang out sometime? i’ll even be there if it helps.”

idia was silent.

then: “...what if they say no and i implode and become a permanent ghost who haunts the vending machine?”

“then i’ll haunt it with you.”

idia stared. “...you’re a good little brother.”

“the best. now go confess before i start auto-patching your confidence while you sleep.”

the next day, idia approached you in the library. his hood was up, hands trembling slightly, ortho hovering like a miniature coach behind him.

you looked up from your book.

“hey, idia.”

critical hit to the heart. heart.exe crashed. rebooting...

he inhaled. “hi. um. i was wondering if… maybe… you’d like to hang out sometime. with me. and possibly ortho. or just me. or- or not. like, you can ignore this whole sentence and i’ll understand completely and go into low-power mode for a century-”

you smiled.

“i’d love to.”

full system reboot. mood light: PINK.

idia blinked. “...wait, really?”

“yeah,” you said. “you’re fun to talk to. and kind. and weird, but in a way that makes me feel less alone.”

from behind, ortho silently fist-pumped in the air.

idia’s hair glowed a soft, beautiful fuchsia. he looked like he’d just unlocked a secret achievement.

“…okay,” he whispered. “coolcoolcool. i’ll, um… message you the details. if that’s okay.”

you nodded. “it’s a date.”

and as you walked away, idia turned to ortho and whispered:

“i’m gonna combust.”

“you already are,” ortho said proudly. “you’re doing great.”

[yeeterthek33per]

Meet You Maybe Never (Chapter 3)

(Magdalena Eriksson x Pernille Harder x Reader)

A/n Been struggling to write, like, a lot, but I promise there is stuff in the works. Anyway, enjoy :)

Content/Warning(s): Fluff, More murals, Minor injury, swearing.

The sweat dripping down your temple sends a shiver down your spine as you hide yourself away from an encroaching member of security.

Normally, Bayern Campus was free to roam for you, but even your position had it's limits.

Considering you were on the roof of the main building on campus right now, you'd say those limits were well and truly breached.

The more you see the frantically searching guards light shine over the concrete pillar you'd tucked away behind, the more your heart races, you breathe out as quietly as possible.

Being caught is not an option, you have to get out.

You'd only been trying to find a better view of a finished mural you'd done on the blank wall at the front of the campus, an area accessible to the public, so as to not draw the wrong attention, but instead of making your way up there out of security view, the yells of a burly blonde man telling you to stop force you away from your path and now you're stuck up here, an area not so available to the public.

Whipping your head back and forth assessing the roofs access points, one ladder down the side that leads to a small accessway down between the buildings and an open doorway down the stairs and into the building, both currently being guarded by security.

Instead, you take the third option, given how badly you don't want to be caught, jumping off the building wasn't completely out of the question, you line up the jump needed to make it across to the shorter building beside it, hoping you can make it across, even though it's a good few metres further down.

Fuck it.

You almost miss the shouts alerting you to the presence of the ensuing guard behind you right as you leap off the building, clearing the gap by a good few feet and rolling across the hard concrete.

Shooting pain up your shoulder makes the return to your feet difficult, and the moment you're upright and running for the ladder back down the building towards the exit you need to get to, the very obvious limpness in your arm prevents an easy escape.

Something must have snapped when you landed.

Cursing the blinding pain, you slide down the ladder, one handed and land about as gracefully as you can given your current predicament, making a straight sprint for the exit.

Panting as you jump on your bike, gripping the handles tightly with severely harsh shoots of ache up the limp muscles, you speed off, flipping the plate back down once you're on the main road, ripping off your mask and sliding it into your bag away from view.

Shit, your shoulder hurts.

The low rumble of your bike as you return to your apartment building's parking lot echoes through the quiet of the night, the occasional whoosh of a car interrupting the purring below you.

As quickly as you can, you jog into the elevator, trying not to make your pain obvious to the random neighbour up with you at four in the morning, avoiding cradling the worsening muscles.

All of this because you couldn't stay away from painting for a couple days.

Or from painting them at least, if you'd picked a better time and place to find inspiration, you wouldn't be stuck with a shot shoulder now.

You enter the barely warmed apartment, cussing when you bump into the doorway on the way in, searing pain finding its way up to the base of your neck now, too.

Grabbing an ice pack out of the freezer, you pull off your shirt, pressing it tight on your shoulder, hissing at the coldness against the already swelling problem.

Why'd you have to go and do that?

If you'd just taken the two seconds to think before walking into the place you work wearing the one thing you'd promised never to mix together with, you wouldn't have an issue, but now you'd most likely have the police to deal with, too.

You only have to lay low for a while.

In the meantime, getting your shoulder checked was going to be annoying, considering you showing up to work with this was almost incriminating.

The hospital at this hour wasn't your next option.

Guess you'll be waiting.

-

Despite the clubs best efforts, they couldn't stop the media from picking up on the information and rumours of the Straßengänger being seen and nearly caught on Bayern Campus.

Another photo finding itself somehow leaked from the security footage of the supposed trespasser, your mask very visible but other than that, nothing.

And thankfully, the circulating questioning from security going around to staff asking if they might know who the person in the photo was, nobody could recognise you and you weren't seen landing and going down the ladder, due to conveniently faulty wiring in the camera pointed over the roof access.

It was a wonder they didn't catch the bike you were riding either.

Going around to various groups of your co-workers and the media managers under you, a few discussing the various happenings from the previous night, not putting much input into the conversations, but listening for anything that might indicate the security have been tipped off.

Nothing of note, and thankfully, a physio at the campus that you're friendly with is all too happy to have a look at the sore shoulder you'd gained from falling from a ladder putting up a new frame in your apartment.

Discovering you'd need a few scans, they send you off to get some scans and speak with a specialist they know.

Turns out, a fully ruptured rotator cuff hurts like hell, especially when you ride a motorbike on a daily basis, now having to catch the bus into the city for the foreseeable future, or at least, be driven.

Letting your boss know you'd have to make use of the campus physios facilities, you accept defeat that you'd spent far too much time running around like you were still a teenager on free climbing camp.

You'd just have to heal up for now, and take it easier than you ever have, who said you can't do a little planning in the meantime, though, right?

The day before the players are set to return to training is the day Magda and Pernille walk into your office looking for you.

Sitting upright from your slouched position over the laptop in front of you, arm still in a sling, you greet them with a warm smile.

"Welcome back ladies, how was internationals?"

You knew how they went already, you kept up with them while they were playing for their country, doesn't hurt to hear it from them, though.

"Very good, very happy with the results, and it was nice to be home for a while, too."

Pernille nods in agreement.

"Not too many wins, but it was definitely well fought."

"That's good to hear, then, maybe I'll get around to watching them."

You chuckle softly, gesturing to the mountains of paperwork either side of you, careful not to jolt yourself more than necessary.

"Paperwork never rests, huh?"

"Never. It's not too bad, though, I'm not doing much else aside from losing my mind sitting here all day anyway."

Pernille's eyes trace over your expression, down to your oddly shaped arm then noticing the outline of the sling over your shoulder.

"Oh no, what happened?"

Concern dawns on the woman's face as she steps around your desk to take a closer fussing look.

Heat creeps up your cheeks as you sheepishly move to give her a less disadvantageous look over your injury from her practically leaning over you.

"It's not that bad, just a little accident at home, I'm doing paperwork so it's really not a big issue."

You follow with a half shrug, a stupid move on your part, because there's a shooting pain down your arm and back, leaving you wincing.

"That wince doesn't look little. What happened?"

Magda joins you both now, concern as you shrug off the jacket you have sitting over you, showing the bruising and surgery stitches.

"Jesus, Y/n, what'd you do?"

"Fell off a ladder is all..."

They share a knowing look over your head.

"Seems dramatic for a ladder fall."

"Ten foot ladder..."

They scan over your face for a few moments, not really believing the quick excuse but let it go, seeing the exhaustion in your form leaning over your laptop.

"Maybe you should take a break for a bit, I know you're busy but maybe take a couple hours away from the desk. Come with us for a walk at least, get some fresh air. Knowing you, you've been slaving away, cooped up here."

You cough, scratching at the back of your neck.

Read you like a book.

"Okay, fair assessment, but sure, I could use a walk."

Standing and stretching, though not too hard, you shrug your jacket back on and close your laptop.

"Seriously though, you pair just got back from your internationals, wouldn't you both want to do something a little less business related?"

Magda shakes her head.

"This isn't business, just making sure a friend is keeping herself healthy and taking breaks when she needs to."

Pernille gives you a pointed look, and you laugh defeated.

"Alright alright. Shall we go, then?"

The darker blonde on your other side nods with a warm smile, careful not to brush against you as she moves to walk through the door, you and her partner following out to the gardened areas around the arena and the pitches.

The weather is cooler outside, so it's nice to be outside in the sun as you take a slow stroll, just getting to breathe in the smell of freshly mowed grass and running garden hoses as the pitches are being maintained for the break.

A couple of the younger teams can be seen out on the pitch kicking around during training.

Not much is said between the three of you, allowing a peaceful level of quiet to fall over the group. Just a way for you to relax, you suppose. That and themselves most likely needing quiet away from the chaos of their own worlds, too.

You occasionally catch a whiff of their perfumes every time the wind blows in your direction, given how close they're both walking to you, not that you find it in you to mind at all.

The whole scene makes your muscles relax and even your shoulder untenses a little given it's freshly operated nature.

It's easier to let go with the people you trust around you.

It's a scary realisation that you find yourself trusting them so quickly.

Not that you shouldn't have expected it given how quickly you latched onto them in the beginning, too.

You'd told yourself not to do this, not to let them in but when you feel the occasional brush from Magda on your left side and Pernille occasionally brushing your elbow on your right, though gentler than her girlfriend to avoid hurting you, you don't find it in you to hate yourself all that much for letting them in.

--------------------------

By the time you've returned to your desk, it's later in the day, around midday after coming back from grabbing food with the pair at a campus café.

After a good hour long walk, followed by some slow chatter, little things like the passing weather, stories from their respective camps, games, stories about how you've spent the past weeks, obviously forgoing the part where you leapt off the campus main building and have been continuously painting, even with your injury.

They ask about your earlier years, before you moved to Germany, before you'd found yourself with the club, before you'd even finished school.

You tell them, most of it, tell them your journey through the media training, how you'd spent years following your dad's footsteps, about how he'd been your idol.

You don't mention why.

The earlier years where you picked up watching football.

The early footage of the US team making it in small shreds to your home country, and your own country's teams upcoming and their journey.

The pair listen on as you delve into some of your passion with the artistic side of your childhood, becoming someone of known talent amongst your teachers, however you don't go into too much detail about what you used to do, just mentions of painting and sketching.

Being both an artistic kid and a sport obsessed kid had your parents, even your ever so artistic father, stressed beyond measure.

But, alas, once you got into university for the business side, they relaxed a little.

Your dad, your creative inspiration, was the most supportive once he realised just what you were doing with the growing local men's clubs, then contracted by a bigger known club in the top division, before finally being hired by your current home, FC Bayern München at the recommendation of a long distance friend.

Ever the protective parents, they were upset at the idea of you leaving them so soon, but you assured them you would be fine.

And that you are, now a few years into the place you call home.

Both Scandis watch as you delve into the deeper parts of your work with keen interest, and something else that you don't recognise in the amused glints that are shared between them every time you get a little too carried away talking about your love of the artistic side of Munich.

"This place on the corner of the nature walk between the south side and the farmland has this gorgeous wall of art along the side that nobody really gets to see if they don't walk that far. Even talking to some of the farmers out there, most of the time, they don't get out that way and it's just beautiful because the people that have found it have changed it so much, made it into this place where artists can go to find inspiration or to just witness beauty like that."

"It sounds amazing, you should show us that area when we get free next. If you would like that is?"

The question catches you off guard.

It looks like it catches Pernille off guard when Magda asks too, sharing a silent glance with an amused look at the now suddenly flustered Swede who meets her eye only for a moment and turns back to you, a hopeful look on her face.

You smile, nodding, a little apprehensive of the repercussions of showing them something so close to you.

And yet, it would be so easy to let them in and show them this side of your life.

"Sure, we've got that meeting on Thursday with the Estée Lauder rep, and then I'm free for the afternoon?"

Nervously, you shift slightly in your seat, hands desperately avoiding fiddling too much with a piece of lint on your pants.

"Of course, and we can take the afternoon to check out that walking trail as well, get out in nature for a while, will your shoulder be alright, though?"

The concern on the platinum blondes face melts your resolve a little further, and you give her a reassuring smile.

"As long as we aren't rock climbing.."

You chuckle to yourself softly, taking another sip of your drink and then lean back in your chair, letting your arm rest itself, ignoring the soft twinge as you move a little to fast for your shoulder to catch up.

Though, they notice you wince as you shift in your seat, a softness crossing Magda's face as she glances from your shoulder to your face, watching your expression.

"I'm fine, just a little twinge."

There's a barely subtle disbelieving look shared between them.

"So, tell us how you managed to fall from a three metre ladder, again?"

You pause, shifting slightly to avoid looking like you're bullshitting them more than you already are.

"The foot of the ladder slipped when I moved a little too fast and the whole move made me slip and fall."

Both of them wince empathetically, making you smile sheepishly.

"It really wasn't that bad, just my being stupid and trying to hang things outside of reasonable safety."

"Still, you got hurt..."

The softer tone makes you look up again, brow furrowing for a moment.

"It's whatever, it happens, I guarantee I've done stupider stuff."

Trying to play it off and change the subject, though judging the look Pernille shoots her girlfriend, it'll probably come back later, you point out the time and suggest heading back to the office as you do have work you're shirking right now.

"Yeah of course, talk later about Thursday?"

You hum, leaving the pair with as least suspicious smile as possible as you duck away from the café, speed walking as soon as you get out of sight.

You really have to get yourself back in order, you're slipping and it's not good.

--------------------------

Thursday rolls around quicker than you'd like, but it also feels like it's taking forever to get here.

You're nervous.

Nervous because of how this is going to pan out.

Nervous because of how Pernille and Magda are going to react in person with you there as someone they know and speak to on a regular basis to several of the works of art that you drew that surely they'd recognise as similar to the work of the Straßengänger.

Nervous because it was your first proper time outside of even a close enough work setting that you'd be spending time with them.

Nervous because this place was special and your two worlds would be colliding and they wouldn't even realise the truth behind it.

Cursing the weather for being as fine as it could be in the cold climate in Munich, you find yourself taking as much time as you can to make yourself presentable and ready to face whatever lies ahead.

Mentally hyping yourself up as you step out your front door, beginning your slow walk to the bus station to wait for the bus, the whole time clenching and unclenching your fist in your pocket, feeling the cool metal of your lucky coin sooth your sweating palm.

Turning and flipping the round object, letting the abrasions in the edges ground you as you reach the silver seating beneath the small shelter by the road.

There's an occasional whoosh from the cars passing by and you nearly miss the slow squealing of the large engined vehicle slow to a stop.

This was going to be a long day.

-

Between the meeting earlier and despite Magda and Pernille's insistence on driving you to the walking track, you're on edge.

You insist on having to catch a bus ride home to get changed and showered and that you'll meet them there, reasoning they live on the opposite side of Munich.

The bus ride to the outer district goes by far too quickly for your taste, leaving you fidgety as the buildings and larger yards fly by.

The stop comes into view and you can see the walking track entrance twenty or so metres up the road, with Magda's car parked in the small assigned spot beside it.

Hopping off, putting on a small smile and removing your hand from your pocket, heading up the road, you spot the blonde pair chatting animatedly, leant up against the car, and then they spot you.

They both smile as you approach.

"Hey you, ready to go?"

You swear the husk in Magda's voice does something to you that you won't acknowledge more than the mild shiver it sends through you.

Nodding, you gesture to the path.

"Let's get to it."

The whole time, walking alongside you, each brush of their form against yours, each time you walk ahead due to each small narrowing in the path carved through the long grass where you can feel their gazes on your form, each time you stop to admire small areas of nature for the serenity and their hands find you in some capacity, mainly on your non injured shoulder and hovering over the small of your back.

The careful watch of both of them as you make your way over a particularly tricky area of land has you more fidgety.

Eventually, you come to the familiar secluded playground between the farm and plantation.

Facing the playground, a large brick wall, painted over and over, whitened to cover various years of graffiti but ultimately turned into an artistic mural by yourself and many others.

Various drawings of the area surrounding the playground, interpretations, and even the occasional ironic sketch of inner city Munich almost like those that draw nature scenery in cities.

Smiling a little nervously, you move to the side to let the pair approach and look over the wall themselves.

The part you don't mention is about fourty percent of these drawings and paintings are yours.

There's even small mini paintings hidden between murals, like trying to sneak them in without making a fuss.

Those mini paintings are various pieces of them.

Magda and Pernille, in various states of happiness, in various states of stoicism, both of them.

Of course, ever the keen eye, they spot them.

Pernille clocks one of her's first.

"Hey Magda, check this out."

She gestures to one particular one of her in her captains band, in Danish uniform.

The Swede walks straight over, kneeling to get eye level with the small artwork, her fingers tracing the mildly weathered paint.

She mutters something under her breath that you just barely make out as:

"So you were here, too."

Deciding to cover your tracks, you wander over as well, pretending to admire the work.

"Looks like another one of those murals we've been seeing lately."

"Yeah, did you catch the new one on campus, Straßengänger was there over the weekend last week."

Swallowing slightly, you nod thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I did see that, ballsy hey?"

The Swede assesses you for a second and you swear you see something linger in her gaze as she nods in agreement, her other half still walking along the wall, fingertips grazing over the heavily painted concrete.

"Something like that, they've been busy, that's for sure."

You only nod as your eyes follow her as she moves to go over the rest of the wall, the pair of them chatting lightly as they admire each piece of work, yours and not.

Spending the time gazing over the newer pieces you've spotted covering old worn paintings that were too worn to really be admired, coming from street artists other than yourself, especially a new one that you don't recognise as your own.

Similar style as yours, similar target audience.

A realisation comes over you as you realise there's someone else out there doing this.

It's a recreation of the one you did back in the quiet districts on the outskirts when they first joined Bayern.

It's less precise, less careful and they didn't get the correct shading on it.

Walking away from it, you go over to where the pair are stood, silently admiring the wall with them, pretending you didn't just see a possible problem arise.

It was probably nothing, probably some artistic kid who looks up to the Straßengänger and is simply practising their works.

Nonetheless, you continue idly admiring the rest of the works.

"You said you liked painting and sketching, you ever think about doing works out here?"

The question surprises you and you try not to let it show too much, though judging by the flicker in Pernille's eyes as she spots it, she sees it in your expression.

"I uh, not really? I guess I've never thought about it. Life's been too busy to, plus, I'd be more worried about getting caught, it's technically not legal to do this."

It comes out less smooth of a response than you'd like due to the mildly shaky nature of your voice, but they seem to accept the answer, Pernille smiling in understanding and Magda nodding, eyes flicking between you and the wall occasionally.

You're not stupid.

You know she's getting suspicious.

Of what exactly, you're not sure, but you know that look.

Almost like a parent gives a kid when they know the kid's done something but they don't know what and they can't interrogate them about it.

Regardless, they both settle into the easy rhythm of talking to you about everything and anything, sometimes sitting quietly, sometimes asking questions, like how many times you'd been out here and if you ever saw someone painting whilst out here.

While you'd been out here dozens of times, you couldn't tell them that.

"Just a couple times, the first time I saw it was by accident, I was on the walking track and found it when I took a wrong turn off the plantation. Then I came back out of curiosity. This is the third time."

You don't want to lie, but if it keeps them off your tail for a while, then it won't hurt too much.

"As for seeing anyone, a few times but never really hung around to confront them or even let them know I saw them. As much as I love street art, you never really know the street artist."

"Right."

It comes from Pernille, who's giving you a small smile with an unreadable look.

Nodding slowly, you gaze over at the wall, still eyeing the mural.

Either side of you, they share a look over your head that you've grown accustomed to, being around them a lot more than normal, though it doesn't stop the small flush creeping up your ears.

This would be a long walk back.

-------------------------

You've been laying low for the better part of a few weeks.

That day at the mural really put into perspective how intelligent they are, and you can't risk outing yourself too quickly.

You know that they know something is up, and frankly, you aren't keen on them knowing when you don't exactly have an escape route with your arm still in a sling.

And yet here you are, stupidly, furiously spraying a can of black paint over a cracked and just barely crumbling wall.

Flash back to two in the afternoon, twiddling a pen between your fingers listening to the rep talk circles around you about the latest complication in scheduling for a shoot.

Magda and Pernille sit opposite, both, although passionate about the subject, even themselves, look like they're trying their hardest to stay focused.

Particularly Magda who's always been the more active of the two, fidgets in her seat every minute or so.

And then back to you, the pen starts tapping against your book lightly in the next two minutes, and thankfully, a resolution comes about.

"We're happy to move the shoot to the fifteenth of June, it'll be tight but it'll fit better with your champions league schedule and you won't have to fly back from Italy so soon."

Both of them agree in seconds, both more than happy to find a solution to the problem that's been plaguing their meeting time for the past hour.

"Amazing, so we just need to sort out the..."

Pernille swears she sees your eye twitch slightly and it seems the rep reads the room finally, sensing the mental exhaustion through the laptop screen.

"Perhaps we should sort this out another time, I'll call you tomorrow to discuss this, Ms. L/n."

You nod and the call cuts off, and as professional as you try to remain, your shoulders, well, shoulder, slumps, the other still cradled.

"Thank god. I love this project but these scheduling meetings are getting drastic."

She notes the twitch in your fingers, the itch to do literally anything but sitting still and finds herself feeling the same.

"Alright, I'll get these papers sorted for tomorrow, in the meantime, I have to be going."

The itch is getting dramatic now, you absolutely have to go do something.

Both of them eye you for a moment, before smiling knowingly.

"Yeah, we best be going as well, I need a stretch after that."

Before they can say much else, you're bidding them goodbye and exiting the room, leaving them to exchange a look between them that would've been more concerning had you not been so focused on getting out of there.

The whole meeting consisted of you writing on and on, and finding yourself constantly distracted in the down moments, to the point the other two noticed it.

They even noticed you doodling on a spare page at the time, something they'd not really paid attention to until now.

And now, here you are, furiously shaking a can of white paint with one hand, the other limp at your side, out of it's sling, which, while stupid on your part, was to at least keep your identity somewhat hidden.

The cool spring afternoon air flowing around you as the paint hits the brickwork distracts you enough that you settle into the routine easier, calmer and dulls the world around for a few minutes.

By the time you're done, the itch is sated and Munich is blessed with another angle of Pernille scoring the goal against Austria, her face alight with brilliance and triumph.

Not your top work, but you're happy enough with it that you can step back from it and smile, the sense of familiarity returning and settling today's stresses.

That is until.

"You know, looking back at that replay, I swear she looked more smug about that goal than she cares to admit."

It makes you jump about ten feet in the air, your heart in your throat and a small curse leaves your lips.

You were caught.

--------------------------

Magdalena had simply decided to go for a run around the city, needing to get some air while Pernille spent the time at their shared home meditating and winding down.

Something brought her to the southern districts, and surprisingly, she finds herself near the area you'd mentioned living in.

Another thing that surprises her.

Just how much you, the creative director, and her and Pernille's newfound friend amongst the club are on her mind.

Her thoughts drift back to that walk a few weeks ago, the way you'd let yourself get lost in the works on the wall, how you'd zoned in on one particular piece.

A recreation of the welcome to Bayern piece from the outer districts.

The one that had started the whole problem of her needing to find the Straßengänger.

Except the one you'd been looking at had piqued your curiosity.

And hers.

It looked like a less intense, and less well done.

A copy perhaps?

The style didn't match what she'd seen of the artists work so far, and she was curious as to why it had piqued your interest, too.

Until she started assessing your responses, the way your attention drifted to the wall every spare second it wasn't on the pair of them.

She'd known you loved art.

But this was different and that had her curious.

A jingle of a metal ball in can.

The familiar sound of can being rattled, and then sprayed.

As she wanders past what looks like an old construction zone, she sees the Straßengänger, right there, spraying away at a wall without a care in the world.

Mostly done, or at least, that's what she guesses, of an artwork of Pernille, this time in Danish colours, celebrating her most recent goal against Austria.

She hesitates, stops to watch for a moment.

The artist doesn't seem to notice her presence so she stays, the whole time until they finally step back from the wall, and she swears she hears them hum in a satisfied way.

Something clicks in her head as she realises just what she's doing and who this is that she's watching.

The words you'd spoken to her just weeks ago echo in her head.

"You never really know the street artist."

Did you think Straßengänger was dangerous?

Did she think Straßengänger was dangerous?

Somehow, she came to the conclusion, that no, she didn't think so.

Or at least, didn't believe it.

So it's no surprise the words are out of her mouth before she can give it much else thought.

Sure, she's smart, but she's also headstrong, and someone who goes headfirst into a lot of things.

And that's why when the person jumps, clearly startled by her presence, she doesn't find herself worried at all.

"You know, looking back at that replay, I swear she looked more smug about that goal than she cares to admit."

The person turns to face her, a look of bewilderment and mild panic in their eye, much different to the unfamiliar look she'd received just a few months ago in their first meeting.

Only this time, there's a sense of familiarity as she approaches, slow, calm steps over to the freshly painted wall, the person tense but unmoving from their position just yet.

"Here I'd thought you'd wait a few days before coming to find the latest work, let the media do their work."

The voice, familiar, gives her an odd sense of composure in the face of the moment she's been thinking about non-stop.

"Here I'd thought you'd have waited a few more days until the Final against Wolfsburg to do any more murals."

Their form relaxes a little.

"Don't get too cocky, all of my murals are victorious ones."

"Here I thought you wanted us to win."

"I do. I'm just not in over my head about it."

A laugh comes from her before she expects it.

"Says the person sneaking around, painting murals of me and my fiancée every other month and not expecting us to go chasing you for it. We have questions you know."

A chuckle fills the air, and for the first time, Straßengänger doesn't feel like a total stranger.

Come to think of it, before now, they never really had.

More like an enigma.

"It was never unexpected. I fully expected questions. You're not stupid. And neither is Pernille. What I didn't expect was how... calm you seem about it. This isn't exactly a normal... behaviour. Would be almost stalker-ish for anyone else. What's different for you?"

"Because you don't threaten us. You've never felt dangerous. Just.... an interesting subject. And frankly, Pernille is fascinated by your works."

"And you?"

Magda's head cocks.

"Me what?"

A knowing look passes through their gaze

"What's so fascinating to you?"

"You are. The fact you're doing all of this."

A cock of the head, and then a nod of acknowledgement and the moment passes before the figure steps back finally, straightening up.

A flicker of something passes in their gaze, and as they turn a little harshly, she thinks she imagines their expression turn to a wince.

They move to leave, leaving her to look over the artwork.

She's nowhere near satisfied with the answers she got, but she's got something now.

And there's something about them that has her more than curious.

Something she'll later share with Pernille, and she'll receive the knowing look from her lover that she's seen all too many times.

Pernille knows her all too well, that curiosity, that determination that will drive her insane trying to solve whatever problems or situations that arise.

That captains edge.

"Hey Magda."

Her name jolts her out of her thoughts again, seeing the artists head pop back around the corner.

It sends something through her, hearing her name like that.

Familiarity?

Shock?

She's not sure.

"Yeah?"

"See you soon."

With that, they're gone again.

And the confusion returns.

--------------------------

A/n Good lord, that's done, not as good as I want it to be, but I'll come back and fix it later.

[anon-no7]

On your mind (ATEEZ Yunho) (slight NSFW/+18)

Preview: >> “Maybe there needs to be a little more. A little more, for you to forget- everything and everyone. With only me left on your mind.” <<

………….

Pair: Yunho (friend/whatevership) X Reader (fem) Wordcount: 2.3 k Story: Reader gets rejected and calls her friend Yunho (Yuyu) Content: +18, slight suggestive themes, a pinch of angst for reader, slight dom & possessive vibes of Yunho

A/N: This is my first one for ATEEZ, please don't hate me too much.

………….

Were you desperate? Yeah, probably. But he is also the one who’d answer your calls, every time.

Y/N, 8:33pm Hi, do you have any schedule tomorrow?

YuYu, 8:33pm Hey I’m free tonight. You got something on your mind?

Y/N, 8:33pm Would you like to come by?

YuYu, 8:34 pm I’ll wrap up here. Give me an hour.

Were you using him?

Was he taking advantage of you?

Either way, you take this one hour of opportunity to wrap up yourself. You get up and put the empty snack-packaging in the garbage-- And that’s it. That is all you actually manage to do. No matter how fierce and determent you stare at the laundry rack, that’s been there since yesterday- with certain dried laundry- You can’t bring yourself to put any of it away.

Am I really that desperate? You’re wondering. When did I let some guy that I met twice get so much under my skin?

Maybe the question you should be asking yourself should rather be: When will I admit to myself that I starved to feel deep genuine connection with someone? When will I admit that I am more romantic and soft hearted than I am telling myself? When will I admit, that I want gentleness- My face cradled, my forehead and lips kissed so softly-- To be the one and only one they want…

Is that so wrong? Wanting to be wanted? To be yearned for? Desired and craved for?

Suddenly the bell to your door rings, startling you and you check the clock on your phone. 9:34pm. That one said hour has already passed and your guts clench just as your realize; The display at your peephole lighting up and showing who is standing right outside. You see the silhouette- Distinctive, even with the cap and hoodie. Your heart and guts suddenly fluttering;

You open the door and there he is: Yunho, with his head slightly tilted to the side, a sweet sweet smile- his eyes dark and yet so inviting… “Hey.”

“Hi.” How come, that you look absolutely nothing like-; You look like the sweet boyfriend and not like this ‘whatevership’ you and I participate in. “Come in.”

As always, you head to the kitchen, while he puts shoes, jacket and cap away. You get a drink for each of you, placing on the little counter for him to take.

“You know, I missed you. Do you?” he says before taking a sip. His eyes not letting go of you.

“Yah.” sure.

“You’re not in a good mood I see.”

“No.” you take a sip. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head “What happened?” so cute.

“I’m giving up on men. I don’t understand them.” you call it now. And you mean it. Even now, when his eyebrows rise so surprised. Yes. Yes you do mean it!

“Understandable, but I wouldn’t call it all out on men.”

“Well, then I guess I am the problem.”

“What makes you think that?”

Suddenly you’re not sure if you should tell him. It’s about another man-; … Why does this suddenly feel so difficult to tell him, when you know there is nothing between you two?

“Come- You got me here, gave me a drink-” he squints his eyes and nose “Spill the tea I came for.”

“So I was out with this guy-” you start and he immediately nods and hums understanding.

“Of course.”

“It was just two dates. And the first date I didn’t even wanna go.”

“Why didn’t you wanna go?”

“I don’t know… The weather was so grey and I wasn’t in a particularly good mood- work and all has been a lot and some stuff with a friend and- I would have rather been on my couch… But I did go and it turned out really good!”

“What’s up and work and that friend of yours?”

“Can we stick to one topic? That guy?”

“Okay.”

“So-!” you continue. “First date, we had actually a cafe in mind to sit in. But when we got there I didn’t feel ready to sit down with him, so I proposed to walk a bit more and we did that. Then it started raining a bit and I figured there would be more rain, so I said that we could either go back to the cafe we wanted to go to, or something we were just at- And he was fine with not turning back and so we sat down in this other cafe and had some coffee first and-” you think back to that moment, when you and your date and put your jackets off and noticed your outfits had been kinda matching. It was funny. Even now you chuckle thinking of it because of the coincidence.

“What?”

“It’s just- when we sat down we noticed that we were both wearing turtlenecks.”

“Hm!” he hums, now noticing that you and him were quite matching as well. Him, wearing a black hoodie and you a white one -even from the same brand. For a moment he wonders if you’d notice it too, but- You just continue talking about the date.

“We talked a lot- I haven’t talked so much in so long and also asked regarding him- We talked about our friends and families and he was also realistic about them, which doesn’t happen often and it wasn’t in a judging way, rather concerned and worried and thoughtful- We laughed about stuff- stupid stuff and such--”

“We talk like that too.” he notices.

“Yeah, but-”

“But-?” he pushes himself from the counter and steps towards you.

“But this was a real date. Not some ‘Netflix and chill’.”

“You don’t like watching dramas with me?” he slightly tilts his head again.

“YuYu-”

“That’s not my name.” he stops right in front of you. So close, you can feel the warmth his body is radiating.

“It’s uh- the name your number is saved in my contacts.”

His eyes fixating your gaze, slightly narrowing at you. “Your idea, not mine.” a daring smirk on his lips- Two fingers raising your chin- holding, not allowing you to look away. “What’s my name?” his voice just as soft and daring “Say my name.”

“Yu- Yunho.”

His daring smile turns into a satisfied one. Slowly he leans closer, closing the gap between “Well done.” and pulls away just before your lips could graze.

You had forgotten. You really had forgotten the kind of effect he could have on you. Forgetting how to breathe, where you were and-

“When did you last talk?” his voice sounding so casually- Sipping from his drink as if he wouldn’t have almost kissed you two seconds ago.

“Wh-at?” what you had just talked about, undetectable. What were you just confused and sad about earlier?

“You and your date, did you last talk over text?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. He uhm-” it’s coming back to you again. But somehow you’re not mad anymore about it. “We would have had another date tomorrow but then he said that he was tired and- uncertain.”

“Uncertain?” he sounds confused. “Show me the chat.” he opens his hand for you to give him your phone.

You open the chat and hand it to him. “I don’t get it honestly. I mean I get the tired thing but-.” you explain while he reads. Focused. Scrolling up a bit and then the last text again.

7:30 pm I know this is coming out of nowhere, but the more I think about tomorrow I feel the need to say this. I’m a kinda uncertain about our date. Maybe it is just because I am tired, but I also feel like we don’t got as much in common as it is necessary. I appreciate how deep we could talk. You are a sensitive and delicate person. Maybe I’m just tired and need some more time for me. What do you think?

The last text in the chat. You haven’t answered anything.

“At least he got one thing right.”

“What?”

“That you’re a delicate and sensitive person.” he scoffs and shakes his head as he hands you the phone back. “He’s got cold feet.”

“Cold feet?”

“I get the feeling he was either intimidated by what a sweet and good person you are or your independence and confidence or both.”

“I know you’re just saying this to make me feel better.”

“That’s who you are. You know who you are, what you want and need-”

“I don’t know everything I want and need.”

“But definitely more than him and most. And if he doesn’t get that- If he can’t ‘handle’ that,” he rolls his eyes “then he is an idiot.”

“He is no idiot, he was attentive and sweet and-”

“This guy is an idiot, that’s his message. Saying he is ‘tired’ when he could spend time with you. Idiot.”

He’s right. You don’t want him to be right. You want to be right for once! To be loved. To know what that feels like.

“Hey-” he takes your hand, his thumb softly grazing over your skin. “It’s his loss, not yours.”

“Does feel like I lost.”Once again. After another again. And before that another again…

“I’ll put on a drama, okay?”

You nod. You don’t want to move. You just want to curl up under a warm blanket and not be alone.

*

The drama is running on your TV. None of you both has said something in a while. Which you don’t mind, but actually appreciate it; Sitting on the big fluffy carpet, sitting against the couch and leaning against Yunho, while watching the drama.

But it’s still untypical. Unfamiliar with him. It creeps more and more over your brain, until you cannot stand it anymore and have to take a look at him. If he might have fallen asleep or something.

But no. He is watching drama, just as you. At least for those two, three seconds in which you scan his face.

“What?” he turns to you.

“You don’t say anything. Usually you make a little comment here and there to the story or characters.”

“Am I not allowed to watch in silence?” he chuckles.

“No- I mean yes- I mean- It’s just- Usually you say something...”

“Then-” he thinks about it for a second, before he smiles “I think blasting 2NE1 and having a little dance party by yourself in an empty office, is pretty cool.”

“That was the last episode before this one.”

“Still pretty cool.”

“So- Everything is okay?” somehow you have to ask. Somehow there is still this feeling, that it’s not.

He notices and pauses the drama, before turning to you. “Of course it’s okay.” he assures.

“I- didn’t ruin your night?”

“How would you ruin it?” he smiles, so absurd it sounds to him.

“I called you here over this stupid stuff.”

“You’re not stupid stuff. Spending time with you is a win.”

A win? Spending time with me is-; “I don’t know, I just- ” you suppress the sigh and just exhale. But again, he notices.

“Don’t make yourself small because someone stupid doesn’t know to appreciate someone good, when you are right in front of him.”

You feel your ears turning hot- Your heart fluttering sweet by these words and that look of his. Warm and earnest. “Thank you.” almost inaudible. Suddenly you feel shy. And warm. Everywhere. And with Yunho, keeping his eyes on you, it’s not getting better. Even worse. But it feels so sweet as well.

“Ugh…” you sigh and hide your face behind your hands. “I hate that my brain got me so focused on what he said and all. Like I can’t think of anything else.”

“That’s not true. Earlier you had forgotten about him.”

“Earli-? Oh…” you then realize tho. The moment he had lifted your chin with his slender fingers- His gaze so fixating and captivating- Leaning so close that he almost kissed you- To then say ‘Well done.’ … “Yeah u-hm-- ” this time you feel your face turning hot. And maybe somewhere else too. And it’s not your ears. “Did- Did that really work?”

That smirk of his. He has you hooked. He knows. You know that he knows and you don’t care. You don’t care at all.

Just like before, he leans closer, places two fingers under your chin- lifting it, holding your gaze in place- on him. “Is he still on your mind?”

“Yes.” you answer. His eyes narrow. Calculate before-

“Don’t move.” he says. Quiet but- almost commanding. Then, he let’s go of your chin, but not of you. His fingertips run down your chin, over your throat. Drawing a sweet shivering trail over your skin. “Still on your mind?”

“Y-es.” Not the right answer. Or was it? Something lights up in his eyes. Dark. You feel his breath hitting you. Notice his jaw tensing.

You feel his hand on your thigh. Starting it at you knee- slowly running upward. Feeling the warmth of his hand- it heats up your skin.

Oh how badly you want to move. But you don’t. He said so. And it truly delights him. A satisfied, daring, lingering on his lips.

“Hmm…” he hums and almost removes the space between you. “Maybe there needs to be a little more.” You nod, barely. Feeling his words on your lips. Almost tasting them. “A little more, for you to forget-” his lips grazing at yours so lightly- “To forget everything and everyone.” grazing again- painfully even- a little whine escaping you “With only me left on your mind.”

He already is. Yunho is all over your mind. Those dark eyes, you don’t let go- Who don’t let go of you. His hand on your thigh, so unbearably close to where you yearn for it to be. It’s not enough. “Yunho--”

“Am I now all over your mind?”

“Yes--”

“Do you want me all over you?”

“Yes please.”

...........

A/N: Maybe I'll have the courage to write a part 2.

[hellfirebarnes]

Slow-Burns Part 10

I read your comments on the previous part and audibly said ”oh babe, no…” Sorry lovelies 😘

@crowleythesexydemon

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I split this up in several, shorter parts because I know the feeling when you want to read a fic but don't have the time or energy to get through a 10k+ words one. Also if you hate my writing you can just read part 1 and then leave it. Win-win I guess?

Anyway, this is set after Thunderbolts so if you haven't seen it - spoilers I guess? It absolutely does not follow canon, but yeah better to be safe than sorry.

Summary: Bucky has fallen. Hopelessly. And the only thing more hopeless is his team trying to help him get to the end of this slow-burn.

Bucky x fem!SHIELD!reader

2K Words

Fluff, ''normal'' violence and descriptions of injuries. For sure out of character stuff, but I am who I am. Your appearence is barely desribed what I can remember, I think your hair and a couple types what clothes you're wearing?

You're referred to as ''Agent'' and ''Sunshine'' in a desperate attempt from me to not use Y/N.

Let me know if there's anything else I should warn about.

Otherwise, enjoy :)

He was ready. Bucky had mentally prepped for this date all week - thought about what shirt to wear (plain, dark grey, sleeves definitely rolled), practiced normal-person conversation, even asked Ava if she thought it would be weird to bring flowers.

“Just don’t bring a knife bouquet,” she’d said. “Too on brand.”

Everything was set.

Until he walked into the briefing room and saw you. Fully geared up. Standing next to John.

John, who looked way too smug for 8:15 A.M.

Bucky’s stomach dropped. “What’s going on?”

“Change of plans,” Val said, sipping coffee like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb in Bucky’s chest. “Intel in Poland needs immediate follow-up. Agent and Walker are wheels up in an hour.”

“But-” His mouth opened, then shut. He couldn’t say we had a date. That would sound ridiculous.

You shot him an apologetic look as you tightened your holsters. “Val pulled me late last night. I tried to text you but your phone was off.”

Of course it was. He’d been brooding in the gym with punching bags and self-loathing.

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Barnes. I’ll keep your girl safe.”

Bucky nearly launched him out the window.

Later that day Bucky was in the kitchen, staring at the kettle. It wasn’t boiling fast enough. Nothing was happening fast enough.

“Your face is very punchable today,” Yelena commented as she passed through.

“She’s gone,” he muttered.

“She’ll be back,” she said, stealing a cookie and vanishing like smoke.

And then-

clomp, clomp, clomp

Enter: Alexei. Wearing clunks.

“You are moping,” he said grandly.

“I’m existing.”

“Wrong. You are wallowing. It’s pathetic. Like wet raccoon.”

Bucky shot him a flat look. “What do you want?”

Alexei flung himself into a chair and sighed tragically. “I miss Sunshine too.”

“You saw her this morning.”

“Yes. And now it is afternoon. We are lost without her. Bob tried to make tea and somehow set fire to a mug.”

Right on cue, Bob poked his head into the room. “It was science.”

“Go away,” Bucky grumbled.

Bob sat beside him anyway, folding into the chair like a loyal, slightly overgrown golden retriever. “I miss her voice. Her energy. Her soul-light.”

“She said she’d text when she landed.”

“I missed her even before she left,” Bob added mournfully.

Alexei nodded in deep agreement. “She brought balance. Now the tower is 30% more grim.”

Bucky drank his tea and said nothing. What could he say?

He missed you like gravity - constant and unrelenting. And somehow worse now that you were finally on the verge of something, something real, and it was just put on hold. Suspended in time. Like his heart was buffering.

Bucky was back in the gym, punching the bag so hard the seams were splitting.

Bob entered, holding a polaroid album. “Look what she left behind,” he said, holding it like a sacred text.

Bucky stilled. The picture on top was of you and him, blurry from motion, you laughing mid-spin, his arm reaching to catch you before you fell. A moment. A memory.

“She brings the sparkle,” Bob said softly.

Bucky exhaled, sitting down on the mat.

“Do you love her?”

He didn’t answer right away. But the silence was an answer.

“…I think I do,” Bucky admitted. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” Bob said gently. “It’s you. And that makes it brave.”

On day five without you, Alexei cornered Bucky with Bob's clipboard.

“I have reviewed potential courtship options for her return. Picnic? Star-gazing? Knife-throwing performance?”

Bucky blinked. “You made a list?”

“I made seven. Bob has flow charts.”

“Please stop planning my love life.”

“Too late. Bob ordered candles. And a tiny projector.”

Bucky buried his face in his hands.

Bucky was in the hangar the second the jet touched down.

Tried to play it cool. Failed immediately when he spotted you - tired, windblown, laughing as you slapped John’s shoulder on the way out.

You spotted Bucky instantly. And for one flicker of a moment, the rest of the world disappeared. You grinned at him. His chest hurt in a way that felt… right.

“I brought you a souvenir,” you said, walking straight into his space, like always.

“Oh?”

You held up a tiny snow globe with a grim-looking statue inside. “Polish war monument. Very on theme.”

He took it. Didn’t let go of your hand. You didn’t pull away.

Today was the day. Finally. No misunderstandings, no interruptions. You had been back for nearly five days. And he was going to ask you out again. Properly. Just you. One-on-one. Not Bob clinging to you like a needy golden retriever. Not John mock-flirting just to annoy Bucky into spontaneous combustion.

Just… you.

He even had a plan - he’d make you coffee (he’d learned exactly how you liked it), and take you up to the towers rooftop garden, where it was quiet, filled with sun and climbing ivy. You loved that spot. He’d practiced the sentence three times already:

“I want to take you out. Just us. Not as a mission. Not as friends.”

It wasn’t Shakespeare. But it was honest. And terrifying. And long overdue.

Bucky knocked.

Nothing.

He frowned. Knocked again.

Still nothing.

Then a familiar voice behind him: “Dude.” He turned. John Walker, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Mission call-in. Two hours ago. Immediate deploy. Eastern Europe. High-stakes recovery op. Messy.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“Gone already. She left with Ava and Yelena.”

“What? Why wasn’t I-?”

“Team rotation. Val said you’re on backup. Guess she thought you could use a break.”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Tough luck, Romeo.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving Bucky standing in the hallway like a man who’d just missed the last train.

Bob was moping. He sat on the couch, staring at a photo of you with glassy eyes. “It smells like less joy in here.”

Alexei paced dramatically in front of the TV as if giving a wartime speech. “They send her away when love is blooming. This is sabotage. Maybe Hydra is involved.”

Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, silent, jaw clenched, hands tight around a forgotten mug of coffee that had long gone cold. He felt… robbed.

“I was going to do it,” he muttered.

Bob blinked. “Do what?”

“Ask her out again. Really ask her. No backup, no confusion, just-” He exhaled. “And now she’s gone.”

“She’ll be back,” Bob said. “You’ll get another chance.”

“You don’t get it,” Bucky snapped, more harshly than he meant. “What if I don’t? What if every time I try, something gets in the way?”

Alexei stopped pacing. Looked at him with rare seriousness. “Then you make sure that next time… nothing does.”

On the mission, you crouched beside Ava in the shadows of an abandoned facility. Your earpiece buzzed with static and nerves.

“Target two neutralized,” Yelena’s voice crackled through. “Still no sign of the intel case.”

You wiped dirt from your cheek. “I hate night ops.”

“Because you can’t flirt with Barnes in the dark?” Ava teased lightly.

You shot her a glare. “I don’t flirt.”

Ava snorted. “Honey, if you smiled at him any harder, I’d need sunglasses. And I say that with love.”

You didn’t say anything out loud, but part of you wished you could stop time. Go back. Stay in that moment on the tarmac, when you’d handed him the ridiculous snow globe and he’d looked at you like you were the whole sky.

You were back. That should’ve been enough. You were safe, laughing, smiling again, sitting on the worn couch in your post-mission hoodie, surrounded by the team like nothing had changed.

But Bucky was cracking.

Because Bob was draped on the floor beside you like an overgrown Labradoodle, handing you a tea he made himself (which should’ve been illegal), and telling you about the time he accidentally bent an elevator door because he thought it was attacking Yelena.

And you were laughing. Not a polite laugh either. A real one. The kind that reached your eyes. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was bleeding inside his ribs.

John was on your other side, tossing popcorn at you like you were twelve. You were mock-bickering again - about which of you had made the better shot in Romania, which of you had the more dramatic entrance, which of you was clearly the superior field operative.

“I literally saved your ass,” you said, mouth full of popcorn.

“You’re welcome for the opportunity,” John replied.

“I’m going to throw you into traffic.”

“You already did. In Berlin. Twice.”

“I’ll do it a third time.”

“I’ll wear shin guards.”

Yelena cackled. Ava rolled her eyes fondly.

Bucky stood by the doorway, a drink in his hand, untouched. He hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes. He didn’t know how.

Every second, every glance at you, made his chest feel like it was too small for his heart. Like something was pressing against the inside of him, trying to crawl out - a need, a truth that wouldn’t stay buried much longer. He’d thought about kissing you every minute since you left. Now he couldn’t even say hi.

The Russian storm cloud that is Alexei swept in, scanned the scene once, and zeroed in on Bucky like a missile. “Why do you look like you just watched your puppy get married to someone else’s dog?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

Alexei followed his line of sight. Bob had just brought you a small blanket “because you get cold when you’re sleepy,” and you were patting his head like he was a loyal pet.

Bucky was internally combusting.

John leaned closer, whispering something that made you roll your eyes and smile without looking away.

Alexei squinted. “Ah. This problem again.”

“What problem,” Bucky said flatly.

“You are doing the brooding statue thing again. Not sexy anymore. Just sad.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“You look like you are six seconds away from monologuing to a piano.”

“I don’t-”

“Enough.” Alexei clapped his hands. “You love her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. It is leaking out of you like microwaved borscht.”

Bucky looked down into his untouched drink. “I was going to ask her out again. Then the mission happened.”

“So now you sulk?”

“I’m not sulking.”

“You are. You’re sulking and letting Bob steal your woman.”

“She’s not- Jesus Christ.”

Alexei leaned in. “You want my help?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Perfect. I will help anyway.”

Ten minutes later chaos was brewing.

Bob was now playing you a playlist of “songs that made him think of you.” John had moved on to teasing you about what your superhero name should be. Ava had left to do recon. Yelena was placing bets with herself on when someone would finally snap.

Bucky stayed rooted to the wall, fists clenched at his sides.

And then—

“SUNSHINE!” Alexei shouted. “COME. I NEED YOUR OPINION.”

You blinked up. “On what?”

He pointed directly at Bucky. “On whether he looks like a man in love.”

The room fell silent. Bob blinked. John snorted. Bucky nearly dropped his glass.

You stared at Alexei. “What?”

“He has a face,” Alexei said, waving his hands dramatically, “like he has swallowed a poem. You must tell me - is it love or is he dying of foreign heart disease.”

Bucky choked.

You blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to laugh. “Are you- what is happening?”

“He has feelings,” Alexei said, gesturing wildly, “and you, you ignore him like he is wallpaper.”

“I do not,” you laughed.

“Do you ever pat him on the head? Do you ever make him tea?”

“I—”

“Do you ever whisper inside jokes that make him feel like the moon has risen inside his chest?”

There was a pause. A very long pause. And you looked over. At Bucky. Your eyes locked. Something flickered between you. Still unsure. Still cautious. But present. Real.

And then Bob, in his infinite timing, held up a tiny stuffed bear. “I got this for you.”

You turned, beaming. “Bob, that’s adorable.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just felt everything - every pulse, every regret, every unspoken word - rise to his throat and get stuck there.

Alexei turned to him, whispering under his breath like a disappointed coach. “I give you moment. You waste it. You are lucky I do not start matchmaking again.”

Bucky sighed. “I’m trying.”

“You are thinking about trying. Soon it will be too late.”

And this time, Bucky didn’t argue. Because he knew Alexei was right.

[majikkulu]

✿ PILE ONE .ᐟ ౨ৎ your  soul’s  basically  begging  for  a  good  cry,  you  know?  not  like  a  sad,  mopey  thing,  but  that  big,  messy,  let-it-all-out  kinda  cry  that  leaves  you  feeling  like  you  just  took  a  shower  for  your  heart.  it’s  craving  that  deep,  raw  connection  like  a  space  where  you  can  spill  your  guts  and  feel  totally  safe. it  wants  to  be  seen,  like,  really  seen,  even  if  it’s  just  you  vibing  with  yourself.  your  soul’s  also  got  this  artsy  side  screaming  to  come  out.  maybe  it’s  painting,  writing,  or  even  just  doodling  something  wild.  whatever  lets  you  pour  your  heart  into  it.  it’s  dying  for  some  adventure,  something  to  shake  up  the  monotony.  not  like  base-jumping  crazy,  but  maybe  a  spontaneous  road  trip  or  trying  something  new  that  gives  you  that  alive  buzz.  you  know  that  rush  when  you’re  doing  something  just  a  little  out  of  your  comfort  zone?  but  then,  it’s  also  whispering  for  some  calm.  like,  it  wants  you  to  hit  pause,  maybe  try  some  meditation  or  just  chill  in  a  quiet  spot  to  let  your  brain  breathe.  you’ve  probably  been  grinding  hard,  and  your  soul’s  tired.  it’s  craving  a  space  where  you  can  just  be  you.  it’s  also  got  this  fire  to  chase  what  lights  you  up,  to  break  out  of  that  stuck  feeling  and  go  after  what  makes  your  heart  sing.  it’s  calling  you  to  let  go  of  the  heavy  stuff,  embrace  your  spark,  and  just  live  a  little.  you  got  this.

✿ PILE TWO .ᐟ ౨ৎ your  soul  is  so  ready  to  step  into  its  power.  like,  it  doesn’t  just  want  to  chill  in  the  background  anymore.  it  wants  to  make  waves,  move  people,  do  something  that  matters.  you  might’ve  been  feeling  this  low-key  urge  lately,  like  this  quiet  push  to  bring  your  ideas  to  life.  that’s  your  soul  nudging  you,  reminding  you  that  you  were  made  for  more  than  just  going  through  the  motions.  your  soul  is  tired  of  fighting  things  the  hard  way.  it’s  craving  that  kind  of  peace  where  you  can  face  what’s  hard  without  losing  yourself.  it  wants  grace,  not  chaos.  but  at  the  same  time,  it’s  also  begging  you  to  stop  dimming  your  fire.  like  hello??  unleash  that  inner  beast.  let  people  see  how  powerful  and  passionate  you  really  are.  deep  down,  you’re  probably  searching  for  direction.  something  with  purpose,  something  that  feels  right.  not  just  busy  work  or  empty  stuff.  your  soul  wants  to  build  something  real,  something  that  lasts.  you’re  meant  to  leave  your  mark,  and  maybe  you’re  starting  to  feel  like  what  you’ve  been  doing  just  isn’t  hitting  that  mark  anymore.  and  that’s  okay.  it  just  means  you’re  outgrowing  it.  also  your  soul  wants  you  to  open  your  heart  again.  like  really  open  it.  to  the  possibilities,  the  signs,  the  chances  showing  up  right  in  front  of  you.  even  the  ones  that  don’t  look  like  much  at  first.  it’s  time  to  shake  off  the  numbness,  the  “whatever”  energy,  and  start  following  what  genuinely  excites  you  even  if  it  scares  you  a  little.  truth  is,  what  you’ve  been  searching  for?  that  “something  more”?  has  been  inside  you  this  whole  time.

✿ PILE THREE .ᐟ ౨ৎ your  soul  is  kinda  screaming  for  money  right  now  lmaooo  like,  not  just  a  lil  cash.  we’re  talking  stability,  something  solid  that  actually  lasts.  maybe  it’s  hinting  that  it’s  time  for  a  job  change,  or  just  a  new  way  of  doing  things  that  feels  more  aligned  with  where  you’re  going.  you  might  feel  this  pull  to  finally  start  turning  your  ideas  into  reality  like  actually  going  for  the  stuff  you’ve  been  dreaming  about. your  soul  wants  action.  also??  your  soul  misses  nature.  badly.  grounding  yourself,  getting  fresh  air,  touching  grass.  it’s  something  your  spirit  needs  right  now.  there’s  also  some  healing  your  soul  is  asking  for.  especially  from  the  stuff  you  haven’t  fully  let  go  of  yet.  and  if  you’re  still  grieving  something  or  someone,  that’s  okay.  your  soul  isn’t  mad  at  you  for  being  sad.  it  just  wants  you  to  feel  it  fully,  process  it,  and  let  yourself  move  through  it  gently,  not  bury  it  or  ignore  it.  but  at  the  same  time,  your  soul  wants  you  to  stop  living  in  that  pain  loop.  it  wants  you  to  acknowledge  the  hurt  but  also  start  noticing  what’s  still  possible.  what’s  still  here.  what’s  still  yours  to  claim.  you  might  also  be  feeling  this  little  itch  to  grow.  to  explore.  to  learn  something  new.  like  picking  up  a  skill  or  diving  into  a  passion  project  that  actually  lights  you  up.  not  because  you  have  to,  but  because  you  want  to.  your  soul’s  ready  to  plant  those  seeds.  it  wants  future  you  to  be  proud.  so  if  you’re  feeling  stuck,  maybe  it’s  not  stuck  maybe  it’s  just  the  pause  before  a  beautiful  new  chapter.

✿ PILE FOUR .ᐟ ౨ৎ your  soul  is  honestly  just  dying  for  some  freedom  right  now.  the  kind  where  you  can  fully  be  yourself  without  second-guessing  it.  you’ve  got  this  vibrant  and  radiant  energy.  people  notice  you,  even  if  you  don’t  always  realize  it.  your  personality?  it  glows.  and  your  soul  wants  to  stop  hiding  and  let  it  shine.  you  might’ve  been  feeling  kinda  off  lately,  maybe  even  disconnected  from  your  spark  like  you're  running  on  autopilot.  deep  down,  you  just  wanna  feel  in  control.  inspired.  lit  up  by  your  own  life.  and  tbh,  your  soul’s  also  tired.  like  mentally,  emotionally...  just  tired.  if  you’ve  been  dealing  with  anxiety  or  racing  thoughts  or  that  nonstop  loop  of  “what  ifs,”  your  soul  is  gently  asking  you  to  slow  down.  it  wants  rest.  it  wants  peace.  it  wants  you  to  stop  carrying  stuff  that  doesn’t  belong  to  you  anymore.  the  self-doubt,  the  regret,  the  fear  of  what’s  ahead.  let  it  go.  you  don’t  need  to  keep  holding  onto  that  weight.  if  your  mind’s  been  feeling  like  a  chaotic  group  chat  that  never  shuts  up  (hi,  overthinking  and  insomnia),  your  soul’s  begging  for  quiet.  not  silence,  but  stillness.  that  calm  where  you  can  actually  breathe  and  hear  yourself  again.  let’s  talk  about  love  for  a  sec.  because  maybe  your  heart’s  been  feeling  a  little...  meh?  like,  something’s  missing.  and  whether  that’s  romantic  love,  self-love,  or  just  craving  connection,  your  soul  is  definitely  feeling  it.  it  wants  something  real.  something  exciting.  something  warm.  something  that  reminds  you  what  it  feels  like  to  be  loved  back.  and  yes,  that  includes  loving  yourself.  fully.  deeply.  without  condition.

[writtenbyadriana]

A spoonful of magic

@deanwinchestersgirl8734 asked:

"Can you maybe write something where Dean’s girlfriend drags Dean and Sam to Disney because she’s a Disney adult and it’s how she copes with the dark stuff they deal with?"

Pairing: Dean Winchester × fem!reader

Summary: Dean's girlfriend insisted on a spontaneous trip to Disneyland — and draged Dean and Sam along with her. To Dean, it was a ridiculous detour. To Sam, it was slightly amusing. But to her, it was more than just fun and churros — it was how she stayed sane in a world full of monsters, death, and darkness. Sometimes, you need a little magic to keep going.

Warnings: soft!Dean, fluff, emotional coping, references to trauma, mentions of past supernatural violence, lots of Disney references, light angst with comfort

Words: 2223

Note: English isn't my first language.

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I took a deep breath before stepping into the bunker kitchen. The familiar scent of coffee, toast, and old book pages hung in the air.

Sam was already sitting at the table, brows furrowed over his laptop, probably hunting down the next witch coven or werewolf pack.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, coffee mug in one hand, the other arm casually crossed over his chest. His look was still half-asleep, half-suspicious — he could already tell I wanted something.

I knew this wasn't going to be easy. Not with these two. But I had made up my mind — today was the day.

"Okay," I started without preamble, stopping in the doorway like an actress waiting for her cue. "I need to ask you guys something. Actually — I’m begging you."

Dean took a sip of coffee. "That's never good."

"Disneyland."

Two seconds of silence. Then, Sam looked up, a snort of amusement, and Dean — Dean froze like someone who’d just been told he'd be stuck in an elevator with Crowley for a week.

"What?" Dean asked slowly.

I stepped closer, gesturing like I was pitching them an idea they just had to sign off on.

"One. Day. Disneyland. Just the three of us. No EMF meters, no salt circles, no corpses, no apocalyptic demonic forces. Just…mouse ears, cotton candy, roller coasters, Disney magic."

"You want us to drive to California?" Sam's voice had that analytic tone, like I'd just suggested inviting Satan himself to our next barbecue. "From Kansas to Anaheim, that's…what, a 20-hour drive?"

I turned to him, hands on my hips. "Sam. We’ve driven farther for cases. To freakin' Oregon, Maine, and back — for people who heard a cat disappear. I'm asking for one day that has nothing to do with blood, death, or Latin chants."

Dean scoffed. "Disneyland."

I turned to him — slowly, with a sweet, dangerous smile. He was still leaning against the counter, his cup now resting on the small shelf behind him. My eyes lingered on him.

My Dean. Broad shoulders, messy hair, that grumpy look — and I loved every line life had carved into his face. I stepped right up to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

"Baby," I said softly, my fingertips trailing along his belt, "I promise you, tonight will exceed every fantasy you've ever had."

Dean raised an eyebrow, his mouth twitching.

I could see his gaze sticking to me. He was already on the edge — I just had to give the final push.

I glanced at Sam, who was already shaking his head in disbelief, like he knew exactly what I'd done.

Dean looked at him too, then back at me, then at Sam again.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean finally said with that grin that was so unmistakably Dean, it made my heart skip a beat. "Be like Elsa — let it go!"

I squealed in delight — a real, childish squeal that even surprised me.

Sam sighed like he'd just made a deal with a trickster.

...

The trip had been long. And I mean: fucking long. Over twenty hours on the road, what felt like twice as many gas stops, three times as many burgers. Dean had started cursing at the Impala at some point, like it was a stubborn horse, and Sam had pulled out a playlist of audiobooks that actually made me consider whether demon summoning might be the more pleasant option. But I was too excited to complain.

We'd spent the night in a run-down motel somewhere in Arizona with stains on the bedspread, weird noises from the room next door — the whole package. Dean had scolded that even the ice from the machine tasted like mothballs. But I'd been so jittery that I shoved both of them back into the car before sunrise.

And now we were here.

Right at the entrance.

Disneyland.

I saw it first: the castle. That iconic, beautiful, cheesy fairy-tale thing I'd seen a thousand times in movies but never in real life. And now…it was there. Real. Huge. Bright. And most importantly: mine.

"Oh my god…" I whispered. "Oh my god. Oh my god, it's real!"

I turned halfway to Dean, who had that crooked grin spreading across his face. "She's about to hyperventilate."

Sam crossed his arms and gave me that typical, semi-dry Sam look. "I think it's serious. I see tears."

"They're real," I shot back without a hint of shame. "I'm crying from happiness, Sam. Let me be, this is my holy place."

Dean chuckled quietly, stepped a little closer, and for a second, placed his hand against the small of my back. "You see that, Sammy? The real magic’s not in the castle. It's in that face right now."

I couldn’t help it — I squealed, turned back to the entrance, and then it happened: I ran. Just took off. Like a kid. No thinking, no hesitation, I left the guys standing and bolted straight toward the ticket gates.

"Wait! Do you even have your ticket?!" I heard Sam call after me.

Dean just yelled: "That's what I call enthusiasm!"

But I was already gone — my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes locked on the castle like it might vanish if I didn’t reach it in time. Today, this place was mine. This one day was my fairy tale.

...

We were already inside the park, and I still couldn’t believe this was really happening. The music, the people in Mickey ears, the squeaky-colored stands with overpriced snacks, the happy screams from somewhere in the distance — it was like a parallel world. No demons. No blood trails. No knot in my stomach every time the phone rang. Just laughter. Colors. Childhood dreams.

I kept turning in circles, dragging Dean this way and that, shoving a giant map in Sam's face like I was explaining a global strategy. My whole body was buzzing with excitement. I was a grown woman — but here, I was five years old again.

"Okay, next one on the list is..." I said, walking quickly toward a large square without realizing the boys were barely keeping up, "...Peter Pan's Flight. Then we're getting Minnie ears for me — maybe glitter ones. And then...”

"You do realize we're not on the run, right?" Dean muttered behind me, sunglasses on his nose, face slightly scrunched. "You can actually walk. No need to sprint."

I stopped, turned to him, kept walking backwards so I could look at him. "Oh, come on, babe. You look like you're about to perform an exorcism."

Dean sighed deeply, shoulders sagging, but I saw it — that little smile he tried to hide. He was tired, maybe a bit overwhelmed, but he was here. For me. And that meant everything.

Sam, meanwhile, was walking beside us with a wide grin, holding his phone camera up. "This is the best thing I've seen in ages. I never thought you'd lose your mind like this."

"I'm not losing my mind," I objected — but then I stopped in my tracks again as something caught my eye. "Wait…"

There he was.

STITCH.

Life-sized. Big head, huge ears, bright blue, and currently hugging a little kid. My heart stopped. My stomach flipped like it was on a rollercoaster. I audibly gasped.

"Stitch…" I whispered reverently, the way others might say "holy grail."

"Oh no," Dean mumbled. "I know that tone."

I dashed off, leaving everything behind, carefully pushing through a small group of people until I was standing right in front of my favorite alien. He noticed me, lifted his arms, wiggled his fingers.

I squealed. I. Actually. Squealed. Like a fangirl at a boyband concert.

"Hi!" I called out, sounding completely over the top. "You are my absolute favorite character, oh my god, I love you sooo much!"

Stitch did that signature move where he placed his hands over his face and slowly dragged them down like a sad puppy. I was on the verge of tears — again. I threw myself gently into his arms, and he hugged me back tightly. Someone took a photo, I laughed, and it felt like a dream. My heart felt lighter than it had in months.

In the background, I heard Dean. "Great. She's getting adopted."

Sam giggled. "I swear I'll buy her a Stitch costume if she agrees to hunt monsters wearing it."

I turned around, grinning at both of them with tears in my eyes. "Can you believe it? I hugged Stitch! STITCH! This was the best hug of my life!"

Dean raised his eyebrows, crossed his arms, and gave me that look — somewhere between annoyed and hopelessly in love. "If you've still got energy tonight, I'll show you what I think the best hug of your life feels like."

I blushed, laughed, and Sam groaned dramatically. "I'm right here, you guys. Right here."

But nothing could stop me. And somewhere between overpriced Mickey shakes, the California sun, and my favorite little alien, I had really forgotten. All the darkness. The hunt. The crushing pressure.

Today was magic. And it was real.

...

The sky had turned a soft blend of orange and pink as the sun disappeared behind the castle towers. Tiny lights were beginning to flicker on everywhere — lanterns shaped like stars, shimmering garlands, sparkling windows. It was like someone had sprinkled pixie dust across the entire park. I could barely believe the day was already coming to an end. And at the same time, it felt like it had frozen time for just a little while.

The air was filled with the scent of caramelized almonds, cotton candy, and that sweet, intangible joy you can only feel in a place like this. Kids sat on their parents' shoulders, every inch of sidewalk along Main Street was packed, and everywhere I looked, light-up toys glowed like soft constellations.

I stood right at the edge of the curb, eyes fixed ahead as the parade began. Music swelled — loud, orchestral, dramatic, and so achingly familiar that it made my heart ache in the best way. Floats glided past like scenes from a dream: Elsa in an ice chariot, Buzz Lightyear, Belle and the Beast, Aladdin and Jasmine on a flying carpet that drifted through waves of light. Every moment hit me square in the chest. Every song a hit to the heart.

Then I felt it — warm arms wrapping around me from behind. Dean.

He was right there, pressing close, pulling me gently against him. His hands resting on my stomach, his chin against my shoulder. I leaned into him, grounding myself in his weight. His stillness, the heartbeat I could feel through time and fabric and everything we'd survived.

"You know..." he murmured against my ear, his voice barely more than a breath, "...I didn't think any of this would do anything for me. But…seeing you like this…it was worth it. Every damn mile."

My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, placed my hands over his, gently tracing his knuckles with my thumbs. "Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you for doing this with me. For…giving me this day."

He hugged me tighter. I watched Rapunzel pass by with Eugene. The two of them smiling at each other the way only people do when they've been through something together.

"Do you remember that case in Michigan?" My voice wavered. "When you were trapped in that basement. And I thought I'd lost you. Everything was covered in blood, and I…I couldn't even breathe. I screamed at you because you wouldn't wake up."

Dean didn't say anything. But his arms tightened around me.

"Or that nest in Idaho," I went on. "You were ready to sacrifice yourself...again! And you didn't even talk to me first. I begged you, Dean. You would've left me behind."

I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, but the tears kept coming. "And now we're here. At Disneyland. Watching a parade. No one's dying. No one's bleeding. I look at you and you're…alive. And here. With me."

Dean gently turned me in his arms, looked me in the eyes. The parade faded into the background. Nothing else existed. Just him. Just me.

"I'm not the guy who leaves anymore," he said quietly. "I'm the guy who stays. As long as you want me to…I'm here."

A soft, slow smile touched his face — the kind I rarely got to see, the kind that wasn't tired or guarded or haunted. It was light. And calm. And love.

"I'm not letting go," he added, then leaned in — and kissed me.

It wasn't quick or playful. It wasn't hesitant. It was deep, honest, and full. A kiss that had survived the hunt. A kiss that had beaten the monsters. A kiss that reminded me — here in Disneyland, under sparkling lights and with tears in my eyes — that maybe, just maybe, we had a home too.

The music soared, the crowd cheered. Above us, the first firework exploded across the sky. Golden stars, red hearts, green spirals. And as it boomed and sparkled above our heads, we stood there. Dean and I. Wrapped in each other. Loved. Alive.

Magic was real.

Because he was here.

With me.

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@deanwinchestersgirl8734 thank you so much for your request! It was fun to write this short story!🥰

[blniight]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 ⋆ ꜱᴇᴏɴɢʜᴡᴀ

outlaw!ateez x original female character

synopsis : the crowd roared, but all she heard was silence — until a stranger’s gaze pierced through the chaos. the gun was loaded, ready to fire.

content : ateez outlaw au, inspired by the world ep. 2 : outlaw

warning : drugs, alcohol, smut ( 18+ MDNI ), language, murder, dark topics will be mentioned in the story ahead.

a/n : this is the first chapter for this series, let me know if you want this to be a series and would you be interested in reading more. i have yet to make the masterlist for it and as the story moves forward i’ll add more warnings, let me know if i missed some. thank you for the support! <3

𓂃 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 — the first shot

“ Delivery! “

She opened the door, greeted with a man hidden behind the tiffany blue helmet that matched his insulated vest.

He pulled up the black plastic glass, his dark brown eyes looking at her.

“ Good evening. “ his voice deep, muffled behind the heavy headpiece. “ That’d be 19.000₩. “

Nodding, she counted the money in her hand before handing it over to the guy, exchanging it with the plastic bag that he was holding.

“ Thank you. Enjoy your meal! “

“ Thank you. “ she said, watching for a second as he turned around to leave, huge bold letters printed on the back of his vest.

‘ Blue Bird Delivery ‘

And in a second the door closed, leaving Areum with a freshly made tteokbokki that she desperately needed to calm her hunger.

“ You know it’s not that hard to make that? You don’t have to order it every single time. Save up some money. “ The irritating voice of the only man in this household echoed through the kitchen as Areum sat down on one of the wooden polished chairs.

“ It’s my money that I’m paying with, not yours. Drop it. Don’t you have somewhere to be? “

Yunho looked up from his hands that were hastily fixing the buttons of his white shirt. “ Yes I do. And don’t stay up too late. I need your help in the garage tomorrow. “

“ Getting my hands dirty for your paycheck again I see… I don’t get payed enough for being your sister. “

Yunho gave her a half-hearted glance as he slung on his black utility jacket. His badge clipped to his belt caught a glint of the kitchen light.

“ Don’t open the door for anyone, and if you hear anything weird outside — call me, don’t be a hero. “

“ Yeah, yeah… “ Areum muttered, swirling the sauce around her tteokbokki with chopsticks. “ You say that like it’s not the same lecture every night. “

Yunho stopped at the door and looked back at her, his jaw clenched like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t. Just gave a quick nod and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence fell again, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of chopsticks against plastic. Areum chewed slowly, eyes unfocused, staring past the steaming food in front of her.

Her phone vibrated on the table.

wooyoo 🧨 :

tonight

another one @ the place, 11pm

don’t leave me w these freaks

Another buzz followed.

wooyoo 🧨 :

ur boy’s gonna get knocked out if u’re not here to scream at him

Areum sighed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and setting the half-eaten food aside. She didn’t reply immediately. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She knew what Yunho would say if he found out. Knew the look he’d give her. Knew the lecture he’d have lined up about how “those two aren’t good for you, Areum.”

But just like every other time that happened — she’d continue doing things her own way.

hot stuff 🔥 :

you’re gonna get me killed

wooyoo 🧨 :

ur already late hot girl

wear something cute. san’s opponent has beefcake energy

hot stuff 🔥 :

be there in 20

She stood up and went to her room, tossing her phone on the bed as she pulled open the bottom drawer of her dresser.

She pulled on a black cropped tank top, tight enough to hug her waist. She paired it with high-waisted black leather pants, the kind that made her walk sharper. Over that, she threw on her favorite fitted moto jacket, worn at the edges and smelling faintly of smoke and vanilla perfume.

She checked herself in the mirror once —dark eyeliner still smudged perfectly from earlier in the day, lips tinted in a fading berry red, her hair tousled just enough to look like she didn’t care — which she didn’t.

The door clicked behind her just as quietly as it had when Yunho left. Only difference was, she wasn’t headed toward anything safe.

The city looks different at night.

Brighter, bolder… Like it’s trying to hide how dirty it really is. Neon lights buzz around every corner of the street. Motorbike’s engines scream through the peaceful silence of the night. It’s smells like sweat and smog.

Areum steps out of the nearly empty bus, arriving at the location.

The warehouse looms in the distance — rusted steel, broken windows, pulsing red light leaking through the cracks. There is a line at the door already, mostly men that screamed ‘danger’ with their looks.

She cuts past the crowd, slipping through the side like Wooyoung taught her.

Inside, it’s chaos.

The crowd pulsed around her like a living thing, hot with sweat, smoke and adrenaline. Sweaty bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Spotlights spinning over a rusted cage in the center of the room. Alcohol is spilling everywhere and someone in the corner is already bleeding and the fight hasn’t started yet.

“ Areum! “

She turns just as Wooyoung grabs her wrist and yanks her into the crowd. He’s wearing black-tinted sunglasses indoors on top of smoothly slicked hair that left a few strands fall messily over his eyes. “ San’s warming up. You missed the guy puking before him. Shame, it was cinematic. “

“ I shouldn’t be here… “ she mutters, eyes looking around the mess this space is.

“ Relax. Yunho is off doing cop stuff. You’re safe and we’ll bring you back home before he starts questioning. “

Safe. She doesn’t believe him. Not really.

Still, she lets him drag her forward, slipping past slick looking men. A few of them eye her, one even nods in recognition. Wooyoung glares him down.

The VIP booth glows almost gold at the small old balcony across the cage. There are a few men sitting, drinking, laughing about whatever goes on in their sick and twisted minds that led them to be here.

Areum swallows hard at the sight.

“ Did San agree to this fight? “ she asks.

“ He doesn’t need to agree. “ Wooyoung says. “ He just needs to win. “

Areum stood at Wooyoung’s side near the edge of the crowd, the both of them tucked behind a stack of broken crates, far enough to stay out of the way but close enough to see San inside the ring — sweat slicking his collarbone, fists taped, smile already cracked wide and wild like he lived for the violence.

“ I swear to God, if he gets blood on those pants again. “ Areum muttered.

Wooyoung smirked. “ You love it. “

“ I like watching him win, not get beaten up to death. “ she corrected. “ It’s different. “

Before Wooyoung could clap back, the sound system gave a low, grainy crackle, followed by a hoarse voice announcing the next match.

“ Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets and say your prayers! Stepping into the ring tonight, the undefeated beast of the underground… Django! “

The crowd cheered loudly, San raising up from his chair in the right corner proudly, nodding his head at the public that was feeding his ego.

“ Facing off against Django tonight — new blood with something to prove! Give it up for Iron Jaw! “

The crowd roared for him but not in the way they did for San. They watched — curious, maybe even hopeful for a bloodbath.

Iron Jaw was all bulk. A thick-set man with a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more times than he could count. He entered the cage, tattoos crawling up both arms, chest bare and gleaming with sweat under the lights.

He spat to the side, cracked his knuckles, and confidently walked forward to the center where the referee had invited both of them.

Once they were face to face, the man to the left smirked at San. “ Let’s dance, pretty boy. “ he muttered, voice rough and cocky.

But San just grinned wider.

The bell clanged.

San barely flinched as his opponent lunged forward with a snarl, all brute force and sloppy rage. Areum watched, arms crossed, jaw clenched as San ducked the first punch, letting it swing wide past his ear before slamming his elbow straight into the man’s ribs.

The crowd went wild.

“ Jesus… “ Areum muttered.

“ Hot, isn’t it? “ Wooyoung grinned, unbothered as blood splattered across the edge of the ring.

“ Disturbing. “ she corrected, though her eyes didn’t leave San for a second.

Back in the ring, Iron Jaw landed the first real hit — an elbow that cracked against San’s shoulder, sending him stumbling back.

“ He’s bigger. “ she muttered.

“ He’s slower. “ Wooyoung said, eyes sharp. “ San just needs to wear him down. “

San wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood.

Then he laughed.

It was fast after that. Iron Jaw tried to corner him with force, punches flying like bricks, but San was like wind, slipping just out of reach, ducking low, spinning around his opponent’s bulk and landing body shots like a drumbeat.

But even so… Iron Jaw didn’t fall.

He absorbed it all. Grunted. Swung again.

A fist caught San in the stomach, hard. His breath left in a sharp hiss, doubling him over just enough to get elbowed in the back.

He hit the mat.

For a terrifying moment, Areum thought it was over. San didn’t move. The crowd surged forward, screaming louder, almost feral.

Then he pushed up, slow, shaking. Blood dripping from his brow now. And that sick grin… it was still there.

“ Son of a bitch… “ Areum sighed in relief.

San lunged forward with renewed speed, weaving under Iron Jaw’s swing, slamming his knee into the man’s side. The hit finally staggered him. Another punch—this one across the face. A third. A fourth.

Iron Jaw swung wildly. Missed.

San planted his foot.

Spun.

And landed a roundhouse kick straight to the side of Iron Jaw’s jaw.

The crack echoed through the warehouse.

Iron Jaw dropped like a tower, flat on his back.

Referee’s voice echoing through the room, the numbers of counting down giving some bits of hope for the poor man on the floor to get up.

Silence.

Then chaos.

The bell clanged. San didn’t even raise his hands. He just stood there, chest heaving, eyes wild, as the ref pulled him back and a few men rushed in to drag Iron Jaw off the mat.

Wooyoung lunged forward, entering the ring, meeting into a tight hug with San as they screamed at each other excitedly.

Men…

They climbed out of the cage, walking over to the spot where Areum stood. Seeing her, San’s eyes went wide and in less than a second she was nearly tackled to the ground as the buff man hugged her tightly.

“ Oh my God you came! “

“ San you’re disgusting! “ Areum’s breath got stuck in her nostrils at the odor coming from San and his combination of sweat and blood.

“ Still undefeated. “ he panted, grin wide and eyes electric.

With Areum, San was almost like a restless child hiding scars behind the smile. His laughter came easy, eyes soft and wide, a fragile light in the dark world they both knew. He’d poke and prod with teasing fingers, but there was a boyish innocence to it, like he wanted to believe the world wasn’t always waiting to tear him apart.

But once he stepped into the cage, that light died. The boy vanished, replaced by a beast clawing free. His grin twisted sharp and wild, eyes burning with a hunger that had no mercy. Every move was ruthless, every punch a promise of pain. In the ring, San wasn’t just fighting, he was unleashing the darkness lurking beneath his skin.

“ You’re insane. “ Areum said, but there was no real bite in it.

“ And that insanity got us food on the table for the next month. “ Wooyoung appeared, holding a black handbag that was probably filled with thousands or even millions of won.

San chuckled low in his throat, stepping back as Wooyoung clapped him on the back. “ You’re bleeding. “ he said, motioning to the cut on San’s brow.

San wiped it again with the towel, shrugging. “ Not mine. “

Before Areum could make another disgusted face, the sound system crackled again.

A slow silence crept in as the voice overhead announced the next match.

“ Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the next battle! Known in these streets as Mars, the God of war himself has come to claim victory! “

The name alone made people shift. Like the air changed. Like something colder slipped into the space.

Tall and lean, his body was wrapped in a tight black cloak, that clung to the broad planes of his shoulders and the sharp lines of his toned arms. The dim light caught the high cheekbones and sharp jaw that seemed carved from stone, casting half his face in shadow. His dark hair fell in careless strands, partially veiling eyes that burned with a cold, unreadable intensity.

“ Who’s that? “ Areum asked without meaning to.

Neither of the boys answered right away.

Then Wooyoung muttered. “ Watch. “

The crowd cheered for him but there was something that lingered in the air — like fear, like they were scared to even hype him up and raise their voice.

San went quiet.

Mars pulled back his cloak, revealing hands wrapped in gleaming black tape, knuckles scarred and ready. He tilted his head slightly, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips, merciless.

Areum didn’t even see the other man entering the cage, it was the sound of the bell that brought her back to reality.

The opponent lunged forward, muscles coiled like a spring, throwing a heavy right hook aimed at Mars’ jaw. But he was already sliding back, his movement smooth and fluid, almost like liquid shadow.

Without hesitation, Mars attacked back. A sharp jab to the ribs, making the man grunt and stagger. He closed the distance in a heartbeat. His left arm whipped up, catching the man’s jaw with a precise uppercut. The impact snapped the man’s head back, but Mars wasn’t done. He pivoted on his heel, driving a brutal knee into the opponent’s stomach, winding him.

“ He’s going to kill him. “ Wooyoung said, more to himself than to others. Eyes glued to the cage by the captivating scene.

The man gasped, trying to regain footing, but Mars was already on him again. A series of lightning fast strikes rained down, targeting weak points: ribs, throat, temple.

The opponent swung wildly now, desperation fueling sloppy punches, but Mars flowed around them — a shadow too quick to catch, too precise to hit. A crushing elbow smashed into the man’s collarbone, followed by a brutal palm strike to the throat that forced a choking cough.

The crowd’s roar faded into white noise for Areum, who watched frozen. This was something darker, brutal than the fights she’d seen before.

Mars grabbed the man’s arm, twisting with surgical precision, forcing him to the mat with a bone-shaking slam. Before the man could recover, Mars straddled him, delivering two final, punishing blows — one to the temple, then a fist crashing down onto the jaw.

The opponent crumpled, unconscious before the referee’s count even began.

Mars stood slowly, breathing steady, not a hint of celebration in his face. Just stillness.

The ref moved to raise his hand, but Mars didn’t lift it. He didn’t need to.

His eyes scanned the crowd that cheered for him, eyes locking onto the girl that was standing frozen in her spot from the moment he had entered the ring.

It was instant. Sharp. Precise. His eyes locked on hers like he’d known exactly where she’d be.

And his expression shifted.

He tilted his head just slightly, like he was putting a puzzle piece in place. His eyes scanning her face, memorizing every line.

And then, that smile, slow and razor-thin, curled at the corner of his mouth.

Not the kind you give to a stranger.

Areum felt cold sweat covering her body in less than a second.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the cage exit, his cloak swirling behind him like a shadow melting into the dark.

Areum’s eyes never left the spot where he had stood. That gaze, that smile, burned in her mind. She swallowed hard, a chill crawling down her spine.

“ Hey, you okay? “ San’s voice broke through the haze as he clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Areum blinked, turning to meet Wooyoung’s grin. “ Yeah. “ she said, voice quieter than she intended. “ Just… That was intense. “

“ Got yourself a little crush now? “ Wooyoung said, hooking an arm around her waist.

Areum rolled her eyes, pushing his hand off of her. “ No. He almost killed that man, how am I supposed to react? “

“ Well that’s Mars for you. “ Wooyoung said, throwing the bag around his shoulder, ready to head out.

“ You’d do well to stay out of his path. “ San said, walking alongside with them.

Areum managed a small laugh, but her heart still thudded unevenly.

Wooyoung pulled out his truck keys once they exited the warehouse. “ Alright, hot stuff, let’s get you home before Yunho starts worrying. “

Parked not far away from the warehouse entrance sat Wooyoung and San’s battered old truck. It’s faded paint and dented frame telling stories of countless nights spent living on the edge.

Wooyoung popped the lock on the back, swinging the tailgate open with a tired creak. Without hesitation, he tossed the worn leather money bag inside.

“Another night, another pile of money. “ he said with a grin, pulling out a few sheets of rolling paper and some loose tobacco from his pocket.

Areum leaned against the side of the truck, arms crossed, eyes narrowing at Wooyoung’s slow, deliberate movements as he expertly rolled his cigarette. “ You sure you don’t want me to do that? Looks like you’re about to strangle the tobacco. “

Wooyoung smirked, flicking his wrist as he tucked the paper just right. “ Please princess, I’m an artist. Every roll is a masterpiece. You wouldn’t understand. “

San, sprawled in the back of the truck, groaned as he wiped blood from his knuckles with a grimy rag. “ Artists don’t bleed this much, Wooyoung. You should stick to managing me. “

Wooyoung rolled his eyes, handing one cigarette to Areum, quickly making himself another.

Then their attention snapped to the entrance. From the warehouse, Mars emerged, flanked by two men, all clad in black leather motorbike gear now.

Wooyoung flicked ash from his cigarette, giggling. “ Look babygirl, there is your crush. “

Mars’ gaze locked on Areum like a predator sizing up its prey. The moment their eyes met again, her breathing got heavy again. She watched him and the two other men walk up towards their parked motorbikes.

Wooyoung nudged San. “ You seeing this? Areum’s staring like she’s neither about to start a fight or undress him naked. “

Areum scoffed. “ I’m just wondering how long it’ll take before he realizes I’m not impressed. “

San shook his head with a grin. “ Careful, Areum. You might actually be intrigued. “

“ And we might get killed by Yunho if that happens. “ Wooyoung added.

Mars mounted his motorcycle, helmet in his hands. His eyes lock on Areum’s one last time, giving her yet another of those wicked grins before his face is hidden behind the blackness. The engine growls to life. The leather trio peeled away into the night, leaving tension behind them.

Wooyoung exhaled smoke, smirking. “ His back tire is soft. “

San sighed. “ He won the money he can buy himself a new one. “

Areum inhaled the smoke, throwing away her cigarette.

“ Missing him already, hot stuff? “ Wooyoung chuckled.

“ Oh Wooyoung grow up. “ Areum nudged him.

Wooyoung tossed the finished cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his boot. “ Alright, drama club, let’s get moving. “

Areum climbed into the passenger seat, the truck door groaning as it shut behind her. The engine rumbled to life, but her mind was somewhere else — back in the ring, in the weight of that stare, in the grin that curled like smoke under her skin.

She glanced out the window as the truck pulled away from the warehouse. The city blurred past, neon reflections flickering across her face.

She could still feel his eyes on her.

Mars.

Once Areum arrives home, it’s three in the morning.

The apartment lights are on.

And Areum curses at herself mentally.

The front door creaked open quietly. She had perfected the art of sneaking in by now. She stepped inside, peeling off her jacket, ready to tiptoe past the hallway—

“ Where were you? “

His voice wasn’t loud, but it hit her like a gunshot.

She turned.

Yunho’s sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, jaw set. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares.

“ With Soojin. “ Areum lied, walking over to pour herself a glass of cold water that she desperately needed.

“ You smell like blood and cheap bourbon. “ Yunho said.

“ Maybe I was drinking with vampires? “

“ Areum. “ he wasn’t in the mood for jokes, especially not after he arrived home 30 minutes ago only to find his younger sister is nowhere to be seen.

She sighs. “ I was with Wooyoung and San. Nothing happened. “

“ Areum, we talked about this. “

And her patience was wearing off because of that. “ Don’t you have real criminals to worry about? “

“ I do. “ he said. “ Which is why I don’t need you out there becoming one of them. “

Areum turned to face him, water in hand. “ I’m not your case, Yunho. I’m your sister. Stop interrogating me like you’re gonna file a report. “

“ And you think I like acting like a damn cop in my own house? I wouldn’t have to if I wasn’t constantly worried you’ll get caught up in something you can’t walk away from. “

There was a silence.

Areum looked away first. “ I didn’t ask for a bodyguard. “

“ No. “ Yunho said. “ You got a brother who gives a damn. Unfortunately, that’s permanent. “

She didn’t respond. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed again, the silence stretching long and cold.

Yunho ran a hand over his face, exhaling.

“ I don’t want to be the someone to tell you who you should and who you shouldn’t hang out with. Whatever you think you’re playing at out there… Some games don’t have a reset button. Just… be careful. “

With that, he stood up and left down the hall.

Areum stayed in the kitchen a moment longer, staring into the middle distance, her mind already wandering back to the cage, to blood, to that devilish smile from across the ring.

It didn’t matter how careful she’d been before.

Tonight, she felt like she pulled the trigger.

And the first shot had already been fired.

˗ˏˋ next ˎˊ˗

[callmesel]

I’ve finally started “The Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System” and I’m loving it so far (mind you, I’m 34% in the first book)

Like, is so light-hearted and the way Shen Qingqiu (Yuan) narrates and calls out all the cliches and stuff is so funny to me

It reads like a self insert fanfic to me and I’m all in for it

Idk if the ship between Shen Quingqiu and Luo Binghe is canon or just the fandom shipping them really hard but I find their interactions cute

I’m trying to control myself from binging it all in one sitting because I’m using this series as a way to stay more active and if I finish it all I know I won’t come out of the house. I’ve being listening to this audiobook on Spotify and it is amazing, the voice actor changes their voice with any new character and gives them so much live

[gas-writer]

Working After Hours...

I don't use Tumblr that much, and already posted this new story over on DeviantArt. But if you haven't already read it over there, maybe you'll like it here: A happier, more positive, and longer anesthesia story! Let's see if tumblr will do 9000 words in a single post...

I power down the last computer at the registration desk. The screen clicks off.

Friday nights at Riverside Surgical Center always end like this. Just me, alone in the building; wandering the halls, making sure everything is powered off, closed and packed up for the weekend. It's my favorite part of being the sole IT support specialist here. When everyone else rushes out, I get these perfect moments alone. With the equipment.

The hum of the building's air handling system becomes noticeable as I cross the deserted, silent lobby. My footsteps click against the polished vinyl flooring. I walk to the entrance, diligently checking that the automatic door is locked closed. It is. I’ll lock it again when I leave, but tonight I don’t want any unexpected visitors.

I turn and begin my rounds through the facility. The surgical center’s manager thinks I'm dedicated. In reality, I'm obsessed.

Medical technology has been my special interest since I was a teenager. While other kids collected posters of rock bands, I hoarded medical supply catalogs. By eighteen, I could name every component of an anesthesia machine and knew the admin passwords to a handful of patient monitors. The job here at Riverside isn't high-paying, but it gives me access to a playground of sophisticated equipment that nobody outside the medical profession would get to touch.

The pre-operative area is my first stop. Six curtained bays line the wall, each containing a stretcher with accompanying vital signs monitor. I walk slowly, making sure each monitor (a Phillips model I know well) is powered down. When in use, their screens show blood pressure, SPo2 and pulse rates. They’re seldom used with ECG leads in pre-op. I notice things like that. I’ve always been into the small details.

Regardless, they’re all dark now. The monitoring system's central station sits at the nurse's desk. They’ve already turned it off.

I walk into one of the bays, and push an IV pole out of my way. Mounted on the pole is an infusion pump, its digital display dark. I check the bay's cabinets, making sure the stock of IV catheters, saline flushes, and adhesive dressings are orderly. I don’t really have to do this; it’s a med tech’s job, but… I want to.

As I check the next one, I pocket a couple of alcohol prep pads. Then a few pairs of purple nitrile gloves from the wall dispenser. Nothing that would be missed. I've been collecting “supplies” for months this way. I tell myself I’m building my own personal medical kit for home, but I know I just like having this stuff.

The staff lounge is next. There’s not really anything in here that I need to power off; we’d all be in trouble if I shut the refrigerator down. Nothing seems out of place here. It was one of the nurse’s birthdays today, and there are cake crumbs on the table. I skipped the party, but I helpfully wipe them up. There’s a box of masks by the door, though, and I take one, adding it to my scrub pockets. My heart rate increases slightly at the thought of what I'm planning later, but for now, I just turn out the breakroom’s lights.

Moving on with my patrol, I enter the post-anesthesia room; the PACU. This is more or less a mirror of pre-op, but with closer monitoring. The ECG traces on the monitors get used here. Eight recovery bays face a central nurse's station where the staff can observe all of the waking patients at once. Like pre-op, I verify each is powered down, and catch one that the nurses missed.

I pass through the automatic double doors that separate the PACU from the main corridor. My pulse quickens as I approach my actual destination tonight: the surgical suites. Riverside has three operating rooms; more than average for the facility’s relatively small throughput. Each is specialized for different types of procedures.

OR 1 is the largest, equipped for general surgery. Its boom-mounted equipment arms hang suspended from the ceiling in standby mode. The room lights are off, and the surgical lights on articulating arms are stowed neatly against the ceiling. I stare through the door for a moment, then move on.

I walk to OR 2, which is set up primarily for orthopedic procedures. The C-arm x-ray unit is parked in the corner, draped with a protective cover. Riverside sees a lot of broken arms, ACLs that need repair, and the like, but I’ve never been that interested in medical carpentry. Everything looks alright here, so I move on again.

Finally, I reach OR 3. It’s the smallest of the three rooms, sometimes used for endoscopies, but also for gynecological and urological procedures. This one has always held a special fascination for me, for reasons I leave unexamined for now. The operating table here is equipped with integrated leg stirrups, really more like giant yellow boots, that can be positioned at various angles. The table itself is computerized with both foot pedals and a remote. It can be easily moved to nearly any position, which is why I’ve chosen it for tonight.

I hesitate at the doorway, my heart pounding. The room, like the others, is dark and still. My hand finds the light switch, and I flip it. The room lights and overhead surgical lights come on at once, uncomfortably bright. I let my eyes adjust for a moment, then I step inside and let the door swing shut behind me.

This is my plan. This is the reason I’m so helpful on Friday nights.

I move purposefully. The anesthesia workstations here are slightly older than I might find in an academic center, and frankly, that’s what I want. It still has physical knobs that I could twist, instead of a touchscreen. I approach it; running my fingers along its smooth surface. I think, just for a second, how embarrassed I’d be if someone saw me basically petting the machine. But I’m alone. That’s the point.

On the far side of the operating room is an entire wall of supplies. Opening a cabinet, I locate the components I need. A disposable breathing circuit, nicely packaged with a filter and a gas sampling line. A pair of rebreathing bags, and an adult-sized anesthesia mask. In another cabinet, I find a four-point head harness, designed to keep the mask securely in place during procedures. I lay these items out methodically on the anesthesia machine's work surface.

Next, from a different cabinet I retrieve a pulse oximeter sensor, and a blood pressure cuff. I return to the anesthesia workstation, and connect both to their respective ports on the machine. Even if I didn’t know where they went, the plugs are colored and fit only in the right place. It just takes a few seconds, despite my slightly trembling hands. I think about getting ECG pads; the machine is already setup for 5-lead, but I decide it’ll be too awkward to manage the wires.

I connect the breathing circuit to the outlet and inlets on the anesthesia machine, carefully attaching the corrugated tubing and the rebreathing bag. The mask will go at the end of the circuit, but for now, I just slightly inflate the plastic seal around the mask’s rim with a syringe, then I lay it down on top of the machine

I press the power button on the anesthesia machine, listening to the startup sequence of beeps and watching as the ventilator performs its self-test. When it’s done, I perform a machine check, following the same protocol the anesthesiologists use each morning. I verify that oxygen flows properly from the wall outlet through the machine's pipelines. The backup oxygen cylinder shows pressure on its gauge. The nitrous tank is open and full. I check the carbon dioxide absorbent canister; it's fresh, the granules still white instead of the purple that would indicate it’s all used up. This is good, because I’m not actually sure which cabinet would hold a replacement, and I don’t want to search.

It takes a few minutes, but the checks complete cleanly. The rebreathing bag inflates and deflates properly and everything holds pressure. I slip the mask onto the business-end of the anesthesia circuit, pressing it in place firmly.

This machine, I note, has two vaporizers on it, purple and yellow, iso and sevo. I don’t plan to use these, but I see that the liquid level indicator on the sevoflurane shows about a quarter full. I’m intrigued but volatiles are far too dangerous to mess around with.

With the electronic foot pedals, I adjust the operating table to its lowest height setting and position it at a slight incline, so I can sit comfortably on it. The table’s dual armboards easily fold down, out of the way completely. I’m relieved to see the stirrups are likewise folded down; I'll have no need for those tonight. When I’m done, the operating table resembles a very expensive, very black chaise lounge.

I wheel the anesthesia machine closer to the operating table, careful not to pull the gas supply hoses too far. With some effort, and a couple more change to the operating table’s pitch, I position it where I can just about reach the machine’s controls, while seated on the table.

I shimmy to the center of my operating-table-made-chair. I smooth out the sleeve of my left arm and wrap the blood pressure cuff around my own bicep. It’s awkward. I struggle with the Velcro, trying to get the cuff closed in the right place on my arm, and to tighten it appropriately. After a few attempts, though, I get it close enough. The pulse oximeter clip goes easily onto my right index finger, and rhythmic beeping starts to track my heartbeat. I reach to the anesthesia machine, and using my middle finger to put the button, start the cuff. Within seconds, the monitor displays my vital signs: heart rate 92, blood pressure 138/84, oxygen saturation 99%. My elevated heart rate and blood pressure doesn't surprise me. I've been fantasizing about this whole thing for months.

I reach out to the machine’s controls and set the oxygen flow rate to 6 liters per minute. The flow meter's ball rises in its chamber, indicating the gas is flowing as expected. The room fills with a quiet hiss.

I pick up the mask, and I feel a momentary hesitation. What I'm about to do crosses a line, from a special interest to something more dangerous and much more against the rules. But the temptation is too strong to resist. I've come this far, after all.

I bring the mask to my face, feeling the soft plastic seal against my skin. It's cool at first, but quickly warms against my face. I take a deep breath, smelling the significant plastic scent of the new breathing circuit and mask. The oxygen fills my lungs.

I pickup the black head harness, and, with a little more awkwardness, I secure the mask to my face, tightening the straps until it stays sealed tightly even when I’m not holding it.

My breathing sounds loud inside the mask. For a few moments, I watch the rebreathing bag inflate and deflate rhythmically with each breath I take. I watch my oxygen saturation maintain at 99% on the monitor. Everything is working perfectly. It’s time to take the next step.

I reach for oxygen flow knob again. This time, it twist down… and twist the nitrous oxide tap open. I know how the flowmeters work, and set the balls to a roughly 33% nitrous oxide flow. I take a deep, deliberate breath through the mask, and the effects begin almost immediately. A pleasant warmth spreads through my limbs. I hold the breath for a second, then deliberately take another very big breath. My fingertips tingle with a curious numbness. By the third breath, a buzzing sensation starts at the base of my skull, radiating upwards into my head. I’m surprised, and more than a little bit pleased, at how fast I’m feeling the nitrous. I've read about this feeling countless times in medical literature and online, but experiencing it firsthand is amazing; both the physical sensation and the forbidden nature of what I'm doing. I want more. I turn the oxygen down slightly again, and the nitrous up.

I lean back onto the operating table, letting my arms fall to my sides, and take in more of the gas as I relax.

The room maintains its sharp edges and clinical brightness, but my perception of it begins to shift. The surgical lights above me seem more intense, their glow extending just a bit beyond their actual boundaries. The rhythmic sound of the gas flowing through the circuit becomes hypnotic. My breathing is less intentional now, but even so, I’m still breathing slowly and deeply. The rebreathing bag inflates and deflates and I enjoy watching it for a couple of minutes. Inhale, exhale. Inflating, deflating.

I check the monitors with slightly unfocused eyes. My heart rate has decreased to 84 beats per minute; it’s still elevated from my normal resting rate but lower than before. My oxygen saturation remains good. The blood pressure reading cycles automatically every five minutes. The cuff tightens around my arm before letting go with a soft hiss: 125/76. The beep of my heartbeat has slowed.

I laugh, muffled by the mask. I watch the rebreathing bag some more.

The blood pressure cuff cycles again; time is stretching, I’ve floated here five minutes already, and dissociated without realizing it. There’s a clock on the OR wall, and I watch it for a minute. It moves simultaneously slowly and fast. I smile. I’m happy, and… I want more.

I decide to increase the concentration. My movements are deliberate, almost ceremonial, as I pull myself upright, then reach out to adjust the flowmeters. I’m already around 50%, and I want a bit more. I twist the nitrous upwards, nearly as high as it’ll go. I can tell the difference almost immediately.

The buzzing in my head intensifies, becoming a gentle vibration that extends through my entire body. The boundaries between myself and the room begin to blur. The operating table beneath me seems to become softer, much softer, as if I might sink through it if I relaxed completely. I don't, though; I still have the presence of mind to lower myself back onto the table gently, instead of falling off.

I let myself drift again. I think about the nurses and surgeons who work in this room, wielding their instruments, controlling life and consciousness with practiced hands. Now I'm doing the same, in a way. This thought seems somehow hilarious and profound. I don’t start laughing but I’m pretty close. Before I know it, the blood pressure cuff is cycling again.

I raise my hands in front of my face, fascinated by how distant and blurry they seem. I wiggle my fingers, watching the movement with detached curiosity. There's a delay between my intention and the action, as if I'm connected to a video game on a bad internet connection. I slide my palm along the cool surface of the operating table, the sensation of touch seems simultaneously intensified and muted.

A new thought surfaces through the haze of nitrous oxide: what would sevoflurane feel like? I know that nitrous, at normal pressure, can’t actually knock anyone out. But sevo, at even at moderate concentrations, induces unconsciousness within minutes. I don’t want that. Even while intoxicated, I clearly understand the consequences of gassing myself to far. But my understanding of MAC is that at lower concentrations, like, say, 1% or 2%, people my age will generally remain awake. At least for a little while.

I could try it. Just a little.

I know it’s dangerous, but the idea is irresistible.

I sit up again, and reach for the anesthesia machine, my movements a lot less coordinated now, through the nitrous fog. First, I turn down the nitrous oxide flow to zero, allowing pure oxygen to clear my system for a moment. I take several deep breaths, feeling some of the fuzziness recede. My thoughts sharpen enough for me to recognize the recklessness of what I'm about to do, but not enough to stop me.

I turn the yellow vaporizer dial just a bit, turning it to 1%, then to 2%. Enough to taste it, to feel its initial effects for real. I’m not feeling tentative now, like I was with the nitrous, even though I know I’ll need to quickly turn it off. I breath all the way out, and the sevo begins to flow.

The first breath is still mostly oxygen, and I let myself settle back onto the table. When I take the second breath, though, a distinctly sweet smell fills the mask. It smells chemical, like a harsh cleanser, but… not unpleasant. I don’t feel anything. I take another careful breath, then another. Only then, does the effect hit me.

A heavy warmth spreads through my body, like someone’s thrown a weighted blanket over me. Another breath, and I start to feel distinctly tired. The nitrous made me feel fuzzy primarily, this is making me feel drowsy.

I try to breath normally, and the edges of my vision begin to blur, the periphery darkening slightly. It’s as if a camera’s vignette effect has been applied to my eyesight. The beeping heartbeat sound in the room seems to recede, becoming muffled and distant. It’s much more intense than the nitrous, and much more intense than I expected. I understand, in a moment, how stupid I’ve been. I need to turn the gas back off.

I sit up, trying to reach the machine, and it feels like I’m moving through syrup. My intention to move my hand doesn’t match my muscles exactly; the same effect as the Nitrous but more severe. The machine seems farther away than it was a moment ago. I reach for the vaporizer dial, and my own hand seems disconnected, as if it’s not mine.

Before I can reach the dial, another hand appears in my peripheral vision. A hand that is, for sure, not mine.

I try to turn my head, movements sluggish, brain struggling to process this unexpected development. A figure in blue appears, standing beside me, and grabs my wrist, pulling it back from the vaporizer.

"What have we here?" a female voice says. "Someone's been playing with toys they shouldn't touch." The words have a British accent, and seem to echo strangely in my ears.

I start to speak, but the mask is still harnessed to my face. I try to reach up to remove it, but the woman grabs my other wrist, too.

In the harsh surgical lighting, I see it’s a woman in blue scrubs, a surgical cap covering reddish hair, bright eyes above a white surgical mask. It's a nurse, but in my disoriented state, I can't immediately identify which one. Panic cuts through the chemical haze. I wasn't supposed to be discovered. No one should be here. The staff all left. I made sure of it.

I’m not sure what to do. I try to stand, to pull away, but my reactions are dulled by the anesthetics already in my system. The sevoflurane continues to flow; I still haven't turned it off, and each rapid, frightened breath draws more of the agent into my bloodstream.

"Turn it off," I manage to say, my voice muffled by the mask. "Let go of me!"

"I don't think so," the nurse replies. I feel myself being pushed backwards, down onto the diagonal operating table. "You've set everything up so nicely. It would be a shame to stop now."

I'm larger than her, stronger under normal circumstances, but the sevoflurane has substantially undermined my coordination. She pushes me down easily. But I’m not done yet; I turn sharply, trying to break her grip, and succeed in pulling one arm free. I reach for the mask, intending to tear it away, but she’s fast, or I’m slow. She blocks my hand, catching my wrist again.

"Oh no, you don't," she says, her voice hard. "Keep that mask on."

Fear spikes through me. Each breath is drawing more sevo into my system. I thrash, but the head harness keeps the mask firmly in place despite my movements, and the continuing supply of anesthetic makes my fight increasingly clumsy.

The nurse adjusts her grip, pinning one of my arms under her body, while reaching for something on the anesthesia machine I’ve placed so conveniently close by. To my horror, I see her turn the sevoflurane vaporizer not down, but up. I can’t see where she’s set it, but I know anywhere above 3% will rapidly render me unconscious.

"No!" I shout this time, the word completely intelligible even through the mask. I buck upward, pressing my legs against the table, trying to get up. For a moment, I think I might break free. The pulse oximeter rips free from my finger, setting off a high-pitched alarm from the monitor.

I’m able to slide my right arm free of the tangle of limbs, and I grasp at the mask, fingers scrabbling at the head harness, but they just… won’t… get it… My fingers don’t work right.

The nurse recovers quickly, catching my free wrist a third time, and forcing it down. She swings one leg over me, straddling my chest and fully jumping on the table. Before I know it, she’s on top of me. She’s using her weight to pin me down. Her face is close to mine now. It’s aggressively intimate, her blue eyes intense above her mask.

"Don't struggle, love" she says, her voice simultaneously soothing and menacing. "You'll only make it worse for yourself."

With her full weight on top of me, my movements grow increasingly fruitless. Even if she wasn’t on top of me, the feeling of heaviness, the feeling that started after my first few breaths, is much stronger now. Each time I try to push her off, the physical exertion forces me to breathe harder, deeper, pulling more sevoflurane into my system. I realize that the more I fight, the faster the anesthetic is taking hold.

My vision begins to waver, the straight lines of the room twisting and bending. The nurse's face above me seems to split and rejoin, her mask and eyes turning blurry and confusing. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my head, but my eyelids are harder and harder to open each time I do. It doesn’t help at all.

"You're quite strong," she comments, sounding slightly out of breath, but in control. "But the sevo is stronger, love. Always wins in the end."

My strength is failing rapidly now. My arms feel impossibly heavy, as if I’ve been tied down with giant elastic bands. I still struggle, but my movements are feeble, uncoordinated. I’m losing.

The room begins to spin in slow, nauseating circles. The lights overhead multiply, separating into a rainbow of colors. My hearing seems more affected now too: the nurse's voice echoes strangely, as if coming from multiple directions at once. The alarm from the disconnected sensor sounds distant, as if I’m underwater.

I'm aware of my breathing becoming slower, deeper.

"That's right," the nurse says, her voice drifting to me through layers of distortion. "Stop fighting now. You're doing so well."

I watch the nurse as she climbs off of me, but somehow, her weight seems to stay. She maintains her grip on my wrists for another few seconds, but my arms have gone limp. She releases them cautiously, maybe prepared to restrain me again if I’m faking it, but I am very much not faking it.

I can barely lift them now. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy. I force them open only with tremendous effort, trying to focus on her face, but my vision is degraded, or my brain won’t control my eyes. I can’t tell which. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t.

"Good," she says, her tone shifting to something almost… sexual. "You're submitting beautifully now."

I hear the sound of electric motors as she repositions the table, I feel myself tipping backwards. She’s straightening my legs, raising the table, returning it to a flat configuration. She gently places my arms at my sides. I want to resist but can only manage the weakest of movements.

The nurse moves to the anesthesia machine, adjusting something I can't quite see. The sevoflurane concentration, I realize distantly. She's increasing it again. The time I breath, the gas rushes in forcefully, making me breath fully and deeply. She’s squeezing the rebreathing bag.

"Just close your eyes and drift off now," she orders, her voice seeming to come from very far away. "It’s dreamland for you."

My eyelids flutter. No amount of effort can keep them open. I realize with a distant sort of horror that I'm about to lose consciousness. I make one final, feeble attempt to sit up, to roll off the table, but my muscles refuse to cooperate.

A strange feeling of peace begins to replace my fear. The inevitability of going under becomes almost comforting. I can no longer remember why I was fighting so hard against this feeling. I’m so incredibly tired and I just want to sleep. With each breath into the mask, it gets stronger.

"Perfect," she murmurs, watching as my resistance fades completely. "That's exactly right. Let it happen." I hear her, but I don’t understand.

I can’t see the nurses’s face anymore, as spinning blackness rushes in from the edges of my vision. Yet somehow, I know she's smiling as she watches me fall down to oblivion. The world clicks off.

I drift up through darkness. Consciousness returns in fragments as my brain boots up.

First comes the sensation of touch: cool air on bare skin, pressure around my wrists, on my back, on my thighs and ankles. A moment later, my sense of position; proprioception. I’m on my back, my arms splayed outwards, my legs in a strange position.

I try to rub my eyes, but the pressure on my wrists keeps them from moving.

It takes several seconds, maybe a whole minute, to process what just those two senses are reporting, what all that means. I'm lying on my back, restrained somehow.

Next, I hear a steady beeping. It’s increasing in speed as I wake up. No memories yet, but the sound seems familiar.

My eyes are closed. Only with some effort am I able to force them open. As soon as I do, I blink against harsh, circular lights overhead. Surgical lights. The operating room comes into fuzzy focus, and with it, my fragmented memories.

I'm completely naked, immobilized, and splayed open on the operating table. I remember being caught, overpowered.

My mouth feels incredibly dry. I try to swallow but barely produce enough saliva. My whole body feels sore, like I’ve just run a marathon or fought a wrestling match, which, in a way I did.

I try to move my arms again, turning to look at my wrists restrained to the table’s perpendicular armboards. I’ve seen Velcro positioning straps used here before, the kind intended for patients at risk of pulling out IVs or simply moving too much while anesthetized for surgery. The restraints here are not those, but padded leather cuffs that more resemble something from a 1950s insane asylum. I don’t know where they came from, but I’m not sliding out of them any time soon.

I lift my head slightly, fighting against residual dizziness, and look down the length of my body. As I feared, I’m completely naked; my clothes and underwear both gone. ECG electrodes have been placed on my naked chest. That’s not good.

Much worse, my legs are elevated and separated, positioned in the yellow leg-lifting stirrups that hold my feet and ankles. I'm in the lithotomy position; as if someone’s positioned me for a gynecology, urological, or rectal procedure. I try to pull my feet down, but unsurprisingly, the yellow boots and straps are tight and strong enough that it’s useless. A strangled noise escapes my throat as I realize how completely vulnerable I am. My heart beats faster and I hear the heartbeat monitor on the anesthesia machine match it. I try to stay calm and finish examining my situation. I’m not going to find a way out by panicking.

I don’t see any people around, thankfully. But it’s obvious the room has been transformed since I lost consciousness. The anesthesia machine has been pushed back to its usual position above my head. I can stretch to see it; its displays glowing with data, my heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and now ECG and respiratory traces.

My eyes dart around the room, taking in details that send fresh waves of adrenaline through my system. Surgical instruments have been arranged on a Mayo stand beside the table; gleaming metal specula, retractors, forceps, and scissors. An electrocautery unit sits ready, its grounding pad visible but not yet attached to my body. A black endoscope is coiled on a blue-draped table nearby that I’m sure wasn’t there before. Everything is positioned as I’ve seen it used during the work week, all as if in preparation for an actual procedure. Or more than one procedure.

I remember the clock on the OR wall. It reads 6:17 PM. I try to remember when I started my self-administered anesthesia experiment; the surgical center closed at 4, so it couldn’t have been long after 5:00. More than an hour has passed that I can't account for. An hour during which someone, the nurse who caught me, has prepared this nightmarish scenario.

The door to the operating room swings open, and she enters, as if summoned by my thoughts. Now that I can think clearly, I know who this is. It's Nurse Evelyn, the British transplant who joined the surgical center staff six months ago. I suddenly recall it was her birthday cake crumbs I cleaned up an hour or so ago.

She’s fully attired for the OR now, a disposable yellow isolation gown tied over her scrubs, her hair tucked completely under a bouffant cap. No hint visible of her red locks anymore. Her hands are white latex.

Her bright blue eyes above her mask crinkle at the corners, suggesting the smile I can't see.

"Ah, you're awake," she says, her accent pronounced as she approaches the table. "Welcome back to the land of the living. How are we feeling, then?"

"What the hell is this?" I croak, my voice hoarse. "Let me go right now!"

Nurse Evelyn tilts her head, studying me with amusement. "That's not a very diplomatic way to address the person who caught you abusing clinic equipment, is it? You're in quite a sticky wicket. Imagine what administration would think if they knew you were playing doctor after hours."

She moves to the anesthesia machine, checking the displays as if we’re in a normal, professional situation. "Your vitals are stable. No worse for wear, I think. How’s the nausea?" I have no nausea, thankfully, but I don’t answer.

"Why am I restrained? Why am I…" I can't even say it, the vulnerability of my naked, exposed position.

Nurse Evelyn laughs, the sound light and warm despite the circumstances. "Why are you strapped down and undressed? Self-preservation, love. Couldn't have you waking up and bolting before we had our little chat."

"As for the stirrups, well, I needed to conduct a thorough examination while you were under. Very thorough. I had to make sure you were healthy enough for what I have planned, you understand."

Heat floods my face as the implication sinks in. I think she’s joking, but I have no way to really know. "You had no right…"

"Rights?" she interrupts, stepping closer to the table. "Let's discuss rights, shall we? Did you have the right to use the anesthesia machine on a lark? To use controlled substances for your personal entertainment?" She leans over me, her eyes intense above her mask. "No, you didn't. But I understand why you did it. We're not so different, you and I."

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite my racing heart. The beep of the heart monitor betrays me.

"I saw how you set everything up. The care you took with the preperation. The way you monitored yourself." She runs a gloved finger along my forearm, a strangely gentle and intimate gesture. "I think you’ve been planning this a long time. And I also think you weren't just curious about the physical sensation. You wanted to experience the vulnerability, the surrender of control. The submission."

Her assessment hits uncomfortably close to the truth. I don’t know what to say to her. She’s not exactly right, but it’s frighteningly close. There’s for sure some connection between the equipment I’m especially interested in and intense power dynamics; anesthesia has, along with it, the requirement to complete surrender to another's care. I, of course, don’t voice this, but my silence speaks volumes.

"While you seem to enjoy being the patient," she continues, "I prefer the other role. The one who decides what needs to happen. When consciousness begins and ends. The one who holds complete power over another human being." Her eyes glitter. "Quite the perfect match, wouldn't you say?"

"You're crazy," I whisper, though I think I don’t really mean it. I think she can tell that I actually do understand. I feel something inside me; not just fear, but a flicker of dark excitement I don't want to acknowledge.

"Crazy? No. Unconventional, perhaps." Evelyn moves to the foot of the table, between my spread legs, and I feel a fresh wave of vulnerability. "Here's what's going to happen. It's Friday night. No one's due back until Monday morning. You and I are going to this entire weekend exploring our mutual interests. I’ll send you under in various ways; different medicines, different combinations. I was an anesthesia nurse in England, you know. I'll take care of you quite professionally, of course."

"You can't just keep me here," I protest, though my voice lacks conviction. "People will look for me."

She raises an eyebrow. "Will they? The solitary IT worker who avoids social interaction and lives alone? Will anyone call on you?” I don’t answer, and again my silence speaks. “No. You're not due anywhere until Monday morning. Same as me."

I struggle against the restraints, panic rising again. "This is kidnapping!" I protest. It’s not halfhearted; I’m genuinely scared, even if that’s not the only emotion anymore.

"It’s hardly kidnapping," she counters smoothly. "You mostly did this to yourself. I just… helped you a bit.”

What you should realize now, love,” she continues. “Is that I could easily report what I caught you doing. That's career-ending at minimum, maybe even criminal charges." She leans over me, staring into my eyes. "Or, we could have a mutually beneficial weekend. You get to explore your fascination with anesthesia in ways you never could alone. I get to practice my skills and indulge my own… interests."

Her gloved hand rests on my thigh, the touch clearly intended to be suggestive, intimate. "Do we understand each other?"

I stare up at the surgical lights, my thoughts racing. The situation is surreal, terrifying, and yet… I can't deny the dark thread of excitement growing under my fear. Part of me has always wondered what it would be like to fully surrender to anesthesia in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing. To let go completely.

Something in her tone, in the absurd situation itself, makes a hysterical laugh bubble up from my chest. "This is insane."

"Perhaps," she agrees, "but I think it's exactly what you wanted. Just not how you expected to get it."

"What exactly are you planning to do to me?" I ask, my voice steadier now.

"I’m going to put you to sleep again," Evelyn tells me. "I’ll try different induction techniques. A sevo mask induction, as you've already experienced. We’ll try the isoflurane, too, I think. A standard propofol induction. Certainly ketamine in some combination. Perhaps etomidate, if I decide you’ll risk the side effects" Her voice takes on a dreamy quality. "I’m told each one feels different going under."

I swallow. “You can’t just anesthetize me over and over,” I object, but I don’t think I’m convincing.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “It’s definitely not recommended. But neither is the scheme I caught you playing out, is it? There are some risks, but you’ve already been taking some of those, haven’t you? I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

I swallow hard, looking down at my spread legs. "And the position I'm in now? The surgical tools?"

"I think it's better if I don't explain everything I have planned," she says, voice dropping to a near whisper. "Fear of the unknown heightens the experience, doesn't it? You’re vulnerable. Exposed. At my mercy." Her eyes crinkle as the heartbeat tone speeds up. "All I’m going tell you is that you won’t feel a thing."

Nurse Evelyn leans closer. "If you cooperate, though, this could be quite pleasant for you too. Some patients report euphoria, lovely dreams. You may even find the experience… arousing." Her tone drops on the last word, sending an involuntary shiver through me.

I close my eyes, weighing my options. While she’s implied I have a choice, I suspect there really is none. She has me literally and figuratively tied down. Fighting seems pointless; she controls the drugs, the restraints, everything. But I’m not ready to trust her, even with the desire she’s ignited below my fear.

“Please, just let me go,” I protest again. But I’m not sure if I really mean it.

"I don't think you mean that, love" Evelyn reads my thoughts, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. She moves to stand beside me, her white gloved fingertip tracing a line from my collarbone down my naked chest, all the way to my waist. "I think you're just scared to admit it."

The latex of her glove feels cool against my skin. I shiver again, and my breath catches involuntarily. Evelyn leans in close. I can feel her warm breath through the mask she’s wearing. She whispers in my ear.

"You enjoyed it, didn't you? When I caught you… when I held you down… when I made you breathe in the gas until you couldn't fight anymore."

My pulse quickens, betraying me on the monitor with an accelerating beep. My memories replay as she describes them; her weight on my chest, my useless struggle, the sweet smelling gas filling my lungs against my will. I realize, to my horror, that I’m getting noticeably aroused thinking about it.

"I saw your eyes before they closed," she continues, voice silky and intimate. "That moment when fear gave way to something else. When you realized you couldn't stop it happening. You want that feeling again, don’t you?" I don’t answer. My mind races. I can’t help but feel she’s right. But I think about all the surgical tools laid out. And I don’t trust that I have a real choice here.

"You're going to put me under again no matter what I say, aren't you?" I finally ask.

"Clever," she says approvingly. "You'll be spending quite a bit of time off with the fairies this weekend. But how pleasant that time is, and how pleasant the time in between is, depends entirely on your attitude."

She moves to the head of the table, starting up the fresh gas flows. "Shall we begin? Don’t answer. You’re right, you don’t have much of a choice. A little nitrous again to start, I think."

Despite everything, I feel my resistance beginning to crumble. The fear remains, but alongside it grows a perverse curiosity. What would it be like to experience all those different anesthetics, administered by someone who knows exactly what they're doing? I think I’m going to find out.

She lowers the mask towards my face, holding my chin only lightly with her gloved hand. I move my head to the side, trying to avoid the mask. It's a futile gesture, but some part of my brain, maybe the majority, still rejects the idea of submitting so. The mask follows my movement, and her grip on my chin tightens.

"Let’s have no foolishness," Evelyn scolds, her tone sharpening.

She presses the mask firmly against my face, creating a tight seal. "Deep breaths now. Be sensible."

Against my better judgment, I feel myself relaxing slightly. The fact that it’s all being decided for me is strangely reassuring, even as the situation remains profoundly frightening. I do as instructed, and begin to breath, deeply.

She turns the nitrous oxide flowmeter, and I hear the gas begin to hiss through the circuit. "Just breathe normally. Fifty percent to start, I think. You'll feel it soon enough."

I inhale obediently. I can’t really smell it, but within moments, the familiar warm tingling begins in my extremities, slowly spreading inward. The steady beeping from the pulse monitor starts to slow.

"There you go," Nurse Evelyn says, her tone suddenly soothing instead of sharp. "Just like that. Nice deep breaths."

The nitrous works quickly, creating the same vibrating sensation I experienced earlier. The fear fades, replaced by a slight detachment that makes my situation seem less threatening, more surreal. The restraints around my wrists and ankles no longer feel quite as imprisoning. I forget about my nakedness after a few more breaths. My head starts to feel fuzzy, as if cotton is being stuffed into my brain.

"Good?" she asks, watching my face closely. I nod, unable to deny the pleasant sensations washing through me. I try to organize my thoughts. The gas already makes it difficult to think critically, but the fear and desire still war within me. Evelyn watches me with those intense blue eyes, monitoring my response to the nitrous oxide. She seems to know exactly what she's doing with the anesthesia equipment. Professional. Controlled.

Can I trust her? She's holding me captive, but there's something oddly reassuring about her dominance. She’s confident, and she clearly knows what she's doing. But she's also clearly unhinged, willing to cross professional and ethical boundaries without hesitation.

Just like I am.

I really did want this, in some way.

"Alright," I say finally, my voice muffled by the mask. "I'll cooperate."

Her eyes light up with genuine pleasure. "Brilliant! I knew you'd come around. We're going to have such fun together. I think we have a bit more to do tonight, but it’ll be over before you know it.”

I wonder exactly what she means, and exactly what she’s planning for me, but I don’t have time to ask.

"Now we'll add the sevoflurane. One percent to start." She adjusts the vaporizer dial. "This will be just like before, only now I’m in control the whole time."

The distinctive odor of sevoflurane mingles with the nitrous oxide. My eyelids grow heavy again, the room's edges softening. Nurse Evelyn secures the mask with the harness, which I hadn’t realized was already behind my head.

“Now, love, with both sevo and nitrous, you’ll go off quickly,” she explains. I know there’s a phenomenon where having both nitrous and a volatile on at once increases the effects, but I can’t remember if 1% is already enough to anesthetize me.

I’m starting to feel more drowsy. Like before, the nitrous made me detached, but the sevo is making me want to sleep. I force my eyes wide open, trying to stay awake as long as I can.

“Up to three percent,” Evelyn’s voice seems distant and echos in my ears. I know that’s enough to put me out. The visual hallucinations begin immediately. The vignette effect from before returns, my vision narrowing. The lights begin to wash out, strange colors begin to fade in. When Evelyn leans over me, her white mask seems to glow. The yellow color from her isolation gown seems to stretch out around the room.

"Time for dreamland again. Why don’t you count backward from one hundred?" she instructs, increasing the sevoflurane concentration. I can’t see how far, but the smell increases significantly.

"One hundred… ninety nine…ninety eight…" My voice sounds distant to my own ears, the words slurring together. I look up at her and her face seems to distort. The room begins to spin. The yellow of her gown changes into a confusing medical rainbow, yellow, blue, white, green, along with nameless colors that don’t exist in normal reality.

Nurse Evelyn's gloved hand rests gently on my forehead, a gesture that might be comforting under different circumstances. "You’re doing brilliantly. Keep going."

I’m supposed to be counting.

"Ninety seven… ninety six… ninety five…" The numbers come with increasing difficulty. I already can’t remember what number I was on. Have I made a mistake? My tongue feeling thick and uncooperative in my mouth. The ceiling above me seems to spin faster, expanding and contracting with my breathing.

"Nine…" I manage, though I can’t hear myself. I'm no longer sure if I'm speaking aloud or just thinking the numbers. What was I counting?

"Almost there," she encourages, her British accent barely penetrating my mental haze. "Just slip off again."

The room begins to spin faster, Nurse Evelyn's face above me, already blurred and stretched, begins multiplying and rejoining like a kaleidoscope image. I try to raise my hands, to pull the mask off. One last moment of confusion. Of course, the restraints don’t let me move at all. I’ve been helpless this whole time.

"Perfect," she murmurs down at me. My eyes close of their own accord. My body relaxes. The spinning, the drowsiness, the sense of weight over my body is all too much to fight.

Consciousness fades even faster now. Darkness takes me again. My brain turns off.

My head throbs. I realize I’m awake. I don’t remember going to sleep. I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids feel impossibly heavy. It occurs to me that maybe they've been taped shut, but I don’t know why that thought comes to me. A mechanical beeping lines up with the throbbing in my head. Rhythmic. Familiar. A patient monitor? I shift and it feels like I’m in a bed. Somehow, I think I'm in a hospital bed. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, my tongue thick and clumsy. I try to swallow, but produce barely enough saliva and my throat is sore. The details of how I got here elude me, for the time being.

It takes a minute, but I finally manage to force my eyes open, only to immediately squint; above me are harsh, fluorescent lights. White, institutional ceiling tiles come into focus. They also seem familiar.

With effort, I raise my right hand to rub my eyes, and feel a tug. Looking up, I see an IV catheter secured to the back of my hand with section of transparent tape. A line of clear IV tubing snakes up to a half-empty bag of fluid hanging from an IV pole nearby. The movement causes my hospital gown to shift against my skin, and I discover I’m wearing a hospital gown.

I’m disoriented but my memories begin to fall into order. I remember my plan for the night. Going to the operating room. I remember my interrupted experiment. Evelyn catching me. Her weight on my chest as she held me down, forcing me to breathe in the anesthetics. I think of the restraints. I remember her making me go under a second time. I think I remember something else, something after that, but it’s too blurry to piece together. In any case, I remember enough.

I bolt upright, but like opening my eyes, I instantly regret it. The sudden movement makes the room spin and my headache momentarily gets worse. I grab at the IV site, about to simply pull it out, when a voice stops me.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

I hadn’t noticed until now, but Nurse Evelyn is quietly standing at the foot of my bed, arms crossed. Her mask is gone and her red hair is down now, freed from the surgical cap, falling in waves around her shoulders. She's changed into fresh scrubs, feminine, pink, instead of the light blue from before.

Her blue eyes evaluate me.

"How are you feeling?" she asks, her British accent pronounced in the quiet room. She steps closer, and taps a few buttons on the patient monitor, silencing the rhythmic beeping. She turns, and reaches for my wrist to take my pulse manually. I don’t think to pull away, my brain is still booting up. Her fingers are cool against my skin, and strangely intimate.

"Headache," I manage to croak. "Tired. Thirsty." My voice sounds like a dry croak; my throat is rough. "What time is it?"

"Just before 9," she answers, releasing my wrist. "Post-anesthetic headache is not unusual. The volatile agents can do that, even sevoflurane. It'll pass."

I look around, taking in my surroundings more fully now. I am in a hospital bed, or more accurately, I'm in the Post Anesthesia Care Unit. Eight recovery bays, mine right next to the doors. The other beds are still empty, their monitors dark, including the one I’d turned off when I’d checked it just a few hours ago.

I glance down at my body, suddenly aware of how little I know about what happened while I was unconscious. Quite a lot of my body is vaguely sore, maybe from exertion, but maybe from something Evelyn did after I was anesthetized. I try to recall what time Evelyn told me, a what the time on the OR clock had been, and I think it’s been more than an hour. That’s time to do quite a few things. My throat hurts, so I’ve probably been intubated. The memories are missing, but I know, deep down, she’s done something.

I pull at the thin hospital gown, searching for any signs of surgical intervention.

"What did you do to me while I was out?" I ask, my voice carrying an edge of fear as I examine my lower body, looking for incisions, stitches, anything out of place. "Did you… operate on me?"

Evelyn watches my frantic self-examination with amusement in her eyes. She tilts her head slightly, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. She lets me search for a minute; I can tell she’s enjoying it.

"You won’t find anything amiss this time, love. Nothing that left a mark or that’d put you out, really." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I suppose I did start the world’s most painless IV. But I might do more next time. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

I try to not to react to how close she is, or her comment. I think I shiver slightly. Maybe in fear, but maybe very much not. I look into her eyes, and for moment, there’s only the sound of the patient monitor taking my blood pressure again.

"I'm not restrained," I observe, quietly. After being tied down in the OR, the freedom feels strange, almost suspicious.

Evelyn smiles widely now; since she’s not wearing a mask anymore, the expression is fully visible. "Do you need to be? You're hardly in any condition to cause trouble. Besides, you agreed to cooperate, remember?"

I nod slowly, though I’m still somewhat conflicted. Did I agree? I recall the moment of surrender, the choice made. It was surely made under duress, but was also driven by something deeper, my special interest, and the connection to Evelyn that I’m not quite ready to admit.

"There's water if you need it," she says, gesturing to a plastic cup with a bendy straw on the bedside table, stepping back. "But nothing to eat, and nothing to drink after midnight. You're scheduled to go back to the OR first thing in the morning."

My stomach tightens at her words. "Back to the OR? For what?"

"For whatever I decide," she replies simply. "We have a full weekend ahead of us, remember? Different induction techniques to try. And once you’re asleep, whatever I want." Her tone is light, conversational, as if discussing plans for a casual outing rather than forced unconsciousness and potentially surgery.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the movement causing the IV tubing to pull slightly. The floor feels cold beneath my bare feet. This is my chance. I could rip out the IV. I could leave now. Evelyn is alone, I'm not restrained, and despite my headache and lingering soreness, I’m confident I could overpower her now that she’s not holding an anesthesia mask. Or I could just run. I could run out the door. I could tell someone what she’s done. Or I could try to keep it all a secret.

But I hesitate. I don’t do any of that. Not yet.

Evelyn watches me, head tilted slightly, a knowing expression on her face. She's not moving to stop me. She's not threatening me. She's simply waiting, as if she already knows what I'll decide.

"Get some natural rest," she says finally, turning toward the door. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

And just like that, she walks away, her footsteps fading as she crosses the PACU. At the doorway, she pauses to turn out the main lights, leaving only the dim glow of the single patient monitor and the emergency exit signs. Then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

I sit there on the edge of the bed. She left me alone. Unrestrained. With a clear path to escape. I think through it all again. I could pull out the IV, find my clothes, and be gone before she returns. I could report her, or I could simply say nothing. She’s surely cleaned up all the evidence already. I could just leave.

Instead, I find myself thinking about what she said earlier in the OR. About how we’re similar. My fascination with experiencing anesthesia, her desire to administer it. Two pieces of a disturbing puzzle that somehow fit together perfectly.

I groan. My body is sore, and my head pounds. I'm exhausted from fighting and from the drugs still circulating in my system. My thoughts aren't entirely clear. At least, that's what I tell myself as I swing my legs back onto the bed and lie down again.

I'm just too tired to make any decisions tonight. I'll think more clearly in the morning. Then I'll decide then what to do. In the morning.

I roll onto my side, adjusting the thin PACU pillow under my head. Despite everything, despite the danger and the fear and whatever else I’m feeling from my complex new connection, I feel myself drifting back toward sleep. And somewhere beneath the exhaustion and confusion, a small part of me knows that by putting the choice off, I’m making the choice.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

I close my eyes and shut down again, back to dreamland.