#anyways throw the whole project away

[bandofchimeras]

oh my god i wish i could hire someone to make me complete projects and be an agent and like, actually do something with my art bc on my own i just sit here like a lump bc 'what's the point i will lose interest and never finish it or develop my skills anyways' its a v frustrating part of executive dysfunction

[neverthebabysitter]

Steve and Eddie being chaotic childhood friends, gaslighting everyone they know.

It started when one of their teachers wanted the students to make pairs with someone they didn't know or get along with; therefore, friends couldn't make the project together.

Of course, Eddie wouldn't pass the opportunity to be dramatic and annoy a little bit the teacher, acting like it was the worst thing to ever happened to him and throwing himself on Steve's desk, making the other roll his eyes in a fond way.

It was the beginning of the year, but in small towns most of the kids knew each other since before, so it wasn't that weird of a request; but the teacher was also new, so they didn't know the relationships of the kids very well.

That's why when a small kid with a rebel vibe, starting to grow his hair and going to a more dark look, annoys them and says it would be a nightmare to do the project with a preppy kid, clearly rich boy vibes and in his way to be popular, they knew who they were putting the kid with.

The teacher smirked, thinking they did well; meanwhile, Steve and Eddie were trying not to grin and communicating with their eyes to not messed up and go along with it.

They ended up having to act like they hate each other in front of the teacher so they could carry on with the project, but what about the rest of the class who knew they were friends?

They follow along.

Maybe it's to gain Steve's favor, maybe they thought it was funny, or maybe they thought it was about damn time they stopped being friends, that it was a good way to finally separate them and make Steve fully part of the jocks and Eddie less intimidating for the rest of the outcast.

Anyway, the whole class goes along with it, and Steve and Eddie, like the dorks and drama queens they are, decided it's a funny bit to keep.

At some point they were too deep into it, having to act for the rest of the year like that because of the project and somehow convincing the whole school. Their friends to enemies story becoming popular knowledge.

Steve and Eddie now just think it's too funny to stop, so they continue to gaslight everyone.

Eddie? Steve? No, thanks; I hate that guy.

Anyway, they going to high school, and the whole mess with the upside down happens. At that moment, Steve is so happy to being able to keep Eddie away from it.

I just love a clueless Eddie trying to figure out what's happening to his (finally) boyfriend at the same time the Party is clueless about the relationship between their dungeon Master and their babysitter.

—

+Extra (imagine them being famous in the future)

[seat-safety-switch]

My neighbour had had one of those roll-away dumpsters on his lawn for awhile. In case you're unfamiliar, people often have a lot of trash generated from home renovation projects. They do not want to drive to the dump constantly to throw this stuff out. Instead, you can call someone who comes and drops a dumpster on your driveway, and then when it's full, you can call them again to get it picked up and taken to the dump. The very icon itself of suburban make-it-someone-else's-problemism.

People get really mad when you throw garbage into a dumpster that you didn't pay for. For instance, the local Tim Hortons has put up threatening signs falsely claiming that they have security cameras pointing at the bins at all times. This might be because I once disposed of an entire Subaru EJ25 engine and slightly dented 4-speed automatic transmission, along with most of its fluid, into their dumpster. If you ask me, this is just whining, because that stuff was all made out of aluminum and shouldn't have counted too far on their weight limit anyway.

And yet, I don't want to drive to the dump. Partially, this is because of the exorbitant dump fees: in an attempt at "greening," or more likely to not have so many dumbasses coming to throw out a single tire, they charge a minimum of thirty bucks to throw out anything under a hundred kilos of crap.

Thirty bucks! I can buy a lot of cool junk for that. And they don't even let you take old bicycles out of the garbage pile for that money to try and recoup your cost. Once, I saw a dirt bike, and they wouldn't let me take it. It became a whole thing, which is the main reason I can't go to the dump anymore: they have my picture posted everywhere. So borrowing my neighbour's dumpster is the next best thing.

Here's the tactic you want to use: watch the bin for a few weeks. Check what days there's a lot of stuff being thrown out. These things naturally ebb and flow. There will be an initial burst of enthusiasm as they rip their kitchen to bits, being replaced with a crushing realization that they have ripped their kitchen to bits. It's during that lull that you throw your shit into the dumpster, and cover it up with construction debris from the previous effort. Demoralized, the homeowner won't look in their bin for at least another week, until they are forced to finish the job or hire someone competent to do so, who will start refilling the bin again.

Or, you can do what I did, which is wait for the truck that picks up the dumpster to show up. While the operator is busy loading it up, you throw your stuff into the bin and drive away as fast as you can. The neighbour can't get mad, because the pickup's already been paid for: you're just extracting some extra value from it. The driver can't chase you, because he has a dumpster full of your old shocks and axles halfway loaded onto his truck. And the cops can't get you for illegal dumping, because it sounds like a whole bunch of paperwork and to be honest they're probably too busy arresting folks who start a fistfight at the dump over a pretty sweet dirt bike.

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DREAMY VACATION

Summary: You've been sent on vacation to take a break from saving the world, but there's no hiding from your emotions that will eventually take over.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, Sentry awakening (just for a second), erection, breast play, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hickeys

A/n: Hii! So uhm this is LONG AS FUCK, like a literal novel so I am warning you. Anyways I wanted to thank you for 1k followers?! How?! You have no idea how much this means to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you and I will try my best to improve my writing. Hopefully you will like my future projects as much as you've liked the ones I have done so far. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts had been deployed to Spain on what was supposed to be a critical mission. The briefing was vague but urgent, something about a potential global threat developing near the coast.

On the plane to Alicante, you sat down next to Bob. He looked tense. Really tense. He was gripping the armrest like it might fly off on its own. His face was pale, and his shoulders stiff as stone.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging him with your elbow as you got settled. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He blinked, clearly trying not to throw up, and then murmured, “Um… do you maybe wanna sit by the window instead?” He didn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead like a man facing death.

Without missing a beat, you nodded. “Sure. Come on.”

You stood up and let him shuffle over into your seat. The second he sat down, he let out a deep belch, followed by a hoarse, “Oh God…”

You were already leaning closer, scanning his face with concern. “You good?”

Your hand found his knee, giving it a comforting rub. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands now gripping the tray table for dear life.

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “I’m okay. Just… hate flying.”

You offered a soft smile and stayed close. “I’ll be right here the whole time, okay? Just breathe.”

He nodded again, and despite how miserable he looked, his posture softened slightly, just enough to tell you that your presence was doing what your words couldn’t.

“I’ll go get some water and a bag, just in case,” you told him gently, already sliding out of your seat. Bob gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut, lips tight as if even opening them would invite disaster. You made your way down the aisle, stopping a flight attendant with a polite smile and a quick explanation.

She gave you a knowing look. “Nervous flyer?”

“Something like that,” you chuckled.

A minute later, you returned to your row, holding a small bottle of water and one of those crinkly, shame-colored paper bags. Bob looked slightly less pale than before—his hands weren’t as white-knuckled on the armrests, and his breathing had calmed a little. But he still had that I-might-hurl-any-second look going on.

“Here,” you said, sitting back down and offering both the water and the bag. “Just in case. Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours.”

The moment the word “hours” left your mouth, Bob visibly tensed. He choked on his own spit and shot you a wide-eyed stare like you’d just told him he’d have to wrestle an alligator.

You raised your hands defensively. “Okay, wrong choice of words—ignore me.”

Before either of you could say more, the engines began to roar and the plane started rolling forward. Bob immediately slumped into his seat like a melting popsicle, shut his mouth and eyes, and gripped the tray table as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this dimension.

You couldn’t help a soft smile. He looked a bit ridiculous and miserable at the same time.

“This is the worst part,” you said soothingly, glancing out the window as the runway sped beneath you. “It gets better after takeoff.”

As the plane began to lift from the ground, your heart fluttered with excitement. A new mission in Europe. A whole new landscape, new memories. Even if you weren’t saving the world, part of you loved the thrill of the unknown.

You inhaled deeply, a soft smile on your lips… until you felt a touch.

You turned your head just in time to see Bob—eyes still closed, jaw clenched—reach out blindly and grab your hand in his. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at you. He just held on. Tightly.

You looked down at your interlaced fingers. He was basically crushing your hand, but you didn’t pull away. If this helped him even a little, you weren’t going anywhere.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in quiet reassurance. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But something in the weight of his grip, the vulnerability of that small action, felt more genuine than a thousand words.

Sure, your hand might be useless for the next few hours, but somehow that didn’t matter. It was Bob. That’s what made it okay.

The flight dragged on peacefully, and at some point, exhaustion won.

By the time the pilot announced the descent, both you and Bob were fast asleep. The flight attendant’s gentle voice over the intercom was what stirred you.

“Excuse me—we’ll be landing shortly.”

You blinked groggily, and as your senses slowly returned, you realized that you and Bob were still holding hands. The entire flight. Neither of you had let go, not even in your sleep.

You turned your head at the same time he did, both of you blinking at each other in a dazed, half-dream state. Then you both released your grips at once, slowly, carefully.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Bob straightened his seat and adjusted his hoodie like he could hide in it.

“…Feeling better?” you asked softly, keeping your voice low enough so only he could hear. He nodded, and for the first time that day, smiled at you—not the nervous, half-broken kind, but something real.

“Y-Yeah. Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere.

You smiled back before you even realized it, heart tugging in that dangerous, stupid way it did whenever he looked at you like that.

Sometimes you wondered if Bob Reynolds was even real. Maybe he was a highly advanced hologram, or worse, a social experiment where you were the test subject. Because if he was a trap, a trick, or an illusion… well, you’d already fallen in pretty deep.

The moment you landed at the airport in a sunny seaside city called Alicante, your adrenaline was high, ready to face whatever was waiting for you.

But instead of military vehicles or local agents waiting on the tarmac, there was a giant banner reading “SURPRISE!” flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. An agent, smiling way too much for someone who usually briefed on extinction-level events, greeted you all with the bombshell: “There is no mission. You’re here on vacation for one full week. Fully paid. Mandatory.”

Everyone had a different reaction. Some of the team burst out laughing. A few gave each other looks of disbelief. Alexei screamed, “HELL YES, BEACH TIME!” and fist-pumped the air. Yelena already had sunglasses on. But not everyone was thrilled.

Bucky Barnes, for one, looked like someone had just kicked his dog. Twice. He crossed his arms and muttered, “This is ridiculous. I don’t do beaches.”

“Well, now you do,” said Ava with a smirk. “Welcome to bonding camp, grumpy.”

You were all told this wasn’t just a vacation, it was a “team-building retreat.” You were going to be forced to relax together, apparently to grow stronger as a unit. And no one was allowed to bail.

Despite the chaos of your missions and all the tension in the beginning, over the past few months of cohabitating in Stark Tower, you’d all grown… closer. There were still arguments, sure—someone was always stealing snacks, using someone else’s mug, or playing music too loud at 3AM—but you knew each other now. Knew who liked what, who needed quiet mornings, who hogged the bathroom, and who cried during certain movie scenes (spoiler: it’s more of them than you expected).

But the bond between you and Bob Reynolds stood out most.

Everyone saw it. From the moment you helped rescue him, you’d never left his side. You were the first to check if he was injured, the first to speak to him like a human being and not a walking nuclear reactor. You made sure he was okay. Like some stray dog the world had tossed aside—and you just quietly decided he was yours now.

And the team followed your lead. Despite what he’d done, despite nearly destroying the world and ripping open old wounds in everyone’s psyche, they welcomed him with open arms. Because you did.

“Vacation?” Bob raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused.

“Yup,” John said with a grin, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s when you don’t do anything and it’s totally fine. You should try it sometime.”

Bob didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked suspicious of the concept. His whole life had been built around duty, damage control, and trying not to explode. The idea of just… existing with no expectations felt foreign. Maybe even dangerous.

“Alright folks, let’s move out,” Yelena called, hoisting her bag over her shoulder with that bossy tone everyone obeyed without question. She might’ve shared the leadership role with Bucky, but she had the charisma of someone who got things done.

Like a herd of reluctant high schoolers on a mandatory field trip, the team followed—grumbling, joking, dragging their feet, but moving.

The drive wasn’t long.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to your destination within the hour. A row of elegant, private beach cottages spread out before you, nestled in a secluded cove just outside Alicante.

The sand was pale gold, soft as powdered sugar, stretching out toward the turquoise horizon. The sea shimmered beneath the sunlight, waves gentle and lazy. Palm trees lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling with every breeze, casting just enough shade to make the heat feel like a pleasant hug instead of a punishment.

The place felt untouched. Quiet.

Not exactly deserted—but exclusive. You could see why no ordinary tourists were lounging here. It wasn’t just the off-hour, it was the price. This was the kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and billionaires. For people who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed the world to shut up for five minutes.

For the first time, you felt the weight of silence around the team. Not the awkward kind—just a collective breath being held, like everyone was realizing at once how damn beautiful it was here.

The agent who’d escorted you out of the airport handed over two keycards with a charming smile. “One cabin for four men, and one for three ladies,” he said, giving them to Bucky and Yelena respectively.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, he was gone, limousine and all, leaving you standing under the cloudless sky, surrounded by the scent of salt and coconut sunscreen.

You glanced around, soaking it all in. Then your gaze shifted to Bob. He was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he flinched and immediately turned his head, pretending to be very interested in a nearby bush.

You snorted quietly to yourself, lips twitching with amusement.

“This one’s ours, I guess,” Yelena said, pointing toward the cottage just a few steps away. Even from a distance, the place looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Creamy-white walls, light wooden trim, huge windows, and a little porch with hanging hammocks swaying lazily in the breeze. A dream come true.

You, Yelena and Ava made your way over with your bags. Yelena slid the keycard, and the door clicked open. The inside was even more stunning.

It was like stepping into a Pinterest board. The walls were painted in soft seafoam greens and sun-washed whites. Rattan furniture, pastel cushions, and airy curtains gave the space a coastal, boho vibe. There was a faint scent of lavender and driftwood in the air—relaxing, expensive, comforting.

Sunlight poured through the huge windows, illuminating a common area with plush couches, a breakfast bar stocked with fruits and snacks, and wide glass doors that opened directly onto the beach. You could hear the waves as if the ocean was whispering, You’re safe here.

“Holy shit,” Ava breathed out, spinning in a slow circle like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t CGI. “This is nicer than my actual apartment.”

Yelena dropped her bag on the nearest bed with a satisfied smirk. “This is acceptable.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A real, easy smile, the kind that felt rare lately. Everything about this place felt… right and peaceful.

And as you peeked out the back window and saw the boys dragging their bags toward their own cottage, you knew this week was going to be something different. Maybe even healing.

A few hours had passed since you arrived. You’d unpacked, showered, explored the fridge, which was magically stocked with mouthwatering, chef-level food, and finally settled into that post-travel stillness.

The late afternoon sun blanketed everything in golden light as you lounged on the front veranda of your cottage. Yelena had claimed the hammock and was swinging gently, sunglasses on, arms behind her head, looking like a war-hardened goddess pretending to be chill.

You and Ava had claimed two of the hanging lounge chairs, gently swaying as you soaked in the sun. Both of you had sunglasses perched on your noses, and the soft breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.

“What are we even supposed to do here?” Ava asked, not bothering to open her eyes. Her voice was lazy, relaxed, a perfect match for the quiet waves in the distance.

It was a simple question. One you should’ve been able to answer. But you paused. Because… you honestly didn’t know.

Before you could respond with something vague, Yelena chimed in with a deadpan comment that made both you and Ava snort with laughter. It was something about team bonding meaning “not-murdering each other in close quarters,” and that this counted.

Then you added, perfectly flat, “I didn’t even bring a swimsuit.”

Ava blinked, then looked over at you. “Wait, me neither.”

“Didn’t expect this,” you muttered. “Was packing for death, not tanning.”

Yelena groaned. “Okay great. Let’s go buy swimsuits now. Or we’ll end up stuck here melting like idiots on a porch for the rest of the week.”

She was right, so without much debate, the three of you grabbed your canvas totes, wallets, and phones. None of you were wearing anything particularly beach-shopping-appropriate, but it didn’t matter. The streets near the coast would be casual, laid-back—just like the air already felt.

Of course, this wasn’t just a swimsuit run.

You were three women, unsupervised, in a beach town, surrounded by potential sales racks, accessory stands, cafés, and tourist traps. There was no way you were only coming back with swimwear.

As you walked past the guys’ cabin, Yelena suddenly veered off toward the door.

“I’m gonna see if any of the boys want to come with us,” she said casually.

You and Ava paused, hanging back by the path and watching her disappear into the house. After a beat of silence, Ava tilted her head toward you, voice sly behind her shades.

“So… are you two dating?”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shifted her sunglasses down her nose just enough to raise her brows. “You and Bob.”

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth dropped into a dramatic, perfect “O.”

“What— no, pffft, no! We’re just… friends. Like you and me.”

Ava laughed softly, but her gaze stayed locked on you, way too perceptive for your comfort.

“Then why don’t you look at me the way you look at him?”

The question hit harder than expected. You froze. Your heart did that thing where it picked up speed, like it was trying to run away before your brain could even catch up.

You opened your mouth to respond—but didn’t get the chance. Yelena reappeared, walking toward you like she owned the world, flanked by Johnny and Alexei, who looked far too amused to be joining a swimsuit shopping trip.

“They’re coming,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently the boys need suits too. And they want to pick out something ridiculous for Bucky.” That got a laugh out of all of you.

You glanced past them, half-hoping Bob would be in the group.

He wasn’t.

A tiny sting settled in your chest—nothing sharp, just that quiet flicker of disappointment. Maybe he needed rest. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out. Maybe… you were overthinking again.

You shook the thought away and caught up with the group, quickly weaving yourself into the casual chatter about the town, the ocean, and just how absurdly gorgeous these beach houses were.

Still… you couldn’t help but glance back, just once, at the boys’ cabin. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn’t. But part of you hoped he’d noticed you were gone.

The shop you found wasn’t some cheap tourist trap. It was small, chic, and clearly catered to high-end beachgoers with taste. White walls, light wood floors, soft acoustic music playing in the background, and racks of curated swimsuits arranged by style, not size. It even smelled nice, like sunscreen and coconuts and fresh linen.

You, Yelena, and Ava wandered through the racks like hunters in the wild, each with your own goal. Ava leaned toward white or black prints. Yelena made a beeline for anything tactical-looking or black. You? You didn’t know what you were looking for, until you saw it.

A white two-piece bikini, delicate but bold.

The top had thin, adjustable straps and a soft triangle cut that showed just enough while still keeping you comfortable. The fabric was smooth, almost pearly under the light, and hugged your shape in a way that felt way too flattering. The bottoms were high-cut at the hips, elongating your legs, and dipped just enough in the front to make you feel sexy.

You held it up, biting your lip.

The fitting rooms were individual little cabins with thick curtains and full mirrors, and for a moment, you just stood inside yours, staring at yourself.

The bikini really did fit, almost suspiciously well. The white stood out against your skin like it was made for you. It hugged your waist, shaped your chest, gave just enough curve to make you hesitate. You adjusted the straps, turned sideways, checked again.

You weren’t sure if you felt powerful or exposed.

Still undecided, you pulled the curtain back and stepped out barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Yelena was standing just outside, holding a one-piece camo-pattern swimsuit that looked like it belonged in some military-themed Sports Illustrated shoot.

When she turned to look at you, her face froze for a second. And then she blinked. Twice.

“Oh my god,” she said loudly. “Bob’s going to get an erection so hard he’s gonna pass out.”

You stared at her, completely stunned. “Yelena!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s true. That bikini is illegal. You look like someone who knows how hot she is.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. That loud, shocked kind of laugh that felt like it echoed off your ribs.

“I’m not getting it just because of Bob!” you protested.

“Sure. Of course,” Yelena said, already turning to hang her swimsuit back on a rack. “You’re getting it because of you. Which happens to be the same you that wants Bob to think about you every time he blinks.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because maybe she wasn’t totally wrong.

You looked back at yourself in the big mirror. Your fingers lightly touched the strap on your hip. Yeah, part of you wanted Bob to notice. And part of you was absolutely terrified he would.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

The walk back from town was filled with laughter and light teasing. John and Alexei were leading the way, both proudly swinging shopping bags, one of which contained a ridiculous pair of swim trunks Alexei had picked for Bucky, covered in pineapples and flamingos, while Bob’s were thankfully simple and classic.

You held a bag in one hand and kept your eyes on your feet, but no matter what, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from drifting.

What’s Bob gonna do when he sees you in this bikini?

You hadn’t meant to obsess over it. The idea had just settled in your mind. Naturally. Like it belonged there. And now it was stuck. Even as Ava was telling a story about how she accidentally bought three identical sarongs, your mind wandered right back to Bob.

The moment you and Ava set the bags down on the porch with a thud, Yelena clapped her hands like a general calling her troops.

“Alright, troops! Try on your swimsuits, we’re playing beach volleyball in ten!”

You exchanged an amused glance with Ava. You were all tired, even Yelena was complaining on the way back how well she'll be sleeping. Guess that thought was gone now.

Still, the energy in the air was contagious and none of you had the heart to say no, so Yelena texted the guys while the rest of you headed to change.

When you stepped outside, the sun was warm on your skin and the sound of the ocean made everything feel like a dream. Bucky and Alexei were already out there, stretching and tying up the net between two poles. John stood nearby, casually tossing the volleyball between his hands.

But Bob wasn’t there.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could spiral, Ava appeared behind you and gave you a sharp slap on the butt.

“Relax, your loverboy probably just got distracted picking the perfect outfit,” she teased.

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but your heart was beating just a little faster. You walked over to the group, the sand soft under your feet.

Bucky noticed you first. His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have, but he kept his expression locked down – soldier mode. Alexei, on the other hand, had zero filters.

“WOW, GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted across the beach. “YOU LOOK LIKE A GODDESS! AND YOU TOO! AND YOU TOO!!”

He even stumbled into the net and collapsed dramatically, like your beauty had physically floored him. All of you burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, but sweet.

Walker stood back, saying nothing, just calmly observing like always, the ball still rotating between his palms.

“Let me help you with this,” you offered, moving to Bucky’s side and helping him secure the net to the post. You worked silently for a moment until he glanced at you and said, in his typical stern voice: “You look good.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

Then, behind you, you heard the soft click of the cabin door opening. Your head instantly turned.

Bob stepped out. He wore a plain green T-shirt and simple black swim shorts. His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and the second his eyes landed on you, he froze.

You gave him a small, friendly wave.

He just stood there. His brows twitched. His jaw tensed. Then, as if his legs had remembered how to move, he took a step forward and tripped a little in the sand. Your heart did a backflip.

“See?” Yelena appeared beside you, slapping your shoulder. “Told you he’d be wrecked when he saw you.”

You laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief, and shook your head. “Shut up.”

“Alright, LET’S GOOO!” Alexei yelled, clapping loudly before peeling off his shirt in one dramatic motion. The dude was built like a Greek statue.

Then Bucky followed suit, revealing defined abs and a torso clearly sculpted through years of combat training. All of you fell into stunned silence for a moment.

Even Walker, who hadn’t said a word, took off his shirt and casually joined the group. His body was lean, defined, quiet strength. Bob arrived near the group, awkwardly raising a hand.

“Hey,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. All eyes slowly turned to him waiting. Expectant.

He looked around nervously. “What? Did I—?”

And then he realized. He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at the group.

“Oh! Uh… I think I’ll keep the shirt on. I’m kinda cold,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked. Cold? You didn’t believe him for a second, and you were pretty sure no one else did either. Still, no one pushed him. It was Bob. If he needed to keep his shirt on, he could.

Yelena turned to split the teams. “Alright, someone from the guys can join us, but anyone except Ale—”

“GOING WITH MY GORGEOUS LADIES!” Alexei yelled, cutting her off and dashing over to your side like a golden retriever on espresso.

Yelena let out the longest, most defeated sigh and rubbed her temples.

Teams were decided, and as fate would have it, you and Bob ended up on opposing sides. The game was lighthearted at first, filled with laughter and playful banter. But then John raised the stakes.

“How about this? Winning team gets treated to a round of rum by the losers!”

A collective cheer erupted, and the game intensified. The air buzzed with laughter, the sounds of sneakers shuffling and palms slapping against the volleyball echoing across the beach.

You were focused, at least, you were trying to be. But every time your eyes met Bob’s across the court, something fluttered in your chest. It wasn’t just the look he gave you, it was everything about him.

The way his green shirt clung to his chest, damp from sweat, outlining the gentle definition of his torso; the way his dark hair was slightly tousled, sticking to his forehead; the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And he was looking.

Almost every single time you looked over at him, his eyes were already on you. And every single time, without fail, he’d catch himself and look away. Fast. Like a startled animal. His Adam’s apple would bob slightly as he swallowed hard, clearly rattled by something—by you, maybe.

But then came the moment he didn’t look away.

You looked across the net, searching for Bob again, and there he was, watching you. He didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t look down or pretend to scratch his face. He stared. And you, feeling just a little bold, gave him a playful wink.

That did it.

Even from across the sand, you saw the way his face lit up red. Not just a hint of blush, but full-on, ear-to-ear crimson. His lips curved upward in a tiny, embarrassed smile—so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

And of course you were watching. The next serve came. Fast. Too fast. You turned just a moment too late, the ball whizzing past your shoulder and hitting the sand behind you.

Point lost.

Your teammates groaned in playful frustration, and you raised your hand apologetically. “My bad,” you laughed, even though inside, your stomach was doing backflips. Bob was still watching. Except now, he looked like he was having a different kind of crisis.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt nervously. His jaw clenched. His chest was visibly rising and falling faster than it should. His arms were tense. His fingers curled into fist, his knuckles white. His eyes were definitely not on the ball.

They were on you.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and bent slightly forward. “Uh—sorry! I just need a… quick break!” he blurted out, turning so fast he almost tripped on his own foot. Without another word, he jogged off the court and toward the cabins, his shirt bunched up slightly at the back and clinging tighter at the front than before.

Everyone kind of paused.

“Everything alright?” John called after him, spinning the ball on his finger.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good!” Bob replied quickly, too quickly, his voice cracking slightly as he disappeared around the corner.

The group exchanged glances, some shrugged, some laughed. Yelena rolled her eyes. “He probably has bad stamina.”

But your heart dropped just a bit. Something felt off. You didn’t even think, you tossed the ball aside, murmured a quick, “I’ll go check on him,” and broke into a quick jog, sand kicking up around your ankles as you made your way toward the cabins.

Bob barely made it into the room before slamming the door shut behind him, chest heaving, face flushed and mind spinning. He pressed his back to the wood as if trying to barricade himself from the outside world, from you. His breathing was erratic. He glanced down.

“Oh no no no…”

The situation in his swim trunks was unignorable. His erection was pushing painfully against the fabric, a direct result of the way you looked—sweaty, flushed from the game, laughing with your hair a mess, skin kissed by sunlight. The way your bikini hugged your curves. The way your chest rose and fell when you ran. The way you winked at him.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. This was not supposed to happen.

He tried to steady his breath and think about anything else, but it was useless. All he could think about was you. How close you’d gotten. How dangerous it felt to even have you in the same game, let alone within touching distance.

Then came the knock.

“Bob?” Your voice was gentle, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He froze. Your voice was the last thing he needed right now. It sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His hands curled into fists.

“Yeah! I’m—uh—I’m fine. Just a headache,” he called out quickly, praying you’d leave.

But you didn’t.

“I can come in, I’ll bring you water or—”

“NO!” he shouted. Too loud, too harsh. The silence that followed was gutting. You stood on the other side of the door, frozen in place. “…Bob?”

He could hear it. The confusion in your voice. The hesitation. He hated himself instantly.

“I just—I need to be alone, okay?” His voice was muffled now, pressed into the crook of his elbow as he paced the room. He could feel his heart pounding, his frustration mounting—not just with the situation, but with himself. “Just leave. Please.”

You didn’t speak. He imagined your face, how hurt you probably looked, how your brows might have creased, how your mouth might’ve opened to argue before you stopped yourself.

Then… footsteps. Soft. Fading. Gone.

He felt the loss immediately. Like something had been torn out of him. He let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, too late. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell.”

No answer.

“Please don’t be mad… I just—I didn’t know what to do, okay? You—you do things to me, and I panicked. Please, come back.” But the hallway was empty and the only response was silence.

As you stepped out of the cabin, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a shaky breath through your nose.

“Hey, is Bob okay?” Ava asked, glancing toward the cabin you’d just exited.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “He just said he had a headache,” you replied, your voice carefully even.

You walked toward the volleyball net and joined the opposite team—the one now short a player with Bob gone. “Let’s keep playing,” you added cheerfully, hoping no one would question it further.

To your surprise, the game was good. Fast-paced. Fun.

Even with the ache in your chest, you gave it your all. Maybe even because of it. Every hit, every run across the sand, every cheer was your way of forcing yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

And in the end, your team won.

Yelena, Ava, and Alexei groaned in dramatic defeat while you, John, and Bucky raised your arms in victory. “Winners get the drinks!” Walker grinned.

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “But we’re picking the place.”

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a soft golden glow over the beach. The heat lingered though, a warm comfort against your skin. Everyone decided to freshen up a bit before heading out, and you slipped into something light—a black fishnet-style dress over your swimsuit, barely-there but airy enough to keep cool.

The girls whistled playfully at you as you walked out, and you returned their teasing with a twirl and a wink. But your heart still felt heavy.

The bar you ended up in was cozy, loud with laughter, music humming low in the background. The lights were warm and soft, casting shadows across everyone’s faces. You weren’t drunk—just a little lightheaded from the rum, the kind that made your thoughts buzz and your limbs a bit too loose.

Yelena stuck by your side most of the evening. She laughed with you, poked fun at Walker, and even made a show of challenging Alexei to a drinking contest. But at one point, she leaned in, her gaze a little too knowing.

“You’re smiling,” she said gently, “but your eyes are somewhere else.” You blinked and looked away, sipping from your drink.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

Yelena sighed and gave you a long look. “I’m gonna go talk to Ava for a bit, okay? You good here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I need some time alone anyway.” She gave your hand a light squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

You sat in silence for a while, swirling your drink, the taste of sugar and burn lingering on your tongue. Your gaze drifted around the room, but you weren’t really seeing anyone. The voices blended together. The laughter felt far away. Until one voice didn’t.

“Hey…”

You froze. Slowly, your eyes shifted to the side.

Bob.

He stood just beside you, looking awkward, guilty, and entirely out of place. His hair was a little messy, his green shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been sitting in one place too long before deciding to come. His voice was soft. Tentative.

“…Can I sit?”

You just nodded faintly and let out a small, wordless hum of agreement.

He took the seat next to you, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he really had the right to be there. You could feel his nervous energy radiating off him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. His leg bounced subtly beneath the bar. It was obvious he’d been overthinking every second since earlier.

There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice strained but sincere. “About before. I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, sighed. “I panicked. That’s all. I didn’t want to shout at you like that. I don’t even know why I did. I just… freaked out.”

You were still leaning against the bar, your head tilted slightly sideways, cheek resting on your folded arm. With your other hand, you absently played with the rim of your empty glass, turning it slowly between your fingers. You didn’t look at him, but your shoulders rose in a small shrug. It wasn’t cold—it just said I hear you. But I’m still processing.

He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated with himself, then tried again.

“I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Can I… can I buy you another drink? Something strong, maybe? Vodka?”

That finally got a soft sound out of you—a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. You sat up properly, brushing your hair back and meeting his eyes, just briefly.

“No thanks,” you murmured. “I don’t wanna get drunk.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

The quiet between you stretched again, but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now. Just… tentative. Cautious. Slowly, your expression softened, even though the sadness still lingered. You could see how hard he was trying—how guilty he looked, how much he regretted that brief flash of temper. And even if it still hurt, you knew it hadn’t come from a place of cruelty. Just fear.

You sighed gently, then gave him a tiny nod. “It’s okay,” you said at last. “I get it.”

His eyes flicked up to you in relief, and he nodded eagerly. A beat passed before you tilted your head slightly. “Are you having anything?”

He blinked. “Uh… no. Acohol— I don’t really— It doesn’t go well with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a little shyly. “I’m not exactly the fun drunk type. More like the ‘embarrass myself and then cry about it later’ type.”

That finally earned a genuine smile from you. A small, honest one. “Alright,” you said.

“What if we uh…drink something sweet? Like juice?” Bob suggested cautiously and you nodded with a hum.

Bob grinned sheepishly and waved at the bartender, ordering two fruity, alcohol-free drinks. When he slid yours toward you and caught the way you looked at him, smile soft, eyes warm, his ears turned a little pink. You raised your glass and clinked it gently against his.

As the conversation carried on, whatever tension had existed between the two of you earlier slowly dissolved, like mist in the morning sun. You laughed together, genuine, unguarded laughter, and it felt easy again. Comfortable.

Before long, you completely forgot why you’d been upset in the first place. Bob was being his awkward, charming self, and it was disarming in the best way. He made a silly comment about the drink being too fruity for a “manly guy like him,” and you rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh. You teased him back, and time began to slip by, unnoticed and unchecked.

Eventually, Bucky appeared at the entrance of the bar, a little sweaty, clearly ready to call it a night. “We’re heading out,” he called over the soft hum of music and clinking glasses. “You two coming?”

You glanced at Bob and then shook your head with a smile. “We’ll stay a little longer.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow knowingly, gave a short wave, and disappeared with the rest of the group. That “little longer” quickly became several hours. The sky outside deepened into full night, the noise of the bar gradually quieted as the crowd thinned out, and you and Bob were still there, talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the moment, gentle but firm. The bartender leaned over and said something in Spanish, “Cerramos.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out a soft gasp. “Oh! They're closing.” You jumped off the barstool with a flurry of movement, grabbing your things quickly and tossing an apologetic smile toward the bartender. You replied: “Lo siento!” then turned to Bob.

He was still sitting there, watching you with a puzzled look on his face. Then he glanced at the bartender, and back to you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked, a bit of awe in his voice.

You laughed and shook your head. “Nooo,” you admitted, grinning. “But it’s not that hard to guess what he said.”

Bob smiled as the realization hit him. “Right… yeah. That makes sense.” He stood up, stretching a little, and pulled a few bills from his wallet to leave on the counter for the drinks. Together, the two of you stepped out into the warm night.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of saltwater and distant blossoms. The sky was a canvas of stars, crisp and clear, glittering like tiny diamonds. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver glow over the beach. The waves rolled in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, their gentle crash against the shore creating a peaceful, natural soundtrack that filled the quiet spaces between your laughter.

You walked side by side along the sand, your bare feet leaving prints behind you that the tide would soon claim. Every so often you’d bump shoulders slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, and Bob would smile that sweet, crooked smile of his. Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the breeze around you.

Then, your tone shifted—just a little softer, more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Bob glanced over at you and gave a small nod, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Why didn’t you take off your shirt?” you asked gently. “Back when we played volleyball?”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His fingers tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, and he avoided your gaze.

“I guess I’m just… not that confident. About my body, I mean.”

He let out a soft, nervous snort through his lips, something between a sigh and the sound horses make when they’re annoyed, and looked down at the sand as if it had the answers.

He paused, then looked up at you, his eyes full of something vulnerable, raw, and honest. “But I’ll get there. One day.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Just… not yet.”

You nodded slowly, not saying anything at first. You looked down, watching the way your feet pressed into the sand, how your steps left soft imprints that trailed behind. You understood. Completely. And more importantly, you respected it.

Your silence wasn’t judgment, it was empathy. And as the two of you walked on, bathed in moonlight and ocean air, it was clear that even unspoken things had a way of being heard between you.

Bob walked you back to your cabin, the two of you moving a little slower than before, as if neither of you truly wanted the night to end. When you reached the steps, there was that moment, an awkward little giggle shared between you as your eyes both dropped to the ground, trying to avoid the tension hanging in the air. But it was there, unspoken and electric. You felt it in your chest, and judging by the way Bob was fiddling with his fingers and nervously rocking on his heels, he did too.

Maybe it was the rum still lingering in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of confidence bubbling up from the hours of honest conversation and gentle laughter. Either way, you found yourself standing a little taller, just bold enough to speak your mind.

“I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice soft but sure, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him. Bob lifted his gaze, eyes wide with something between surprise and fragile hope, like a puppy waiting to be told it’s a good boy.

“I think you have a beautiful body,” you added gently.

The moment the words landed, his eyes locked with yours, and the connection was intense. Warm. Heavy. It hung in the air between you like a string pulled tight.

You could see it in his face that he felt it too. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then his nervousness took over again. He let out a small, breathy laugh, looked to the side, and scratched the back of his head. His cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red, and his voice came out unsure and stammered.

“You too… you have a nice body. Not like—in a creepy way or anything! Just, uh… like, you know…”

He was tangling himself in his own compliment, flailing to land it gracefully, and it made your heart melt just a little more. Smiling softly, you lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture, giving a single nod with a calming expression.

“I get it,” you assured him gently. “Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face, and both of you started to laugh again, this time more naturally, more connected. The night felt sweet, even a little magical. You didn’t want to go inside. You didn’t want this to be the part where he left, where things faded into goodnights and what-ifs.

Something in you, maybe the remnants of courage, maybe the warmth still blooming from that last drink, refused to let him go. So, you decided to take a risk. A brave one.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words came out direct, sincere, without apology or hesitation. They hit Bob like a thunderclap. His eyes went wide and fractured with shock. You could see his heart stop and start again just by the way his chest moved. Goosebumps appeared along his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his entire face flushed deeper than ever before.

“I-I… I mean—I… um,” he stumbled, blinking rapidly, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t push, but you did move closer, stepping into the space between you, your hands slowly, carefully, rising to his chest. You placed them there gently, barely a touch, more of a whisper than a grip, and you could feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingertips, pounding like a wild drum. The moment you touched him, he froze. His whole body stiffened, eyes locked on you, his lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

You tilted your head up, catching his gaze with a bold, flirtatious glint in your eye. Then you bit your lip, slowly and deliberately, giving him that look—the kind that stripped away all doubt.

“May I?” you whispered again, your voice lower, breathier, your fingertips brushing against his shirt as your palms moved slightly over his chest.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling through his lips, and after a second that felt like forever, he nodded—quickly, wordlessly, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

A sly, satisfied smile crept onto your face at his permission. You rose onto your toes as he instinctively leaned down to meet you halfway. And when your lips finally met his, it was as though the world simply fell away.

The background noise, the wind, the waves, the sound of cicadas, melted into silence. There was only warmth, only him.

His lips were soft, tinged with sweetness from the drinks you’d shared, and you felt a wave of heat roll through your body.

At first, he kissed you carefully, cautiously, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was real. But the moment you leaned in hungrily for another kiss, something shifted in him, he melted into you completely.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him in closer, anchoring him to you. He responded instinctively, his hands finding your waist with gentle hesitance, holding you like you were delicate and precious, like the wrong touch might break the spell. His fingers traced small circles against your back, sliding slightly higher as he began to kiss you deeper, more surely.

And then you started to sigh—soft, involuntary little sounds escaping your lips, muffled between kisses. That was it. That was all it took to make Bob shudder slightly against you, his grip tightening just a little as he buried himself more completely in the moment.

For a man so shy, so careful with his words, his body was now telling you everything you needed to know. Your lips danced together under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies.

The kiss between you and Bob deepened quickly, the heat building with every brush of lips, every inhale that seemed too sharp, too needy.

Bob began to let out these quiet, helpless little moans—soft, desperate sounds that made your heart stutter and your core clench with hunger. His breath was hot, uneven, as if he couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling.

But then, just when things began to slip into something hotter, more dangerous, you pulled away.

Your lips left his with a quiet, breathy pop, and Bob’s eyes fluttered open in confusion, his brows furrowing as you took a small step back. You reached into your bag, rummaging clumsily, fingers searching for your keys. His expression was adorably baffled—eyes wide, lips parted, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

He didn’t even get the chance to ask what you were doing. Before he could speak, you found the keys, turned, and unlocked the door with a soft grunt of effort. The handle resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you curse under your breath. But then it gave way, and without a word, you grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt and yanked him inside with you.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And then you were on him again.

You pushed him up against the wall before he could even blink, your lips crashing onto his like you’d been starved of him for hours instead of minutes. He let out a muffled gasp, taken completely off guard, but your mouth, your touch, the fire burning through you, it overwhelmed him. It shut off whatever part of his brain had been trying to stay grounded.

He melted into you, hands clinging to your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. But you weren’t slowing down.

You pressed your body hard against his, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, pinning him to the wall with a surprising strength, despite your smaller frame. Your kiss was ravenous, unrelenting. Every time his breath hitched, it only drove you more.

But Bob still had some part of him trying to be responsible.

“Wait—wait, what about the others?” he asked, panting between kisses, his voice shaky, his lips still brushing yours. His hands remained at your hips, uncertain but not resisting.

“They’re asleep,” you breathed without hesitation, already leaning in again.

You kissed him hard, and he let out a startled noise in the back of his throat, half protest, half surrender. But just as your hands started trailing lower down his sides, he gently pulled back again, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.

“I-I mean, I—” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, caught in the tug-of-war between nerves and need.

But you were on fire. Every pulse in your body throbbed with want, and the heat between your thighs was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. You leaned in closer, placing a hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. Your eyes locked on his and your voice dropped into something sultry, something that made his breath hitch.

“Do you want me?” you whispered, your words low, teasing, soaked in longing.

Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was frozen, wide-eyed, staring at you like you were made of fire and he couldn’t decide whether to run or let himself burn.

So you stepped in closer. Your bodies were touching now, pressed chest to chest, and your mouth hovered barely a breath from his. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering half-shut, your voice dipping into a softer, flirtier murmur.

“Do you want me, Bob?”

This time he nodded. Hard. His breath caught in his throat, and a deep, shaky sound escaped him. His hands clutched tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish.

Then you gave him the final push—the one that made everything else fall away.

“Do you want me… right now?”

His answer wasn’t words. It was a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest and another frantic nod, his eyes burning with need. That was all the answer you needed. All the answer he could give.

And then your lips were on his again, fiercer this time, hungry and hot, and whatever doubts had been in his head melted away with each breathless kiss.

But the kisses between you and Bob grew messier, deeper, more desperate. There was no longer any hesitation, only raw, breathless need. Soft, pleading moans slipped from both your lips between every frantic brush of your mouths, and each sound only made the other crave more.

Bob’s hands fumbled at your waist, your neck, your hips, trying to be everywhere at once but still so careful. His swim trunks were starting to grow tight again, and the heat in your own body was unbearable. Your swimsuit clung to you, soaked through with arousal, even tho all you had done was kiss.

Stumbling into your room was chaotic, clumsy. Bob bumped into the wall, you tripped on your own feet, giggles and gasps filling the space between frantic kisses. But somehow, with limbs tangled and hearts racing, you made it to your room. You barely managed to shut the door behind you before dragging both of you toward the bed.

With one firm but gentle push, you toppled Bob onto the mattress and let yourself fall with him. You landed on his chest with a bounce, both of you breathless and grinning, and then, before he could even process it, you rolled off and stood quickly. You turned back toward the door, locking it with a soft click. Then, you turned around again and froze for a beat.

Bob was sitting at the edge of your bed, completely still, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His hair was messy from your fingers, his lips red and swollen from your kisses and his eyes were glassy with lust, with longing. His pupils were huge. His face was flushed. And lower down, his erection was unmistakably visible.

You had never felt like this about any man before. Not like this.

You let your purse fall to the floor without a second thought, fingers slipping under the hem of your fishnet dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, you pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

Now, standing there in only your swimsuit, you began to approach him. Slowly, like a predator circling prey. The hunger in your eyes was impossible to miss.

Bob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He watched you the entire time, mouth slightly open, hands resting on the bed like he needed the mattress to ground himself.

You stopped in front of him and brought your hands up to cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again—but this time it was slower. Gentler. A soft, intimate prelude.

His hands found your cheeks too, fingers stroking your skin, and he tried to pull you back down onto him. But you resisted. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Can we… get rid of this?” you asked with a playful smile, tapping a finger against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your finger, then flicked back up to your face. He swallowed hard, clearly nervous.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered, your tone low and teasing. “But how about a deal?”

You licked your lips slowly, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before lifting it back to his eyes.

“If we take this off,” you said, finger still resting on his chest, “then we also take this off…” Your hand drifted up, motioning briefly toward the top of your swimsuit.

That was all it took.

Whatever fear had still lingered in him melted away instantly. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt and, without a single pause, he pulled it over his head in one swift, fluid movement and tossed it aside. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He wanted this. He wanted you. Badly enough to show you a part of himself he’d just admitted he was ashamed of.

But the moment your eyes dropped to his now bare torso… your jaw practically hit the floor.

He was stunning. Broad chest, strong shoulders, abs like something sculpted by a god, toned arms with just the right amount of muscle, exactly how you liked it. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. Not from someone as shy and self-conscious as him.

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed with a mix of disbelief and awe. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Bob sat there, half-nervous, half-burning, unsure how you’d react—until he saw your expression. And even though your reaction was silent, it told him everything. The look on your face said it all.

You knelt down slowly, your eyes still locked onto his body as if mesmerized, and began showering him with a cascade of kisses. They rained down over his skin, his chest, his stomach, his sides, each kiss playful, some lingering, others accompanied by soft, teasing licks or the occasional gentle bite.

It tickled him a little, making him laugh under his breath, his abs tightening instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch your hair, cradle your face, pull you close—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the moment or push too far. So he kept his hands behind him, gripping the mattress like an anchor.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured in between kisses, your lips brushing against his skin with every word. Your hands rested firmly on his thighs, fingers splayed out, grounding yourself as you explored him with both touch and mouth.

“So beautiful,” you repeated, almost breathless with admiration. You couldn’t get enough of him. You kissed every inch of skin you could reach, tasting the warmth of his sun-kissed body, losing yourself in the way he squirmed slightly beneath your lips.

Eventually, the hunger in you built beyond just kisses.

You looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes. He looked dazed, utterly blissed out, but beneath the surface, there was something else. He was waiting. For your part of the deal.

A mischievous smile curled on your lips.

Still on your knees, you slowly straightened up and reached behind your back, fingers deftly untying the knot of your bikini top. With a small motion, you let it slip off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him.

Bob’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes widened and locked on you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands dug into the mattress, and through his swim trunks, you could see the very visible twitch of his hard-on as it reacted to the sight.

He wanted to touch you so badly. You could see it. The craving in his eyes. But he still held back, being a gentleman, respecting your pace, refusing to make a move without permission.

“Wanna touch?” you asked, tilting your head and giving him a knowing smirk.

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. He nodded eagerly, licking his lips, his hands already twitching to move. He slowly reached out but paused again, eyes flicking to yours, searching for that last bit of reassurance.

You gave him a small nod.

And then he touched you.

Gently, reverently, like you were something sacred. His hands cupped your breasts with a mixture of awe and need, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. His touch was warm, tender—curious yet careful.

He didn’t grope. He explored. Played. Worshipped. One hand cradled the underside while the other traced slow circles around your nipple, sending delicious shivers down your spine. He was in heaven, and judging by the way his breath caught every time you so much as sighed, he wanted you to feel that same bliss too.

Bob looked up at you, his hands still cradling your breasts as if he were holding something fragile and precious. Then his gaze flicked to your face, a bit hesitant.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, voice low and tender.

You smiled, nodding, and that smile alone seemed to ease something in him. You weren’t just okay—you were glowing. It felt good, the way his fingers explored you with such care, and the look in his eyes made it all the more intense.

And it definitely did something to him. You could tell from the way his chest rose with every breath, how his eyes occasionally fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed. Still, after a moment, he pulled his hands away, clearly not wanting to get too carried away without your lead.

You leaned in again and kissed him.

It was slower, deeper. Your hands roamed his body, savoring the shape of him, the tension in his muscles, the way he melted under your touch. His hands were verywhere. Moving over your back, your hips, your sides, as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

But you remained on your knees, just slightly lower than him, even as the kiss grew hotter.

Then one of your hands started to travel—leaving his neck, gliding down over his chest, his stomach, until it reached the waistband of his swim trunks. You paused there. Not moving or rushing. You stopped kissing him and looked up at his face.

Bob’s eyes followed your hand, then quickly returned to yours. There was a storm behind those eyes—desire, definitely, but also uncertainty.

You gave him a slow, sultry smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as if to say, It’s okay. I want this too. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting, and after a moment, he nodded.

With the same care he’d shown you earlier, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and began to pull them down. Painfully slow. Your eyes never left his face, watching his expression shift—excitement, nervousness, and that unmistakable tension of anticipation.

As the fabric slid down his thighs and hit the ground, your breath caught audibly. You gasped so loud that even Bob flinched a little, startled. You hadn’t expected… that.

There it was—thick, veined, heavy, and already so hard it twitched in the cool air. The way it stood against his toned stomach, pulsing gently, made your pulse echo right along with it.

You couldn’t help but whisper in disbelief, “And you’ve been hiding this the whole time?”

Bob let out an awkward little laugh, clearly flustered. His cheeks flushed deep red, not just from arousal, but from your stunned compliment. He looked away for a second, bashful, and mumbled something incoherent.

Carefully, you reached out and brushed your fingers against him. The moment your skin made contact, his body jolted, just a little, and he let out the softest whimper, almost a sigh.

You looked up again, eyes wide and a little wicked, and bit your bottom lip.

Slowly, your hand began to move, gentle at first, as though you were still getting to know this part of him. He trembled beneath your touch, trying to stay quiet, but his hips shifted involuntarily, betraying how sensitive he was.

His hand gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles pale. He was trying so hard not to make a sound—to keep still so he wouldn’t wake the girls in the next room—but you weren’t making that easy.

The pressure, the rhythm… it was enough to undo him. But then, before he could fully process what was happening, you leaned forward and kissed the tip. Bob let out a strangled sound and tensed, as if his whole body was about to short-circuit.

You looked up at him, holding eye contact the entire time. At first, you were teasing—pressing soft kisses to the sensitive head, letting your tongue glide around it lazily, deliberately. His thighs trembled. He bit down on his lip so hard it turned white.

Then you got more serious.

You took him in slowly, still holding his gaze. Bob’s lips parted, his eyes fluttering half-shut, and a shaky breath escaped him like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. His entire body tensed as if overwhelmed by the sensation.

He tried to stay quiet, tried to keep his hips still, but sometimes his body moved on its own, bucking up just slightly, and he immediately muttered a breathless apology every time it happened.

You didn’t rush. You let the anticipation burn slowly, letting him feel everything.

“God—” he whispered under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and then—“I’m sorry,” he added instantly, as if ashamed of reacting too strongly. You didn’t mind. In fact, it made your heart race.

The way he melted for you, how his body surrendered so easily, he wasn’t trying to be dominant or in control. He wasn’t trying to hide how much it affected him. And that vulnerability? It was intoxicating.

You could hear how much it meant to him in every breathy sound, every shaky exhale, every stifled moan. He whimpered again, high and desperate, and the sound echoed in your mind like a reward.

His fingers were digging into the mattress, every muscle tight with restraint. He whimpered again, soft and broken, and your innocent gaze stayed locked on his, only intensifying everything he felt.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached up and took his hand—guiding it to your head. He hesitated at first, breath shaky, eyes wide with uncertainty. But you gave him a sweet calm look that said it’s okay. That you trusted him. That he could touch.

His hand accidentally tangled in your hair, gripping a bit too tight, and when he realized, he gasped and immediately loosened his fingers.

“Shit—I’m sorry—are you okay?” he stammered, guilt flashing in his eyes.

You looked up at him again, lips still wrapped around him, and gave the tiniest nod, reassuring him you were fine. More than fine. You loved seeing him like this. Raw, undone, his tough exterior peeling away one soft moan at a time.

And it hit you, too. That fluttering heat in your chest. That ache between your legs. The feeling of being wanted this much. Of making someone feel this good. His reactions lit a fire inside you. Every twitch of his thighs, every tremor in his voice—it all made you feel powerful and delicate at the same time.

Bob’s hands were restless now. One gripped the sheets, the other hovered near your head again, as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch. You leaned into it, and he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, this time softer, more reverent. But his voice was breaking. Little, helpless gasps.

Whispers of your name.

And once or twice—a shaky, choked-off moan that sounded like he might cry if you kept going. But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

Because the way he trembled under you, the way his stomach clenched and his legs shifted, the way he sounded like he was falling apart, that was everything.

Bob was right on the edge, his whole body was trembling, his hands clenching the sheets like he was holding on for dear life. And when he finally came, gasping your name like a whispered prayer, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed with him. Took everything he gave you.

He let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan, overwhelmed beyond words, his hips twitching from overstimulation as you gently helped him through the last waves. You even cleaned the rest of him up with soft, careful kisses, and that alone nearly made him whimper again.

“Jesus…” he breathed out, barely able to speak, a hand running through his tousled hair as he looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “I– I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “What for?”

His voice was small. Fragile. “For… everything? For that being too fast? For—” he swallowed, looking embarrassed, “—for not lasting longer. I didn’t mean to be so…”

You climbed up to him and silenced him with a kiss. Not hurried, not demanding, just soft. Tender. Full of comfort.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling good,” you whispered against his lips. “That was perfect.”

His eyes closed, his breath catching. He looked like he might cry for a whole different reason now.

You gently straddled his waist, not quite there yet, but close enough that the shift in energy was obvious. Your thighs pressing lightly against his sides, his hands flew instinctively to your hips. Not in a needy grip, but gentle, hesitant. Your body was warm and ready, and you were preparing to fully connect, but before you could guide him further, Bob stopped you.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

You paused, blinking down at him, your brows gently furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes met yours, and something was different. The nervousness that had clouded his gaze earlier was gone. What replaced it was soft but firm, confidence built not from ego, but devotion.

“I want to take care of you now,” he said.

A small smile curved your lips, your heart skipping a beat at how genuine he sounded. “You don’t have to, really—”

But Bob shook his head. “No. I want to. I need to.”

There was something so deeply sincere in his voice it made your chest ache.

You gave him a soft nod, and he smiled, one of those rare, crooked, bashful smiles that melted you inside. Then, with gentle hands, he shifted you. Slowly, carefully, he rolled your body so you lay on your back in the center of the bed, like he was positioning you at the heart of a sacred space. His arms hovered around you, cradling your movement so you never felt dropped, never out of control.

He knelt between your legs, just watching you for a moment. You were laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling, hair fanned out across the pillow. He looked awestruck.

His hand came to your side. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, lips parted, your voice caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “Yes.”

His hand slid up along your ribcage, following the natural shape of you with reverence. He wasn’t just touching—he was memorizing. Like every inch of your skin mattered. Like you were art.

He kissed you again, slow, coaxing, warm. And as the kiss deepened, he murmured against your lips: “Can I take these off?”

His fingers were resting lightly at the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms.

You nodded. “Please.”

Bob peeled the fabric down slowly, as if every inch was a treasure to be revealed, not a secret to be rushed. His eyes never left your body, and his hands trembled just a little.

Once the swimsuit was off, he let his fingers trace lightly along your inner thighs, but never without looking up at you first.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath brushing over your bare skin.

You nodded again, heart pounding. “Yes.”

And then he lowered his mouth to you.

The moment his lips met your most sensitive spot, your whole body arched. But it wasn’t just the touch—it was the tenderness, the intention. Bob wasn’t careless or clumsy. He listened. He adjusted every motion based on how you sighed, how your breath caught, how your fingers curled in the sheets.

His movements were soft, exploring. He let his tongue move in long, unhurried strokes, drawing out your reactions—your sighs, your tiny gasps, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. You felt your body start to unravel under the attention, your hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

His hands held your thighs, steadying you but never trapping you. He let you move against him. Let you guide him with nothing more than the sound of your breath. His tongue moved slow, experimental, reverent. And as he began to read your body, he grew more confident.

Every flick, every gentle suck, was delivered with the knowledge that he was giving you pleasure, not taking it. He wasn’t doing this to prove something. He was doing it because he wanted to worship you.

“God, Bob…” you whispered, voice cracking as your fingers found his hair.

He hummed at the sound, and the vibration sent another shiver racing through you.

He learned quickly. How you liked it slower, how a certain flick of his tongue made your whole body twitch. How your voice caught every time he sucked softly at just the right spot.

“Yes… yes—so good,” you breathed, your hips moving almost without permission.

The way he reacted to your pleasure, how eager he was to see you fall apart, made everything more intense. He was moaning softly too, like just tasting you made him dizzy with need. He liked knowing you wanted him there. That you trusted him there. He never once looked away from you, not even when he grew bolder, more confident.

He explored every inch of you with his mouth like you were something to be adored, not conquered. And every sound you made, every shiver in your body, only spurred him on.

Your breath started to catch, your thighs tightening around his shoulders as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. He felt it. Saw it. Knew it.

And he didn’t let up.

His hands squeezed your hips gently, anchoring you as he focused entirely on giving you what you needed. He stayed right there, lips and tongue working with delicious rhythm, sending shockwaves through you with every stroke.

You were close. So close it scared you.

“Bob,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He wanted this for you.

The wave crashed over you so suddenly, so completely, it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you came—shaking, pulsing, everything unraveling under his touch.

Bob held you through it. Never pulling away, never letting you feel alone. Even as you trembled and gasped and whimpered his name, he stayed with you, riding the waves with the same quiet patience he always gave you.

And only when your body finally relaxed, chest heaving and limbs limp, did he slowly lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. And when he saw you looking at him, completely undone and breathless, he smiled the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along your thigh. You nodded, dazed and glowing, trying to catch your breath.

Bob slowly crawled back up your body, leaving a warm trail of kisses across your skin. He moved as if afraid to disturb the peace settling over you, like he was returning to you from a place of worship. When his face hovered above yours, he looked into your eyes for a long, quiet moment.

Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His hand came up to your hair, brushing it back with slow fingers, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Your heart squeezed.

You reached up to cup his face and pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss—sweet at first, but quickly deepening. The electricity between you hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger now that there was nothing between you but skin and trust.

Still breathless, you moved, shifting your hips just enough to push him onto his back. He let out a surprised little laugh as you rolled with him, your bodies twisting together until you were on top of him, straddling his hips. The heat between you flared instantly.

He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, his hands resting gently on your waist as if asking silently for permission to hold you there.

You leaned down and kissed him again—slow, deep, melting into each other with every heartbeat. Your fingers ran along his chest, down his sides, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his body. You could feel him against you, hard and throbbing, and it sent shivers down your spine.

This was it. The moment you’d both been tiptoeing toward.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Are you ready?” you whispered.

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Only if you are.”

“I am,” you said softly, and meant every word.

Your hand found him again, guiding him with care, your breath hitching as the tip pressed against you. You moved slowly, lowering yourself with a careful rhythm, taking him in inch by inch. Both of you gasped—Bob’s hands gripped your hips tightly, trying not to buck up into you.

The stretch made your whole body burn, but it was a sweet, full ache, one that had been building from the first time he looked at you like you were the sun.

Once he was fully inside, you stilled, letting your body adjust, both of you panting softly. Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his jaw clenched, as if overwhelmed by how deep it all felt—emotionally and physically.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest, your body trembling slightly. “You feel… amazing.”

A shaky laugh left his throat. “So do you. God, so do you.”

You started to move—slow, steady, your bodies learning each other. Every thrust, every sigh, every soft gasp between kisses told its own story. It wasn’t just sex. It was connection. It was trust. It was two people baring everything, souls and skin, just to be close.

You moved together in perfect rhythm, hips rising and falling in sync, his hands mapping your body like he never wanted to forget a single inch. And with every moan, every whispered name, every breath you shared, love wrapped tighter and tighter around you both.

Your rhythm picked up—slow and deep giving way to something needier, hungrier. The friction between your bodies grew more intense, breaths turning to gasps, gasps to moans. The sounds of skin against skin, the creaking of the mattress beneath you, the soft rustle of sheets, it all blended into a symphony of desire that filled the space around you like firelight.

Bob’s hands roamed your back, your hips, your thighs—desperate to hold you, ground you, memorize you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were glowing. You were everything.

And then he sat up, his arms wrapping around you as you stayed straddled on his lap. Your chest pressed tightly against his, your lips meeting his in a fevered kiss. He held you there, anchored you to him like he was terrified of letting you go.

You clung to him just as tightly.

Your mouths moved together like you were breathing the same air. His tongue tangled with yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you even closer. But then his grip on your waist tightened.

Hard.

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips pausing. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead still resting against his, trying to catch your breath. And that’s when you saw it.

For a split second, just a flash, his eyes glowed. Golden. Not metaphorically, a actually glowing. And then it was gone. Blink, and you might’ve thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Bob froze. His arms loosened immediately, and panic flooded his face. “Shit—did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey,” you said gently, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He was breathing fast, his brows drawn tight, clearly shaken by the moment. “I felt something… I didn’t mean to grip you that hard.”

You nodded slowly. “It's okay.”

He winced. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t want to scare you, or—God—I don’t want to lose control around you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his again. “You didn’t scare me, Bob. You trusting me with that… it means more than I can say.”

His breath hitched and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again, before guiding his hands back to your waist. This time, his grip was steady. Gentle. Confident.

And then you moved again.

The pleasure hit like a wave crashing into shore, harder than before, deeper. His hands gripped you tighter, not in fear this time, but in raw need, in love, in reverence.

You kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, whispering his name like a prayer.

You rocked against him, and he met every motion, your bodies tangled in something that went beyond skin and muscle, it was soul-deep. The sounds coming from him, breathy moans, quiet whimpers, your name, drove you wild.

And then it happened. You felt your climax building again, hot and fast and unstoppable.

“Bob,” you gasped, nails digging gently into his back.

He was right there with you, sweat beading at his brow, jaw tight, voice strained. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you breathed.

You crashed into release together—messy, overwhelming. You held each other through it, limbs trembling, lips finding each other again and again, clinging to the moment like it was all you’d ever need.

You collapsed against his chest, your limbs heavy and warm, your cheek pressing into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. Both of you were still catching your breath, chests rising and falling rapidly in sync. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and you let yourself sink into him, feeling completely safe and full.

There was a moment of perfect silence, just the sound of breathing, soft and human and real.

Then you shifted slightly, curling up beside him and resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, still racing, but slowly calming beneath your ear.

You smiled lazily. “Okay… serious question.”

Bob tilted his head to look at you, already smiling like a complete goof. “Shoot.”

You looked up at him with narrowed, mock-suspicious eyes. “Where did you learn to do that with your tongue?”

Immediately, Bob’s face flushed. He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. “I—uh—I watched a couple things.”

You squinted. “What kind of ‘things,’ Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “Just like—like, y’know. Tutorials.”

You pulled back, eyebrows rising. “You watched porn?!”

Bob’s entire face turned bright red. “No! I mean—it was educational! There were diagrams!”

You blinked. “There were diagrams in your porn?”

He let out a strangled sound and covered his face with his hands. “Okay, I regret everything.”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “Bob Reynolds, you little nerd.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, totally mortified but smiling. “I just wanted to be good at it. For you.”

You leaned in and kissed him sweetly. “You were.”

A comfortable silence settled over you again, warm and soft like a blanket. You traced idle shapes on his chest with your fingertips, still smiling, still glowing.

Then Bob’s voice broke the quiet, a little more cautious this time. “Hey… do you… remember the volleyball game? When I kinda bailed and told you not to come?”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Well… I sorta… had a situation. In my swim trunks.” He exhaled, long and painful.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “You got a boner?!”

Bob winced, covering his face again. “I’m sorry! It just—happened! You were in that swimsuit and laughing and I don’t know, my brain just… betrayed me!”

You were quiet for a moment. Not judging. Not laughing. Just watching him squirm. Then you reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Bob.”

He looked at you through his fingers again, completely sheepish.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s totally normal.”

His eyes widened a little. “It is?”

You nodded. “Yeah…and honestly, kind of sweet.“ You smiled teasingly. He laughed, relieved, and pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. “God, I like you so much.”

You nestled into him, your fingers laced together on his chest. “Good. Because I really, really like you back.”

The two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together, breathing slower now, hearts lighter. The night was quiet, soft, and full of something that felt a lot like the start of forever.

The golden morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, dancing lazily over tangled limbs and a rumpled blanket. You and Bob were still wrapped around each other—bare skin against bare skin, your head on his chest, his arm draped protectively over you. Your legs tangled, breaths slow, hearts steady.

A knock. Sharp. Three times.

“Hey, you coming to breakfast or are you dead?” Yelena’s voice chirped from behind the door.

Your eyes snapped open in panic. You bolted upright under the blanket, your heart immediately in your throat. Bob groaned quietly, still groggy, eyes not fully open yet.

You whispered, “What time is it?!” your voice barely audible and full of dread.

Bob blinked, looked around helplessly, and shrugged. “I—uh… no clue.”

You covered your face with both hands. “We’re dead. We’re actually dead.”

Yelena knocked again, softer this time. “We're going now, just letting you know.”

You scrambled to respond, “Yeah! I’ll be there! In a sec!”

Bob turned to you, now slowly realizing the situation. The blanket slid down his chest, revealing faint marks from your mouth the night before.

You stared at him. “We need to get dressed. Now.”

It was mayhem. You both jumped out of bed, frantically looking for clothes. You grabbed your swimsuit top, which had ended up halfway across the room, and pulled on a hoodie over it. Bob, on the other hand, was still stumbling, holding only his swim trunks in one hand, his shirt nowhere to be found.

“You can’t go out the door!” you hissed. “Someone could see you!”

“Then what do I do?!”

You gestured to the window. “Jump out.”

“Are you serious?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. You’re a superhero. I think you can survive this.”

He groaned dramatically, pulled on his swim trunks and shirt, then paused before the window. You rushed over, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a rushed, smiling kiss. “Go. Before someone sees you.”

He opened the window, one leg already out, then looked back with a crooked grin. “You’re chaos.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

With that, he slipped out and disappeared into the early morning light.

Later that morning, everyone gathered at a nearby rustic café for breakfast. You sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, trying not to look suspicious. Yelena sat beside you. Bob was diagonally across, seated next to John. The chatter around the table was casual—about the lake, someone’s forgotten towel, who burned marshmallows last night.

You and Bob exchanged occasional, brief glances. Not long. Just enough to pass a message between you. A silent, thrilling electricity. You could still feel the echo of last night under your skin, and judging by the way Bob nervously rubbed the back of his neck, so could he.

“Dude…” John leaned closer to Bob, squinting. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve got like, bruises or something. All over here.” He pointed.

Bob’s brows furrowed and instinctively reached for the spot. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, clearly unaware. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked straight down at your plate. Yelena turned to you. Her eyes widened slowly. Then, lips barely moving, she mouthed with a dramatic grin:

“You. Fucked. Bob.”

You nearly inhaled your scrambled eggs. Your face heated like wildfire. You avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Bob’s. Meanwhile, Bob was trying to deflect. “Maybe I slept weird or—uh—bug bites?”

“Mmhmm,” John muttered, unconvinced.

You dared a glance at Bob. And that was it—your eyes met, and he knew. His brows lifted just slightly. His lips parted. You both quickly looked away.

Yelena leaned into closer to you and whispered, “I knew it. I heard really weird noises last night.” “Yelena, shut up.” She just chuckled into her cup of tea.

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, your face still radiated heat. Across the table, Bob leaned his elbow against the table and rested his cheek on his hand, sneaking one last look at you. You caught it—and gave him the tiniest smile.

This week was going to be… very interesting.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE📙🦋

[jinwoosbabyboo]

Can you please do a hc of the guys helping you out after you come home tipsy(or drunk) from a girls night?

𝙿𝚊𝚖𝚙��𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜

The lads men taking care of you after a girls night out. You came home drunk and you woke up with the worst hangover known to man. A/N: for this we’re going full messy drunk okay? great. cw: mentions of vomit/puke

𝚉𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎

[Coming home]

he picked you up after you drunk dialed him

drove on side roads so he could go slower so you wouldn’t get motion sickness

keeps your hair out of your face while you puke

listens to you ramble on and on about handsome he is and reminds you that you’re already dating him when you ask if he’s single

dodges you every time you try to kiss him in your drunken state ; does not care how fussy you get

let’s you hang on him like a koala while he removes your makeup and runs you a bath

tucks you into bed and holds you while you sleep

[The hangover]

has been checking on you periodically while you were passed out asleep the second you start to stir he grabs water and pain meds for your headache

in full doctor mode ; not gentle at all making you down two pills and a glass of water

left a trash can by the bed for you incase you vomitted overnight

spoons feeds you ginger chicken soup so you’re not digesting pain meds on an empty stomach ; doesn't leave until the whole bowl is gone

makes you lay on your side when you fall back asleep ; he doesn’t want you to choke one your own vomit

rubs your back while giving you a small lecture about drinking too much

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚕

[Coming home]

teases you about how you can’t hold your liquor

helps you take off your heels/shoes when you come stumbling through the door

picks you up carries you through the house while rubbing your back

is blushing furiously from your shameless flirting in your drunken state

sits you on the counter and holds your chin while he wipes your makeup off

finds it funny when you get fussy while he’s trying to take care of you “you’re so adorable”

strips you out of your current outfit and puts you in one of his shirts “You look better in my clothes anyway”

cradles you in his arms and has a trash can within reach if you have to puke

[The hangover]

has you laying on him while he reads a book when you wake up “good morning cutie does your head hurt?”

teases you again before kissing your forehead offering to get you food

“Come on you need a shower” carries you to the bathroom and showers with you ; dresses you in another one of his shirt again “you should just wear my clothes”

washes your face for you “I can do it Raf!” “I know you can, but let me take care of you”

wraps you up in the blanket like a burrito and carries you into his studio so he can keep an eye on you while he paints

gives you pain meds for your headache and orders or makes you whatever you want to eat

tells you all about your shameless flirting while you were drunk ; over exaggerates how he had to fight you off because you wanted him so bad

ends up laying on the couch with you instead of working on any of his projects

𝚇𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚛

[Coming home]

woke up from his sleep when he heard you fumbling with the front door lock

fell to the floor with you on top of him when you stumbled through the door

concerned with how much you drank “Did you overdue it?” ; your giggles gave it away

is half sleep while he sits you on the counter and wipes your makeup off ; is unbelievably gentle while he does this

sits on the floor of the bathroom with you while you throw up ; stays like this with you until you start dozing off

rubs your back and wipes your mouth for you

grips you by the chin and lets you lean against him while he brushes your teeth

strips you down to your underwear and when you get too fussy for him he just lets you lay down like that

[The hangover]

is sitting up in bed when you wake up and immediately drags you into the shower ; towel dries you ; dresses you in his clothes and puts you back in bed

offers to cook you something ; orders takeout after the look you gave him

gives you pain meds after you get something in your stomach

lazy day with Xav naps, naps, and more naps

lazes around in bed all day with you

gets up to get you anything you ask for

𝚂𝚢𝚕𝚞𝚜

[Coming home]

it’s night time so you know he’s in his element when you call him to come get you ; your night is ending and his day is just starting

picked you up from your girls night out ; promised to send Luke and Kieran for your car when you started throwing a fit about it

carries you bridal style through the house

already had a bath ready for you ; strips you out of your clothes and puts you in the tub

wraps you in a warm towel ; sits you on the counter ; puts your bonnet on you(or ties your hair back) ; wipes your makeup off and washes your face

doesn’t care how fussy you get when he’s trying to brush your teeth for you ; holds you in place with his evol “ahm roking(im choking)!” “You’re not choking sweetie spit”

lets you sleep in his lap and doesn’t care if you drool on him

[The hangover]

canceled everything to take care of you

him and the twins are at your beckoned call especially Sylus of course

gives you scalp massages

brings you a menu of foods that are good for hangovers ; watches you eat ; encourages one more bite before giving you some pain killers

teases you about your bratty fits you threw while you were drunk “it’s not that funny” “You’re adorable when you try to act angry” “im not acting!” “Whatever you say Princess”

if you have any body aches he’s giving you a massage

sits in bed with you letting you take naps on him ; once again he doesn’t mind you drooling on him

[mygnolia]

YOU MAKE ME GO CRAZY OVER YOU !!

୨୧ -› hey, that boy over there..isn't he the most popular student athlete on campus? how did you two meet, anyway?

pair -› jock/athlete! enhypen x fem! reader | wc -› 3.5k (700 per member) | no warnings! | library

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ LEE HEESEUNG

im gonna sigh dreamily when i say he’s most DEF basketball captain. 

yes ik i wrote about this in wrong number i dont CARE i will say it with my whole chest 

DORK DORK DORK but cute dork with lethal face card. smirks after making yet another basket and winks at you

age old question how tf did yall meet!!! 

you pass by the gym and some guy on the way stops to talk to you 

like “hey i know you from somewhere”

“yes heeseung we were partners from a project two weeks ago how do you not remember..” 

he’s embarrassed asf especially because he remembers a lot of people’s names

after that he wants to be in your good graces and be friends

totally not because he remembered how you did a lot of the work for said project no complaints!!

and he doesn’t want you to rat him out to the teacher… or tell other people he’s not friendly

‘hey y/n, come to my game? i’ll do better if you’re there :)” 

you go only because you needed to complete an assignment while you were there at school anyways 

but sometimes you’d see him laughing with his friends, or how serious he is on court and woah, heeseung looks cool for once

you wait for him after because you figured he needed you for something 

“awh, you wanted for me?” “i could be doing much better things.” “awh, come on y/n let’s get some ice cream! my treat since we get to spend time together” 

he’s annoying but you let him tag around because he doesn’t bother you LOL

more under the cut!

drags you along when he practices alone so he can have some company

you like the company and the white noise too

you definitely doubt if he likes you because he is SUCH A FLIRT but no he DOES! he writes a confession on a basketball and ‘misses’ so you can catch it

you pass it back without seeing the message 

but heeseung keeps missing and it almost hits you on the head and you’re like ‘dude you SUCK hello??” he says ‘oh lol maybe it’s the ball” byee why was he smooth with it!!!!

you check the message and roll your eyes 

“if i make this you have to kiss me” you tell him and you’re about to shoot but he picks you up and brings you right next o the next to let you throw it in and then kisses u!!!!

not to be like oh im writing an smau on basketball captain heeseung but.. *tucks hair behind ear* 

most definitely tries to be mysterious and cool when you’re dating 

dribbles in front of you, trick shots, runs up to you when you’re alone, gives you one kiss between ever basket he makes 

teaches you how to play!!!!

ABSOLUTELY lights up when someones mentions you when you two date

“oh yeah my partner in math is ___” 

“omg ___?? the love of my life ___??” 

you lowk have to drag him away i fear 

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ PARK JONGSEONG 

baseball captain *faints* 

enhypen x mariners and him speaking in english…so you want me DECEASED 

baseball captain jay and you who attends his games because jake aka ur friend on the team knows you have nothing better to do 

“i bet you won’t make it even to five games before buying cotton candy” jake says because you have a MASSIVE sweet tooth 

you tried really hard because $15 and a burger was on the line 

and you kept coming because…well there was a cute captain who always knew how to rally his teammates and get them excited 

also great sportsmanship and was super friendly to everyone! 

definitely got mad when the umpire makes a wrong call 

sharp reaction times. EVEN SHARPER JAW. 

of course you stared! of course you were not paying attention to whatever jake was saying about his test after their game..how could you when jay was doing his lopsided smile as his friend pats him on the shoulder from ten feet away??

one time you come early because they’re practicing on the field and you see jay and jake passing to each other

jay just so effortlessly throwing the ball…oh my god

he’s just so perfect and jake cheers from the sidelines because he knows his captain pays attention to every single person who has stepped foot on the baseball field iNCLUDING YOU

you come up to jake after the fourth game, showing him you still had your $5 and your tongue wasn’t stained with any blue or pink

jay comes over, arm thrown around jake’s shoulder as he waves and smiles to you 

dark hair with a twinge of sweat as he runs a hand through it, pulling it back to place on his cap 

JAY IN A BASEBALL CAP *faints again*

he walks you out to the parking lot and asks what the $5 in your pocket is for because he keeps seeing you pull it out 

you explain your whole bet to him and he nods

next game. before it starts. he gets you cotton candy and makes sure it gets to you somehow 

you smile and you’re all giddy when you eat it because there’s a p.j. on the cap and he’s just so cute 

jake doesn’t say anything he already knows it’s happening between you two. 

jay finally writes on a baseball and tells you to catch, and it says ‘let’s date’ and you grab a sharpie and scribble ‘kiss me first’ 

OH YEAH HE WALKS OVER AND KISSES YOU. 

soon every game instead of cotton candy  it’s his baseball cap when it’s sunny, his jacket when you’re cold, baseballs with notes on them, and roses for his girlfriend aka youuuuu 

jay is such a romantic and he is not afraid to show it 

he orders custom jerseys that say jay/n on the back with the day you got together!!!!! 

BEST BOYFRIEND EVERRRRRR

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ SIM JAEYUN

rugby player jake but he has dark long hair let that settle in 

campus flirt campus playboy but in reality he doesn’t go on dates and nothing really happens past the smiles, he’s just super popular

you are also pretty well known! a little flirty but super sweet and your charm and how expressive and open you are with other people is what people like!

and he sees you cheering with your friend who he remembers is dating someone from the team

rugby has no gear so he just runs like no tomorrow 

smiling in the sun or determined stare as he talks to his team, you never know 

he yells either in frustration, victory, or defeat, literally will never be silent 

so after a game you follow your friend down to the railing and she has her little moments with her boyfriend 

and you and jake kind of awkwardly stand there for a moment 

he wipes his sweat off with a towel and smiles at you, cracking the ice 

“how long have you had to deal with that?” he points over to them 

you shrug and tell him “however long you’ve been dealing with it” he laughs 

oh wow his smile when he’s right in front of you is just so pretty 

and his little chuckle as he shakes his head and looks back up at you 

‘who do you watch on the field?’ he asks, with a little smirk because he likes you 

‘whoever catches my attention’ you tell him also smiling 

oh its a CHALLENGE. he will make sure to run on the side of the field you’re watching from, winking at you on the field, ugh just everything 

you come to a party at the end of the season to celebrate and he sees you 

“you came!!” super happy and makes sure you are next to him all the time 

“y/n you know the teammates, yeah?” you smile and congratulate them 

he leaves to get you a soda/water and jungwon leans in 

“jake LOVES to talk about you by the way” 

“yeah he always says how pretty you are in the library or in class, he likes when your friend comes because that means you come with her”

heeseung nods, “super into you, no joke” 

jake comes back trying to play it off “who’s into y/n?” 

you poke at his shoulder and smile, “you” and he’s all bashful and giggly 

loves to call himself ‘y/n’s girlfriend’ 

‘sorry, i can’t i have to buy flowers for y/n’ ‘sorry y/n needs me to help her study’ ‘sorry y/n needs a ride here’ STUCK TO YOUR HIP

ofc he doesn’t abandon his friends but he loves spending time with you :3

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon’s reputation proceeds him—cold on the court and just as reserved off of it

ugh he’s so annoying, he always has his bag in the same spot as yours and he always is at the water filling station with hos annoying 32oz bottle before you

also hogs that automatic tennis ball throwing machine like how are YOU supposed to practice tennis too 

‘hey i need that’ he furrows his eyebrows and shrugs 

‘i was here first’ ‘what are you twelve????’ sunghoon tells you ‘get here earlier next time then 

oh yeah. for the next week you ran to the courts everytime to get it before him 

one day he sees you and races you to the gates and you beat him 

sulky after as if his career is over

definitely varsity and one of the best, but he never approaches girls after his games

one time you go to a men’s game because it’s one of the most anticipated of the season 

its neck to neck, third set with 40-adv, sunghoon’s serve

he chases after that ball and sends it over, it barely hits the net and tumbles over, AND HE WINSSSS BRAHHHHH 

even if you hate him you will admit that he made the game extremely interesting 

you see his friends congratulate him and you notice that he never gets his clothes dirty 

always wears white to practice—pristine asf 

secretly he loves watching you too

even if you hate him for getting on your nerves some days and almost never doing more than bare minimum, you cannot lie and say sunghoon isn’t a huge inspiration 

just as you are to him 

sunghoon thinks your tenacity and passion for tennis is what makes you so fun to watch 

so even if he has homework, he goes to a game of yours and comes down to the court after the game 

bumps your shoulder after, ‘good game, y/n’ and you’re like ?? ‘you’re here?’ and he’s sooo nonchalant when he says ‘of course, i can’t miss a fun game can i?’ 

there’s a fun mixed doubles tournament for a whole gift basket of things and you come up to him 

‘hey let’s pair up’ and he grins 

you two play each other for practice and you’ve tied the score so many times you’ve lost count

and sunghoon’s a little annoying but oh lord he’s so attrative??? so maybe he wasn’t THAT annoying…

mixed doubles tourney rolls around and oh yeah. you two win.

you know much he likes natto and you say ‘here you take the natto’ he shakes his head ‘no you eat it all the time’

you two bicker and you say ‘fine lets just share it!’ and to your surprise..he opens the package and just mixes it all in 

you two sit and share the natto, then he tells you he thinks you’re pretty cool on court 

you raise your eyebrow cuz where is this coming from!! and he rolls his eyes 

‘nevermind maybe you’re only bright on the court’ 

‘hey what’s that supposed to mean!!!’ you take the natto and eat all of it LMFAO and then he pouts because noo his natto!!!

you kiss his cheek. it’s ok everything is ok now he is a happy boy 

“you’re my match” you write on a tennis ball pin and he keeps it on his bag like his life DEPENDS on it

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ KIM SUNOO

THE CUTEST VOLLEYBALL SETTER EVER 

i hate to be like oh you’ve had the fattest crush on him for like two months BUT ITS TRUE 

you’re on yearbook and you make an excuse to go see sunoo play!!

you two met when you were at a volleyball game and you told him to smile, but he’s one of those guys who says “wait delete that take another one!!” 

and ofc you agree, snapping a few cute photos of him

he posts to his social media, tagging you with a cute song saying ‘thanks photographer :3” 

and so you it begins, your small little crush on him..

he loves seeing you at his games, always makes sure to wave to you on the court 

hey so setter sunoo is insanely good at what he does 

so graceful when he places a NASTY setter dump on the other team, a glare shot at one of the other team’s members bad-mouthing him, but a glowing smile as he high-fives all his teammates! 

super supportive, and you loveee that about him!! he cares so much about everyone it makes your heart warm 

“here, let’s eat together,” you tell him, and you bring him some noodles you made because he said he was craving some 

he smiles at you and sits down, beginning to slurp slurp slurp and SCOREEE he loves it 

“thanks y/n, let me treat you some time :)” UGH DEAD DEAD 

KIM SUNOO KING OF FLOAT SERVES 

huge smile on his face when it lands where it needs to, he loves that feeling of satisfaction and soaks up all of your praise after his games are over 

he slips out of practice sometimes to see what you’re doing in yearbook, and he’ll take your camera to tell you to smile as he takes pics

someone in your class tells you too to look overfor a photo , so he loops an arm around your shoulders to pull you close and smile 

AND OH EM GEE UR LIKE TOTALLY GEEKING OUT OVER IT HELLO??????/ 

you ask her to print you a copy of it to save in your scrapbook, but sunoo cuts in and asks for another one 

“i like seeing you” DEAD IN A DITCH esp when he smiles at you and then runs off to practice before he gets in trouble

so competitive on the court and it makes him a little sulky when he loses 

“argh i did so bad today” he’d tell you, but in your eyes hello kim sunoo could do no wrong!! and you share your snacks while reassuring him 

he swears tho, “nooo, i had to look cool for you!” and you’re tired of hearing him say and do all of these sweet things and straight up 

“why?” “what do you mean, y/n?” “why do you want to look cool for me?” “well i liked you duh!” 

but sunoo never wanted to confess, he was too scared he wasn’t good yet at showing you all of his perfect bf traits 

WELL HE THOUGHT WRONG!! he’s been perfect from d1 so now he just sneaks in like 40 kisses before every game 

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ YANG JUNGWON

see so jungwon, he’s been a little FLIRTY as of recently. 

“you like older guys? but im a younger guy with rhythm” WHAT THE FKSCNHDJFD

whatever. anyways jungwon focuses on badminton like it’s a lifeline 

hitting birdies in his sleep would be smth he would do if he could, he loves how aggressive he can be in the sport without moving too much, lots of strategy involved 

you come to one of his games because your friend is on the other team, and you want to cheer him on

but jungwon notices you’re literally from his school?? 

isn’t it weird you’re going to a game for someone on the other team…

so he sets off a plan 

he goes to you after the game before your friend can

“hey, how come you don’t support anyone on our team” so straight to the point help 

and you tilt your head in confusion because “well i don’t know anyone from the team and you’re all scary”

scary??? jungwon makes it his personal mission to debunk that cuz no one is SCARY 

maybe sunghoon but that’s because he’s varsity 1 and the best player within 150 miles but whatever

he makes it his mission to wave to you when he sees you and when he’s sat next to you in one of your classes he’s like yay perf 

“you’re the guy from that badminton game huh?” “is that a good or bad thing” 

you shrug “whatever you want it to be” 

and he asks you to go to his next game but if he wins, you have to support the team and if he loses 

and you stare at him like “wtf do i get out of it” 

jungwon did NOT think about that 

he promises to buy you a snack after 

and it’s free food so you can’t complain 

you two talk more and he finds out you used to play badminton before you hurt your ankle and wanted to focus on school 

so he takes you to practice and gives you one of his expensive rackets

lowk falling in love everytime you laugh and chase the birdie 

jungwon pretends to hate chasing after it but he’ll still hit it back even if it’s out of bounds because he doesn’t want to waste your time picking it up

you two sit down and you tell him how fun it was to be able to play, and how much you missed it from your childhood 

your school holds a small festival where other school athletes go against your team modified lighting rounds 

paired with vendors and fun carnival stands, but the main attractions are always the variety of sports to watch

jungwon is one of the representatives from your school but so is your friend from the other school, so it’s heated when they play

you tie a ribbon around his racket (curtesy of sunghoon for helping you out) and write a note saying “if you do good ill cheer for you” 

AND HE WINS. so you keep your end of the bargain and cheer for him after the game is over, giving him a high five and a hug

he walks with you and asks about what you two are BECAUSE THIS IS A DATE this is date behavior 

“of course i like you won who wouldn’t”

let’s just say he gives u little kisses all over when you two are alone sigh so cute

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ NISHIMURA RIKI

he’s been on the soccer team ever since he was a freshman and even before, retaining his cute features and mischievous personality 

when you became assistant manager you were scared but your brother heeseung was on the team and your mom told you to look after him at school 

and riki takes after heeseung a LOT when they play and heeseung even goes as far as inviting riki over 

so riki’s super good at soccer by the time heeseung leaves, but he also has this small crush on you that heeseung’s told you about 

you just never said anything because you never had a reason to nor were you uncomfortable with it 

but junior year hits and riki comes back from winter break with pitch black hair all styled 

also…a lot taller than you. and no more baby fat 

and you paid attention to some of it because you saw him for practice, but the hair really did it 

during practice he loves to mess with you saying things like “can you fill up my water y/n pleaseeee” “no you have two feet” “ill win the next game against ____ if you get me water” “i’ll kick you off the team if you don’t win” 

he sighs and gets up, glaring down at you and you try not to let his playful stare affect you, but SOMETHING was different something was in the air

if riki doesn’t play good, it’s because his team manager aka you is NOT there 

you come back the next day to find out he was sulking and didn’t play super well because you weren’t encouraging him

“go run a lap, riki” and HE DOES JUST THAT “go practice on the field by yourself”

“how about you ask me to date you next” he grumbles 

and you HEAR him. loud and clear. 

but you’re like agh what if he doesn’t mean it what if he’s just joking 

at the next game he does super well and you congratulate the whole team 

yas team hybe eats 

you two are getting ready to go home when he finally brings it up

“you heard what i said on tuesday” and you know exactly what he means 

“yep.” “so why didn’t you say anything back” “i didn’t know if you were being serious”

he scoffs “y/n when have i ever not been serious about you”  

he opens your door even if he’s passenger princess 

makes fun of you for how much closer you need the wheel to be to drive

YAYYYY Y/NKI IS REAL

he loves to drape an arm around your shoulder walking around school 

acts as if he’s older when you two are literally the same age HELP 

reblogs/interactions are appreciated always!

have some shameless self promo for my spiderman!riki fic!

and my upcoming jake fic!

[saatorus]

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

teaser wc — 1.8k (long for a teaser but i'm desensitised to any word count below like 100k words)

actual wc — 20-25k (gonna try and force myself to stick to this and not go into the 30s..)

tag list status — closed! the fic has been posted

warnings — explicit sexual content!!! sukuna being an absolute vile dick and saying questionable shit (i need him to be at least a lil canon compliant), mentions of reader and sukuna telling each other to go die, reader not being meek and letting him walk all over her, mentions of feeling insecure, multiple crash outs, angst?? will add more as i go along!

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap.

He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit.

You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?”

You blink, stunned.

Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.”

Your fingers twitch against the table.

“Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm.

“This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?”

The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low.

You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.”

That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.”

You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.”

He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens.

He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on.

And you refuse to let him win.

So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching.

“Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack.

When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.”

His expression darkens.

You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over.

And then, he smirks.

You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops.

The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that.

Like it’s just true.

Like it’s a fact.

Your fingers dig into your sleeve.

And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval.

You clench your jaw.

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.”

His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk.

You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?”

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you.

And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart.

Good.

Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

Oh, you want to strangle him.

Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.”

You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words.

Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future.

Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you.

Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?”

Your blood boils.

But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned.

So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

a/n: very overused trope but i love college au sukuna. sorry for making him a total asshole but i promise character development!!!!! i looove a good enemies to lovers, as seen with my take on nerdjo lolol!!! also yes this fic is based on "she won't go away" by faye webster and yes this song and it's lyrics will be making a cameo in my fic heheh... hope you all liked the teaser!!

[into-fiction]

gelphie as parents headcanons

no one asked for these but i felt like doing them anyway

Glinda

spoils her kids fucking rotten

but on the flip side: is the stricter more disciplinarian one

100% would dress her and her toddler in matching outfits

is so supportive. like, embarrassingly supportive

glinda is the annoyingly loud mom at sports games but everyone secretly loves her bc she brings great snacks and a full first aid kit, and she makes sure every kid feels like they have a whole crowd rooting for em

glinda is a crier. college dropoff? sobbing. graduation? sobbing. first grade recital? ....still sobbing

(she's a pretty crier tho so it's ok)

glinda is a "takes the kids out of school for a mommy date w/ shopping & ice cream" parent

glinda is also a "i will stay up past midnight to help u finish this project while elphie lectures u about procrastination" parent

takes a million photos

has an entire arts and crafts room. elphie has to remind her not to do the kids posters herself

very sentimental. doesn't want to throw anything away

calls her kids by nicknames instead of their real name 90% of the time

would be the one to shout "i love you!" out the car window at a high school carpool line

gets a little too invested in impressing the other parents at times

is in a million facebook groups

engages in pda in front of the kids just to make em squirm

Elphie

comes off scary but is the biggest softie fr

was very nervous but turns out to be a complete natural

helps the kids with their homework, packs their lunches, is always checking in on how they're doing

reads a thousand parenting books in preparation

dad jokes. the worst dad jokes

is also a crier, but in a "teary eyed and discrete sniffles" way

is the chef of the family. glinda is the one who gets caught up in whats healthy tho while elphie is happy to make mac n cheese if it gets the kid to eat something

has that calm gentle comforting vibe. the parent you go to to snuggle into their side and just be quiet together for a moment

has a sixth sense for knowing when something is up

is always a little scared of being like her own father

wants her kids to feel free to be themselves, doesn't really care if they're making a ton of friends or doing the right sports or keeping up with whats trendy so long as they're happy

if u present elphie with a good enough powerpoint & explanation, u can probably convince her to give in to almost anything

this includes the pet. that glinda didn't want. (that is 100% glinda's pet now)

loves to sing to and read to her babies

is the "i will still carry my baby to bed" parent despite said baby being like 13 years old now

will happily play with her kids on the jungle gym, in the water park, she'll ride all the rides, etc

gives the best hugs

[aceday]

Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: you’re but a humble young librarian super into this milf who just happens to show up at an opportune moment.

warnings: age gap, public sex, oral, fingering

*afab gender neutral reader

@covenofagatha

i don’t do this btw

The Librarian

It’s snowing, the third time you meet her. Behind the circulation desk, with your feet kicked up against the long arch of desk that separates you from the rest of the library, paging through somebody’s hold (it’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, perhaps some sort of premonition), you look every bit as bored as you are. When you look up and out the window, it’s the kind of black only 6 o’clock in the middle of January can be. Snow pummels against the window. It’s the kind of weather nobody should be out in, either.

Between you and your two other coworkers — the lifeblood, like Atlas holding up the last two hours of the library before its close — there is really only the odd, uncanny emptiness of one librarian and their empty shelves. Of course you’re surprised when she breezes in, in a long dark trench coat with damp shoulders, opened to reveal a pale turtleneck tucked into pleated trousers, snowflakes still dotting her long, thick tresses of dark hair. The snowflakes dissolve. She is panting, wind-blown, she turns around and you see the stark blue of her eyes set against the soft red burn of her cheeks.

“Hi,” she says, breathy, her chest rising and falling heavily. She flashes you a smile, an intentional, albeit distracted smile, the smile of someone who seems a little caught, a little embarrassed in the way you really only can be around strangers for no apparent reason. She carries a folded, closed umbrella and a black bag on her shoulder.

Her name is Agatha Harkness. You were here when she signed up for a library card, and spent the whole time kicking yourself that you hadn’t beat your coworker to helping her. She’s new in town, she has a son that loves to read, or be read to, and there is no ring on her finger, which, as far as you’re concerned, means you have a chance.

You don’t move from your seat, knowing that if you scrambled to put your feet on the floor and throw the book back on the hold shelf then you’ll really look like you’ve been caught. You set the book down on your lap and cross your arms.

“Hi,” you say, smiling easily.

She looks around the library and takes a few hesitant steps towards the shelves. The New section is the first thing to greet library goers, and she distractedly scans the books. You don’t take your eyes off her. She’s beautiful. And you know a lost face when you see one, so when she absentmindedly taps her umbrella against the floor and turns to you, you’re ready.

“Hi,” Agatha says again, approaching the circulation desk. This time you set your feet down.

You smile softly, “Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually. I was looking to get some books for my son. He’s four.”

You point to the corner of the library, where the door frame labeled “Children’s Section” is tucked, leading to an entirely different section of the library. “The Children’s Section is over that way.” You’re a little disappointed to be sending her so far away, but you’re the only person at circulation and if she wants to check out any books she’ll have to find you anyway. But, to your surprise, she doesn’t turn towards Children’s. She taps the desk with a gloved finger, staring down the shelves. You take the opportunity to stand, leaving the book on your chair behind you.

“Is there anything in particular I can help you find?”

Agatha inhales slowly, clearly lost in thought. Then, she turns slowly to you. Her eyes are so blue. It’s like being pinned in place, the way her eyes meet yours. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but you’d be lying if you said your breath didn’t flee your lungs.

“Are you busy?” She looks down at the book. Normally, you’d feign a little embarrassment, but you smile and shrug.

“I’m getting slammed right now, actually. But uh, I suppose I could help you out.”

She chuckles, peeling off her black leather gloves and stuffing them in the pockets of her trench coat. “Sure. Any recommendations? What are you reading?”

This time you do flush a little. “It’s, uh, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s someone else’s hold.”

Agatha narrows her eyes a bit, a small smile curling at the corner of her lips. “Is it raunchy?”

“By today's standards, probably not. Is raunchy what you’re looking for?”

She raises her eyebrows. Your blush deepens. Working these lonely evening shifts has you forgetting you’re employed to work, not to flirt with patrons, which you never do anyway, but luckily Agatha laughs after a moment.

“What’s your name?” She squints to read your name tag, and you offer it up lazily. “I’m Agatha,” she says. “Agatha Harkness. Actually, I’m a bit new to town. I just got my card.”

“I know your name,” you say, looking away. Agatha, who, until now, has been a bit fidgety and distracted, suddenly stills. “I was here when you set your card up. You probably don’t remember me.”

“But you remember me.”

She doesn’t say it like it’s a question. A knot forms in your throat. You offer a thin grin. “Of course.” Then you tap your temple, which is stupid and you immediately regret it, but Agatha doesn’t seem to really notice or care. Her smile stretches easily. She levels you with a knowing gaze, though you can’t imagine what it is she knows.

“It’s cozy in here,” Agatha says, beginning to rifle through her bag. Her hair is windswept and wild falling down her back, but you have the impression that this is its natural state, despite the wind. She pulls out her wallet, then her library card. “The roads are getting bad though. Especially now that it’s dark out.”

You nod. “Yeah, this is definitely the place to be. At least it’s supposed to slow down soon. There’s a fireplace back past non-fiction. Do you have any holds to pick up?”

Agatha smiles. You scan her library card. “Just one.” Your stomach drops.

“Ahh,” you pick up Lady Chatterley’s Lover sadly, “right. How about that?”

Agatha looks more than amused as you check the book out to her account, quickly plucking your place marker out from the pages.

“No, no,” Agatha says, “leave the bookmark. We can do a little book club, hmm?”

You’ve officially embarrassed yourself enough for one night. You smile warily. “I hope you enjoy it as much as I was. Drive safe.”

Still smiling, Agatha hums in response and tucks the paperback into her bag. “Did you say this was supposed to let up soon? You know, I could use a few recommendations while I have you here.”

You’re pretty sure you’ve already used up all your charm. It’d be ideal if she left and came back another day, but, the more you think about it, the more you realize that this is one opportunity you just can’t waste. Not a coworker in sight (one in the break room for the next half hour, the other shelf-reading in the basement), your work crush right here, mildly stranded in a snowstorm, willing to converse, nay, to joke with you, and- Jesus do you have a chance?

“Anything,” you say at the realization, a little more breathless than you’d intended but you feel renewed with your usual charm and ready to not let this opportunity pass without a fight.

“I was also looking for maybe a cozy mystery? What with the weather and all.”

Does she know the mystery section is the most isolated back corner of the library? You can definitely work with this.

“Sure. I can show you. Follow me.”

You step out from behind the counter, Agatha lingering on your heels. You haven’t had to think this fast in months. Maybe in years. What to say? What to do? You don’t even read mysteries.

You wind through the shelves, leading Agatha deeper into the more shadowy parts of the library, into the most definitely, undoubtedly empty and out-of-sight parts of the library.

“Here’s mystery. I mean, there’s obviously Agatha Christie, and then Laura Childs is pretty cozy, and-” you stop abruptly. You have no idea why you’re talking about mysteries. You face Agatha, who looks at you with one raised eyebrow. She looks expectant. Perfect.

“You’ve happened to find us in the coziest spot in the library,” you say as nonchalantly as you can, scanning the book spines, “But you won’t find anything raunchy over here.”

The look on Agatha’s face is both curious and knowing. Amused, even. She can read you like a book (hah), and some part of you feels like an animal in a zoo, watched by an audience far hungrier than you.

“I didn’t say I wanted raunchy.”

“Didn’t you?”

Agatha scoffs slightly. Her smile widens. She takes a step closer to you and you don’t move back.

“I have more than a few suggestions if that’s the case,” you say, tilting your head. You’re a good few inches taller than her, and when she looks up at you behind dark eyelashes…

“You’re bold,” says Agatha. The same grin hangs wickedly on her mouth.

“But not too desperate, I hope?”

Agatha laughs without taking her eyes off of you. You don’t think you could move backwards if you tried, you don’t think you could move if you tried, her face sings with an effortless amusement, like she knows every thought in your mind and every desire beneath your tongue. It’s vulnerable. Like you’re naked, or just bared, skin unprotected against a harsh wind or sharp rain.

“I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“I know.”

She hums, her gaze raking you up and down, studying. You’re nothing now but a specimen, an insect, pinned by the legs and wings to a cork board, shivering under a magnifying glass. You swallow, then take a step forward. Her chin raises. It’s cute, defiant in a way that reminds you almost of a petulant child, and this most momentary relief from the scrutinization of her gaze is all you need. You raise one hand and tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Cold out there, hmm?” you ask softly, almost boredly. Her unblinking stare doesn’t move from yours. She nods. “Warm in here though.” Your hands trace the lapels of her trench coat. “Damp.” You push it off her shoulders. It’s heavy, woolen, and water-logged, and crumples to the ground with a thud, taking the purse and umbrella with it. You let your gaze drag lazily, obviously, across her face, her eyes, her neck, her mouth.

You see her swallow, which feels like a victory in and of itself. Consider yourself spurred. “And of course, I’m-”

Whatever clever remark you had readied is cut off before even its effect is conveyed. Agatha closes the space between you two, shoving you against the bookshelf. You knock back against the shelves with an “oomph” and Agatha balls your shirt in her fists. She stares at you for a pulsing, pregnant moment before you crack and push your lips against hers. It’s a vicious kiss that’s barely a kiss and lasts for only half a moment anyway. Agatha pulls back severely and pushes you once more against the shelves. Your breath heaves out of your lungs.

“Something the matter?” you ask, grinning like a snake. Agatha scoffs. Her lips meet yours with a sharp inhale, her eyes closed. The kiss is not tender but not desperate, more inquisitive, curious, until a moan escapes your throat and your hands grab dumbly at Agatha’s waist.

You don’t want to be audacious, but you’re already past that point if you’re being honest with yourself, and you step off the wall. You don’t have that much time. You want. Agatha’s tongue slips between your lips and you feel the pit in your stomach empty out, heat flushing into a tense knot in your abdomen. Not much time.

Gentle — but firm —, you push Agatha back against the wall, and sink to your knees. Surprise flickers across her face, but quickly melts into an impish smile. Mischief looks good on her.

“Can I, Agatha?” you ask, very politely, your fingers working already around her belt.

“Yeah. Yes, sweetheart. That’s good.” The words send a twist between your legs and you tug her belt open and unzip the pants. While you pull them down, her hands shovel through your hair, fingertips digging into your scalp, and the feeling almost gives you vertigo. Her skin is impossibly soft. Her underwear is plain and black. You slide it down the swell of her thighs, swallowing. You can smell her on the air, skimming the top of it, and you fight the urge to lick your lips like some hungry dog.

Your hands feel up the length of her legs, one pushing under her shirt up her stomach, in a manner not short of exalted, and you can feel her shudder under your touch. It’s a power, of sorts, and you breathe into a taut smile.

Your mouth is on her legs, sucking at her thighs, and she hisses at the sting of your teeth on her skin. You don’t need to bruise her, really, but you do, if only to prolong eating her out, to hold what you’ve been waiting for in front of you just moments longer. Her breath hitches, she’s trying to be quiet, and in a moment of uncontrolled excitement you surge forward, your jaw widening, your tongue flat against her and your nose buried in her folds.

Agatha yelps a little louder than she meant to, and one hand leaves your hair to cover her mouth. She groans quietly into her palm as you eat her out, tongue scooping inside of her, the taste electric on your tongue, burning in your nose, your eyes heavy-lidded. Fuck. She’s hot. She’s so hot. One hand grips her thigh steadily, the other slides down beneath your waistband. What can you say? You’re desperate.

You whine into her and Agatha looks down, watching as you fuck yourself with your face buried into her cunt. She curses softly, her hand grabbing onto the ledge of a bookshelf by her head. “That’s great, baby, that’s-” your tongue flicks hard against her clit, interrupting Agatha as she spills into a moan. “That’s good, that’s good, that’s-” your lips suck airily around her clit, your tongue immediately continuing its flat and solid path through her folds. She’s dripping off of your chin by now.

Agatha’s breath stutters and she falls eerily quiet, but you know the signs. Her body tightens and then convulses, a delicate shudder gripped around your tongue, thighs squeezing your face, her manicured fingernails scraping against your scalp. She orgasms moaning your name quietly, in a hushed, devoted sort of way nearing on delirium.

When its intense waves wash away and you stand up you’re wearing a self satisfied smile, but Agatha doesn’t leave you long to bask in your pride. She stumbles forward and shoves you against the bookshelf, her mouth collapsing onto yours. She moans softly at the intense taste of herself on your skin; your mouth, nose, chin, cheeks. It’s overpowering. You can feel pearls of her rolling down your jaw and neck. Agatha bites your bottom lip, hard, and then her mouth finds your throat.

You sigh at the feeling of her above your pulse, the heat of her breath and the delicate trace of her fingertips across your sides.

“That was quite the orgasm.” There’s still a ragged edge to her voice, a lulled huskiness, and she seems to struggle to keep her voice balanced in the median between hush and speaking.”How do you feel touching yourself?”

Now with your back pressed against the bookshelves, you had given up all previous hope of getting yourself close. Not that you had minded, fucking Agatha was like seeing the gates of heaven. After that, who needed some masturbatory purgatory at the helm of your own fingers? You take too long to come up with an answer, lost still in the haze of the bruise you’re sure she’s sucking into your skin. Her fingertips, gripping at your sides, rush suddenly to undo the button of your jeans.

“Good,” you say, your head falling backwards, “not as good as this, I’m sure.” Agatha’s hand sinks into your jeans. You sputter forward and she leans harshly into you, pinning you against the stacks. Her fingers and palm slide down, and, God- she’s cupping you through your underwear, pressing testingly against you. It’s intoxicating. Fuck. Your arms sling around her shoulders and your hips buck into her hand. She smiles, kisses you.

“You want this?” she asks, leaning her mouth into your ear, her breath hot, as if it’s even a question, as if you’re not already dripping, soaked through your underwear, keening into her touch.

“Yeah, Agatha, yeah. C’mon.” At the sound of her name in your mouth, Agatha hums a moan. Her fingers slip under the seam. You pull Agatha into you, your hands tangled in her hair. It’s still damp from the snow.

Her fingertips slide into you. Cold, her fingers are cold, and the sensation of them curling inside of your cunt leaves you halfway to breathless. “Fuck.”

“You’re warm,” Agatha says mildly. She’s pulled back a bit in favor of studying your face, every twitch of your eyebrows and tug of your swollen lips, the blissed out, wired look in your eyes.

“Fuck. You’re- fuck.” She thrusts deeper into you, the tips of her fingers running against your walls, feeling for every jolt of your body. She thumbs your clit, rubbing soft circles into you. She’s good, fuck, every twist of her fingers and push of her thumb sweeps tides of pleasure through your body.

“I’m what?” Agatha teases, thrusting hard, then harder, and fast, and the library is so quiet and you can hear the wet slap of her fucking you.

“God, fuck, fuck,” you groan, your forehead falling against Agatha’s shoulder. She shrugs your head up, her hand smothering your mouth.

“We are in a library, darling,” she whispers, and your being silenced like this makes the slick sound of her fingers in your, against you, seem that much louder. You whine, whimper, keen, your body jolts, her fingertips hit against your g-spot and white pulses behind your eyes as you spill into orgasm.

Your body trembles, tense, your teeth closing around Agatha’s hand, and her fingers slip out of you. She pulls you into a soft hug, holding you up between herself and the bookshelf while you steady your breath.

“Jesus,” you pant, “that was so good, God.”

Agatha pats your hair and you pull back. She pushes a fast kiss against your mouth, and the heat returns, despite your orgasm still buzzing fresh on your skin.

“Thank you and you’re welcome,” Agatha says against your mouth. “Do you have a job to return to?”

“Only if you have a number to give me?”

Agatha smiles. She kisses your cheek and begins fixing her clothes. “I’m still old enough to be your mother.”

“I still know that.”

She eyes you warily, scanning you up and down. “You’ll give me your number, and you’ll wait to hear from me first.”

You sigh in relief and fall back against the bookshelf, running your hand through your hair. “Deal. Welcome to town.”

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

could u pls write a fic about a plus sized reader noticing Spencer doesnt look at her alot so one morning she wears lingerie and a see through robe and she teases him until he just takes her on the couch?

ೇ self control ― spencer reid .ᐟ

pairing .ᐟ spencer reid x plus size!reader

summary | listen, it wasn't that you didn't love the domestic life with spencer, but god, you just really missed being touched (and penelope has a solution).

warnings | uhh this is almost 3k of pwp firstly, penelope being the best wingwoman to ever exist, lingerie, teasing, unprotected sex, couch sex, vaginal sex, sub!spencer reid, dom!reader, kind of switch spencer and reader at the end, riding, heavy petting, subspace if you squint, mentions of oral sex (m and f rec), the reader is lowkey a freak (and penelope instigates it), clothed sex, the reader is dressed and spencer isn't, i held myself back from including a mommy kink, but that's the best you're getting from me, a lack of foreplay (be considerate folks), consent kink, praise kink.

wordcount | 2817

⋆ a/n: HEY SO i really let this get away from me in the sense of this was meant to kind of be dom!spencer but i blinked and all of a 2k was written of sub!spencer so yikes!! but i really enjoyed writing this, it's been literally forever since i've written pwp so... here ya go!! i'm trying to be more organized with uploading because i really want to clear out my drafts before starting any new projects.

— links .ᐟ masterlist | ao3

“Pen, have you ever seen those TikToks where it’s like ‘he has a whole woman in his bed yet he’s playing World of Warcraft’ or some shit like that?” You ask the phone that’s tucked under your chin.

You’re in the middle of putting up laundry, but a feeling of unrest bubbled beneath your skin.

Penelope laughs, “And let me guess, that’s how you feel right now?” 

You sigh, looking down at the shirt that refuses to turn inside out. You throw it back in the hamper with a huff before grabbing a pair of – Spencer’s – jeans.

“I just – I’m not with Spencer for just sex, you know that, but it’s been like… forever since I’ve gotten any.” You can’t even listen to yourself talk.

“We’ve been in this like… domestic bliss stage, and while I love waking up to breakfast in bed and giggly showers, I’m horny and every time he does something so normal – something that shouldn’t even be considered sexy – I have to hold myself back from jumping his bones.” 

Penelope lets out a rather unattractive chortle, but she continues. “Listen sister, while I love the Boy Genius as much as the next person, he’s kinda dense. With all those brains, he’s rather hard-headed when it comes to romance.”

“I know, I know, and those are one of the reasons why I love him! The denseness is cute, but I’m starting to think I sabotaged myself.” You look down longingly at the MIT t-shirt. Spencer was away at the office right now, so that means whatever conversation you were having with the colorful woman on the other end was completely inappropriate.

“You know what I think?” She starts. “Oh God.” You sigh fondly. “Oh, hush! Don’t even act like my ideas aren’t good! Anyway… If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being quite the seductress myself, is that at the end of the day a man is a man, and they can be reduced down to their most primal instincts.”

“What are you saying?” You inquire curiously with furrowed eyebrows. “I’m saying that you gotta work with what ya mama gave ya! Men are dumb, they see a tit or a nice ass and they lose all cognitive function. So what I’m saying is to put on some lingerie and act like a little minx! Guys love it when you tease them and act like you don’t know what you’re doing! It’s about the chase, my fellow curvaceous protege.”

“So you’re saying to… seduce him?”  

“That’s exactly what I’m saying – Oh! Good morning sir! Yes, sorry, I’ll call you back when I’ve got the answer to what you need… yes okay bye-bye!” And with that, you’re left listening to the silence. 

You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation before taking a seat on the bed.

Seduce him, huh? The notion almost seems ridiculous, but it really isn’t that far fetched. You’ve had sex with Spencer before, you know how his brain works, what gets him needy and what parts of you turn him on. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

You don’t really own any lingerie, because for one, the material that’s supposedly the back of your underwear gets swallowed by your ass, and two, Spencer’s never complained about your granny panties. But hey, it doesn’t hurt to look right?

Okay, seduce Spencer Reid is a go.

Taking one last scrutinizing look in the bathroom mirror, you leave quietly, walking into the kitchen and pouring yourself a glass of coffee. Liquid courage as they say.

The light pink sheer robe hangs off of your ample form, the fuzz on the edge of your sleeves getting in your way and irritating you. God, if this doesn’t work, a woman by the name of Penelope Garcia is going to find herself six feet underground.

Spencer sat on the couch slipping his feet into a pair of mismatched socks – you’ve stopped trying to organize them a while ago – tucking them into his converse. He’s off today, probably having plans with the bookstore and the park before offering to make the both of you dinner. It’s endearing to say the least, but food is not something you're hungry for.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” You ask before taking a sip of your coffee. He hasn’t looked up, but you’re facing him now, your scantily clad body exposed by the thin satin of your white bra and underwear. A devil in disguise (you hope).

“Hmm, I was thinking about playing chess in the park for an hour or two before going to the bookstore. A new novel about quantum physics just came out, and even though it’ll probably be about stuff I already know, I’m always willing to look at it from a different perspec…” Spencer finally looked up, his sentence slurring a bit. “...tive.”

“Ah! That sounds exciting! I’ll text you what I want for dinner later if that’s okay? Or would you rather I go shopping with you?”

He blinks, his mouth hanging open intelligently, as though he’s still trying to process exactly what he’s seeing. “Yes. I mean no - I mean… I… what are you wearing?”

You spare a lazy look down, as though you had forgotten you even had the thing on.

“Oh this? It’s just really hot in the apartment today. So make sure you bring some sunscreen and a fan, yeah? Don’t want you getting a sunburn or having a heat stroke.”

“I - I’ve never seen that set before, is it new?” He stammers. You click your tongue as if you genuinely had to date the outfit back, when in reality the tags to the set itself sits pretty in the bathroom trash can. “I have no idea honestly, it looked comfortable though, so I just slipped it on. You don’t mind, right?”

“I… no. I don’t.”

You beam at him, “Perfect. Oh! Let me make you some coffee before you go, I know how hard it is for you to start your day without it.” 

You turn back around, and you could hear Spencer fruitlessly swallow a gasp. The back of your underwear might as well have been a piece of string, because your ass cheeks were basically eating the material. It was uncomfortable, but oh well, beauty is pain.

You smirk in victory, pulling out a medium sized thermos and pouring the rest of the liquid in it.

You didn’t hear him move, let alone walk behind you, but two large hands placed themselves respectively on your hips, the man tucking his face in the side of your neck. You shiver at the hot blow of air that escapes through his nose, and his grip on your skin turns a little tighter.

“What are you doing?” The question is mumbled, but you don’t miss it. “What does it look like? I’m making you coffee, silly.” He huffs. “No. I mean what are you doing to me?”

He presses forward, pushing his half hard cock between your cheeks. It was your turn to gasp, and you couldn’t help but put down the pot of coffee, pushing the now full thermos away to avoid any future hazards. 

You hold on to the edge of the counter, tilting your head further to the side to give the needy man more access. He takes the hint, peppering sweet, heated kisses on the sensitive skin of your throat. You shiver once more, sighing out a smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You know lying is useless, especially with the way your voice sounded so breathless. “You know you’re a terrible liar.” It was a playful dig, and his palms had begun to move, pushing on your full stomach to put more of your weight on him.

“Hm, but you don’t know every single thing I have in the closet, now do you?” You remark, yelping when he nipped at your earlobe. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong and you know it.” You do. “Do I?”

“This is terrible foreplay.” He jokes and you giggle. “I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job, don’t you think?” You push your hips back and add a bit of friction onto his cock. He groans and you feel your pussy pulse.

“You always do a good job.” Spencer murmurs.

You’re turned around so you can face him, and you wish you could take a picture to savor the look on his face. He’s beet red, cheeks and ears flushed a beautiful hue that leaves a twinge of pride pooling in your stomach.

He cups your face, drawing you in for a long awaited kiss. 

You sigh into him, hands twisting at the sleeves of his cardigan to pull him closer. He lets you in exchange of pushing you against the counter until your lower back is digging uncomfortably into the marble.

“Where do you wanna go?” He finally breathes. You stare at him as if you were in a daze before processing his question with a blink. “Couch?” You ask. “Whatever you want.” He says before joining your lips together once more.

He walks the both of you backwards slowly, and he takes advantage of when your mouth parts in a moan as he flicks his tongue against the top of your lip. He tastes like toothpaste and you might be a little crazy to think that it makes him way sexier than it should.

Your eyes flutter open and you push him away with hands on his chest gently.

“Do you trust me?” You gasp.

“Of course.”

“Good.” You say with a smirk.

You make sure he’s close enough to the edge of the couch when you push him on it, quickly clambering onto his lap and settling your hands on his shoulders; his fall naturally to your waist and you grin.

“Hi.” You whisper quietly. “Hey.” He responds back just as hushed. “You can grab my ass, you know.” You tease and his eyes widen just slightly. “I…” You guide his palms to hold the meat of your ass and he grips.

“God.” It tumbles from his lips in a whimper and you fucking melt. 

“Sorry I’ve been such a tease today, Spencie.” You say sweetly with a fake pout. “I just needed you so bad and you’ve been so, so sweet to me, my sweet boy. I didn’t want to ruin it by asking you to fuck me stupid.”

“You wouldn’t have ruined it.” He corrects with a whine. You had begun to grind down on him and he gripped you tightly, helping you rut against him. “No?” You question. He shakes his head quickly, his hair bouncing along with the swings.

“No. ‘Would’ve done anything you asked.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“So, if I asked you to let me suck your dick until I’ve sucked the soul out of you, would you have let me? How about if I asked you to eat my pussy for breakfast, huh? Would you have done it?”

“Yes, yes, God yes! I want to… I wanna do all those things so badly.” He groans, all but pawing at you now. 

“I bet you do,” You coo. “I guess I haven’t been the only one pent up. But that’s okay, because I’ve got you, yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

You smile, leaning in to give him a kiss before traveling downwards to his belt and wrangling it open. You popped open the buttons of his jeans, sliding back so you can tug them down his legs. 

“Up.” You command softly and he obliges. 

You’re faced with his hardened cock bulging from under his black underwear.

“Oh… is this for me?” You know you’re being mean when you drag your fingertips over the spot where precum has begun to pool, only putting slight pressure on it just to hear that sweet sound of his breath hitching.

“Yes – it’s all for you.” Spencer whines and throws his head back against the couch. “All for me? My goodness…” You trail off as you drag his underwear down his thighs. His cock springs up and bobbles against his clothed stomach.

“Can I –” He licks his lips, “Can I take my shirt off?”

“Of course, my love.” You were just about to ask him anyway.

As he rids himself of his top you get up for a split second to take his pants and underwear off fully. As you go to undress yourself, he stops you.

“W— wait… keep it on please.” 

“Oh? You wanna be nasty and pull my panties to the side, huh? Dirty dirty boy.” You tisk, but in reality you feel like you’re about to explode. “Is that okay?” You smile at his question. “More than okay.”

You climb back on top of him, doing exactly what you said and pulling the white satin to the side before gripping his dick, lining it up to your entrance. He holds you steady looking up at you with those big brown puppy dog eyes as you sink down.

The stretch stings because of the lack of foreplay, but you can’t find it within yourself to care as the pain shoots up your lower back and is already fraying at your pleasure filled nerves. 

“So… so good. God.” Spencer chokes. 

Your lips are rolled between your teeth, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You heave out a breath when he sinks down to the hilt, and he just rubs soothing circles on your hips. The feeling helps to guide you as you loosen up, and when you do, you give him an experimental clench.

He groans of course and you smirk lazily.

“‘Gonna ride you now, ‘kay?” You murmur as you lift your hips up before slamming down. Spencer practically shouts when he re-enters you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He’s a whimpering, cursing mess. “That feels good, baby?” You ask as you bounce. Spencer nods and fondness twists in your chest.

“You’re so tight. I think ‘m gonna pass out.” He says dramatically. You laugh, grabbing his hands and slipping them under your bra so they can cover your breasts. “Well, don’t pass out until we’ve cum, alright?”

He gives your breasts a reassuring squeeze. “Of course.” He huffs and you giggle again. The giggles die out though when you shift and his tip prods just right.

“Oh shit.” You curse but remain in the same place.

You ride him in abandon, the sound of skin meeting skin radiating out into the early morning air of the apartment. The sound is nasty and wet and it causes your head to swim. The buzz of mind numbing pleasure swims around in your gut, and you can almost grasp it.

“Spence I – I need more, can you…?” You moan out, your head tilting back. “Yeah, yeah, I got you, sweetheart.”

One hand leaves to rub furiously at your clit and your hips cant forward, sending you landing on his naked, sweat slicked chest. Your thighs burn and you rest for a moment, but Spencer doesn’t seem to match the same sentiment, because the other hand holds you by your hip in a grip that’s almost bruising. 

The fat is spilling through his fingers but he uses it as leverage as he now fucks up into you. You squeal, throwing your arms around his neck and tucking his face into yours. You mark him mindlessly, body trembling as you near your orgasm.

You can feel him twitch inside of you when he sets a pace, bringing you up and down in a way that indicates he’s nearing an end of his own.

“Together, okay?” You cry out, “‘Wanna cum together.”

“Okay, honey, okay.” 

He sets his feet on the floor and rubs harder at your sensitive bud, and the arousal that implodes inside of you is so blinding that you white out for a minute. Every one of your senses are overwhelmed, and you can hear him mewling into your ear before warmth paints your womb.

It’s silent in the apartment for a moment before you speak.

“I have to tell you a secret.” You whisper mindlessly, laying your cheek on a bony shoulder. “And what’s that?” He runs his fingers up and down your spine.

“This set is new.”

“I know honey, I saw the charge on my card.”

“What?!” You exclaim, pulling away from his body to search his hazy eyes with your wide ones.

“You forget I can see the bank statements.” Spencer says with a smile. “No, no. I – I didn’t mean to use your card.”

“You didn’t have to… I may have uh… may have slipped one into your wallet when you weren’t looking.” He admits sheepishly. You stare at a moment and then smile incredulously. “Did you… secretly sugar daddy me?”

“Oh God, please don’t call it that.” He says with a groan, leaning forward to bury his face in your chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever sugar daddy.” You tease, running your fingers through his sweaty locks.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

[rheitais]

Dc x Dp Fallen Moons Pt. 1.5

Was thinking of interactions for this post. So here we go, unhinged thoughts at 1 am on a weekday while I procrastinate. Thank you @kizzer55555 for the parental figure. Clayface is their dad and i feel that it fits for the whole uncanny twins.

Damian: Father, Richard, meet my classmates Daniel and Dante Nightingale. They were assigned to my group project with Jonathan.

Danny and Dan: Nice to meet you, Mr.Wayne. *while deadpanning*

Dick and Bruce: Reeling internally ever so aggressively.

_____________________________

Danny: Dad we met Bruce Wayne today.

Karlo: Is that so? Did you have fun?

Dante: Eh it was kinda boring. I think the only interesting part was his cave but even then he really is just a fruitloop.

Karlo: Of course- Wait what? Did you say cave????

_____________________________

Batman, still in the cave: So it seems you were right Nightwing. Not only are their records fake but even their parent identity is fake and with footage from Oracle, it is believed their possible guardian is Clayface.

Nightwing, patroing: Do you think they are in danger? I mean with how they act and stuff. They might even be metas from what robin put in their file.

Red hood: Are you talking about casper and jade?

Robin: Red hood, I believe that your very ridiculous skills for names need to be reworked. Neither of them are jade.

Red hood: Whatever you say baby bird, as for you Blue and B, those kids couldn't be anymore safe. Honestly.

Batman: What do you know?

Red hood: I don't know, the fact that I'm watching Clayface throw down with some vampire dude in an alley, like a full on cat fight. On top of that, he is winning. Ooh that was right in the ribs, yeah I don't think the vampire dude is going to get away from trying to kidnap his kids and the squirts are cheering him on too.

_____________________________

Karlo, standing over Vald's slightly but bloody deformed body: Come here to help or try taking them too?

Red hood: Honestly, I'll take care of the guy. Just go home it's late as hell and definitely pass their bedtime.

Karlo: Tell your clan they don't have any business looking into me or my family. Also this "thing" is a warning. Try taking them from and every last one of you will feel this tenfold.

Red Robin in coms: Parenthood is one hell of a drug.

Batman, pretty much understanding that feeling from after Jason's death: This case is closed.

_____________________________

3 am and at Bat Burger:

Karlo: Jesus Christ, kids breathe, the food isn't going anywhere.

Dante: But it will start fighting back if we take too long.

Karlo: Food shouldn't be fighting you?

Danny: Home food did, always.

Karlo proceeds to go through the 5 stages of grief.

__________________________________

Harley: K, baby where did you find these munchkins?!

Ivy: Yes because they are definitely not yours.

Selina: Oh don't let you-know-who hear that, he would adopt these kittens in a heartbeat.

Danny: NO, WE ARE STAYING WITH DAD. No more adoption. It started and ended with Dad.

Dante: Dad already swore he would kill both Bruce and Batman if they tried taking us anyway.

Karlo, already done with life and exhausted on the couch: They can try and fail miserably.

_____________________________

[ Masterpost ]

[lotusteabag]

'68 FIREBIRD | CALEB XIA

SUMMARY: during a summer of grease-stained hands and quiet yearning, you and caleb rebuild a pontiac firebird—and, unknowingly, each other. by the time the engine roars to life, so does a love that's always been idling just beneath the surface.

PAIRING: mechanic!caleb x fem!reader CONTAINS: fluff and comfort, romance, childhood friends to lovers au, 80s au, slight angst (a misunderstanding), mutual pining, emotional tension, soft jealousy, inaccurate depictions of a mechanic and the innards of a car, mechanic caleb supremacy NOW PLAYING: just the two of us (feat. bill withers) by grover washington, jr. WC: 12.3k WARNINGS: none!

–IGNITION (Starting the spark.)

There’s a kind of heat that only happens at the end of a long day–not the sharp, punishing kind that sits heavy at noon, but one that’s slower, softer, almost sleepy. The kind that turns the edges of things golden, that makes every breath feel dipped in syrup. You coast through it on your battered bicycle, wheels humming a lazy, warbling tune over the cracked asphalt, your shadow stretching out behind you like a tattered flag.

The old parking lot behind the garage is half-swallowed by weeds and broken glass, bordered by a sagging chain-link fence and rusted-out pickup skeletons. It smells faintly of motor oil, warm tar, and the first tentative promises of summer. You kick your bike to a wobbling halt, dust puffing up in little ghostly clouds around your sneakers, and there he is–Caleb Xia.

He’s leaning against the side of a car, loose-limbed and easy, the sunset pooling across his skin like spilled fire. His shirt’s sleeves are rolled haphazardly to his elbows, grease staining the strong line of his forearms. His dark brown hair is mussed, curled at the ends from sweat and the weight of the day, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes–those ridiculous, impossible galaxy-purple eyes–catch the light and scatter it back like twin stars.

You don’t know how he does it, how he carries himself like a smile you haven’t seen yet, like some secret he’s almost willing to tell. Caleb’s the kind of boy people instinctively orbit–friendly, steady, the kind of charm that doesn’t burn so hot as much it glows slow and certain. There are rumors already: about how the new girl at school asked him to the dance and he turned her down with a laugh so gentle she didn’t even mind; about how the garage hired him even though he barely had experience, just because he’s a fast learner and you can’t teach heart like that.

Sure, he’s wearing his work boots, grease-smudged jeans, and a T-shirt that’s seen better days, but he looks like he belongs to the sunlight–not the grime. Like he was made for both. Like the world tried to rough him up but couldn’t touch the core of him.

You skid to a stop a few feet away, breathless in more ways than one, and throw a hand dramatically over your forehead.

“I’m dying,” you announce. “Out of pure boredom. You have to save me.”

Caleb arches a brow, unimpressed but smiling anyway. “You gonna keel over right here, pipsqueak? Should I start diggin’ your grave now, or later?”

“Pfft,” you scoff, dropping your bike unceremoniously onto the hot ground. “You owe me. I watched that boring documentary about carburetors with you. I sat through two whole hours of engine diagrams.”

“You fell asleep halfway through,” he reminds you, pushing off the car with a lazy stretch. His shirt rides up just a little, flashing a slice of tan, grease-smeared skin before settling back down. “You were drooling.”

“Details,” you wave him off, already beelining toward the object of your shameless begging: a sleek, cherry-red ‘67 Mustang–an old project Caleb had nursed back from the dead over the last year. It gleams in the dying light like something alive, something that could run forever if only you knew how to coax it.

You circle it reverently, hands behind your back like a museum visitor, making a low, appreciative noise in your throat.

“Let me drive it,” you please, turning those big, hopeful eyes on him–the ones you know he can never quite resist. “Come on, please, Caleb. Just around the lot. I won’t even shift past second gear.”

He exhales, slow and weary, like a man being asked to give up his most prized possession to a rabid raccoon.

“You barely know how to work a clutch,” he grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Only that familiar fondness, exasperation wound tight with affection.

You bounce on your heels, undeterred. “I can learn! You’re supposed to teach me! That’s what good friends do!”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, smearing grease across his temple without noticing, then sighs the kind of sigh that says I’m going to regret this, but I’d let you wreck me if you asked nicely enough.

“Shortstack,” he mutters, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You beam like the sun itself. He rolls his eyes, opens the driver’s side door with a reluctant, theatrical groan, and jerks his head toward the seat.

“You break it, you buy it,” he warns, but his voice is warm, not sharp. A warmth that whispers I trust you with the things I love most.

You scramble forward, giddy, already half in love with the feeling of the cracked leather under your palms, the faint metallic tang of old air-conditioning and gasoline filling your lungs.

Outside, the last sliver of sun sinks beneath the horizon, leaving only the bruised purple of twilight and the first shy stars peeking through. Inside, everything smells like oil and old dreams, and Caleb–standing beside you, smirking despite himself–feels as solid and steady as a lighthouse against the tide.

Sliding into Caleb’s Mustang feels like stepping into his personal history. Every inch of it seems to hold some tiny echo of him–small details that tell a story deeper than words ever could. The leather seats, worn soft from hours spent coaxing life into stubborn engines, bear faint smudges of grease, tracing the shape of his fingertips. A cluster of cassettes spills haphazardly from the glove compartment–Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Queen. His old denim jacket, smelling of gasoline and summer grass, drapes casually across the passenger seat like an invitation, sleeves frayed at the cuffs from restless hands. You run your fingers over it briefly, a soft shiver chasing the contact.

He slips into the passenger side next to you with the easy grace of someone who’s spent countless evenings doing exactly this–windows down, music loud, the world reduced to a blur of neon lights and endless pavement. The car shifts slightly beneath his weight, creaking softly like an old house settling into its bones, comfortable and familiar. Caleb watches you with amusement dancing in his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a gentle smirk as you fumble to adjust the seat, scooting forward until your toes finally brush the pedals.

“Easy there, pipsqueak,” he murmurs teasingly, his voice warm and deep, curling softly at the edges in a way that feels like smoke from a bonfire. “Don’t want you straining something just tryin’ to reach.”

You shoot him a mock glare, heat rising lightly to your cheeks, grateful the gathering twilight masks your blush. You’re acutely aware of him beside you, his long legs sprawled carelessly beneath the dash, one arm resting casually along the back of your seat. The air in the car grows thick, honeyed with tension–an innocent kind, sweeter for its clumsiness, unspoken and untested but undeniably there.

He reaches across you, the faint scent of motor oil and something uniquely Caleb enveloping you as he taps a finger lightly on the ignition key dangling from the steering column, keys jangling softly like tiny chimes. Your eyes catch the slight roughness of his hands, fingertips calloused from hours of wrenching bolts and sanding metal, a small cut on his thumb healing unevenly–marks of someone who works with care, patience, persistence.

“First things first,” he instructs softly, voice gentle with infinite patience. “Clutch down, remember? Easy does it.”

You nod vigorously, biting down a smile that threatens to split your face in two. The pedals feel heavy under your feet, impossibly stubborn, as if silently challenging your determination. Caleb’s car–so effortlessly his–seems to test you, to size you up in that quiet, teasing way he always does. Your foot barely reaches, stretching slightly, toes pointed. He chuckles softly, a sound that sparks like a struck match, bright and fleeting.

“Need me to grab you a phone book, shortstack?” he drawls lazily, the rich amusement pooling warm in the pit of your stomach.

You huff, defiant, lifting your chin. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, eyes glittering softly with humor. But he leans closer anyway, broad shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of him seeping through your skin, soothing your nerves. You realize suddenly that he’s close enough for you to see faint freckles scattered across his nose, barely visible beneath his summer tan. Tiny constellations, secrets mapped in skin. You swallow hard.

Your palm rests hesitantly over the gearshift, fingers curling around its worn leather surface, waiting, heart thumping hard beneath your ribs. Then, without a word, Caleb’s hand settles gently over yours, fingers folding easily over your smaller ones. He guides your movements carefully–first, second, back to neutral–his palm rough yet oddly gentle, warm, secure, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Heat floods your cheeks again, and your breath comes quicker, a tiny hitch he pretends not to notice. You glance sideways, trying to read the quiet expression on his face. Caleb’s eyes remain on your joined hands, thoughtful, his thumb brushing almost absently against the back of yours, once, twice, before pulling away slowly. A breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding escapes into the silent car.

“See?” he says finally, voice carefully casual. “Nothin’ to it.”

He sits back comfortably in his seat, the arm stretched out behind your shoulders remaining there, warm and reassuring. You glance again at his profile–strong jaw set softly against the fading light, galaxy eyes reflecting a quiet glow of dashboard illumination. The realization hits you gently, a truth you’d known somewhere deeper than thought: Caleb isn’t just teaching you to drive–he’s wordlessly handing you a piece of himself, carefully trusting you to handle it.

Determined now, you steel your nerves, foot pressing down on the clutch more confidently this time, gearshift familiar beneath your fingers, a little braver because he’s here. You twist the key, ignition turning with a satisfying click, the dashboard flickering to life, needles jumping expectantly in their dials. Caleb’s grin widens, proud and encouraging.

“Good,” he praises softly, so gently it squeezes your heart. “Now ease off the clutch–slowly. Real slow, pipsqueak.”

You do exactly as he instructs–until the car jolts violently forward, lurching and sputtering, engine coughing loudly in protest. Caleb’s laugh bursts out suddenly, rich and unapologetic, filling the car like summer thunder. Embarrassment floods your veins, but his arm tightens reassuringly around the back of your seat, bracing your body from the clumsy jolt, his warmth a comforting shield.

“You’re tryin’ to kill my car already?” he teases, laughter still lingering at the edges of his voice.

You groan softly, embarrassment giving way to reluctant laughter of your own. “This really was a bad idea.”

“Nah,” he murmurs affectionately, leaning closer again, reaching gently to help you reset. His shoulder nudges yours comfortingly as he guides you through the motions once more, infinitely patient. “You’ll get it. She just needs you to go easy on her.”

It’s absurd, really, but you think he’s talking about more than just the car.

Together, you try again–once, twice, engine stumbling and then steadying, each attempt clumsy yet exhilarating. His voice remains calm, encouraging; his hand finds yours again briefly on the gearshift, each touch lingering longer, holding tighter. And when you finally manage a smoother glide forward, a gentle, triumphant hum of the engine beneath your trembling fingertips, Caleb looks at you with such warmth that it steals your breath away.

“Atta girl,” he whispers softly, the corners of his mouth curling into a lazy smile, eyes shimmering gently in the dim glow of dashboard lights. And somehow, impossibly, in this tiny moment–clumsy and chaotic, full of sputtering engines and quiet laughter–you feel something spark between you, fragile and hopeful, glowing softly like embers beneath ash.

The Mustang rolls forward, carrying you both into the twilight–into something uncertain and unnamed, but already achingly familiar. Something bright and warm. Something just beginning.

–CHASSIS (The frame–the first bones of trust.)

You hadn’t expected nostalgia to smell like rust and engine oil, yet here you stand, ankle-deep in dusty gravel, breathing it in like it’s something precious. Summer has returned–older now, mellower somehow, the sunlight softer at the edges as it trickles gently through gaps in rusting metal. The junkyard spreads around you like an old, forgotten kingdom, towers of gutted vehicles stacked one atop another, silent sentinels guarding the memories they used to carry. Long shadows stretch and fold along their battered shells, the sky a dreamy shade of blue that deepens subtly at its fringe, like ink spilled into water.

Caleb walks ahead of you, navigating this mechanical graveyard with the familiar ease of someone visiting an old friend. He’s grown, you realize, in more ways than just the broadening of his shoulders or the quiet confidence in his steps. His presence feels richer now, layered with experiences that have shaped him softly but surely into the man beside you. There’s something beautifully unchanged too–the way sunlight seems drawn to him, highlighting the subtle streaks of honey-gold in his dark hair, teasing out the gentle kindness that lives in every silent glance.

He had knocked on your door early this morning, sunshine drenching him like a halo, looking impossibly hopeful and slightly mischievous all at once. “Come with me,” he’d said, voice carrying that irresistible note of warmth you could never quite refuse. And now here you are, trailing behind him through aisles of rusted frames and faded chrome, each row telling stories of adventures once had and roads long forgotten.

Your fingers skim lightly over the corroded hoods and doors as you walk, each surface a different texture beneath your touch–rough, pitted, flaking away in your palms. You feel the soft ache of memories stirring somewhere deep, recalling afternoons spent sprawled in Caleb’s driveway, knees scraped and fingertips raw from sandpaper, laughter muffled by the low, steady hum of a radio playing softly in the background.

Caleb pauses suddenly, as though something invisible has called out to him, a silent voice drawing him nearer. You watch his eyes settle on a shadowed form at the far edge of the yard, tucked away beneath a tarp so weather-worn it’s nearly indistinguishable from the dusty earth around it. He moves closer, steps careful, reverent, anticipation brightening his expression into a boyish kind of hopefulness you’ve missed more than you realized.

He peels back the tarp slowly, gently, like he’s pulling away the veil from a masterpiece, and you can’t help but frown at what lies under. The car–what’s left of it–is barely recognizable as anything once roadworthy. Its surface is battered, doors missing, rust forming intricate patterns along the skeletal frame, the paint long stripped away by years of weather and neglect. Yet even in this sorry state, the car holds itself with a kind of dignity, a quiet pride in having survived so much for so long. 

“A ‘68 Pontiac Firebird, “Caleb whispers to you, and you know instantly he’s found what he came searching for.

You move closer, joining him in quiet contemplation, the weight of years and dreams hanging softly between you. Caleb reaches out and runs his fingertips carefully along the hood, tracing the lines and curves as though relearning something he once knew intimately. You watch him, aware suddenly that this isn’t just another car. It’s a new story Caleb wants to tell–a fresh chapter waiting to be penned with his diligent hands, patience, and endless, steady affection.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself, eyes lingering over the battered frame with a quiet awe reserved for the most precious of discoveries. He catches your skeptical glance, and something warm and amused flickers gently in those galaxy-bright eyes. “Or, well, she will be,” he corrects himself, his voice threaded through with quiet conviction.

You step closer, inspecting the tangled wires spilling from beneath the empty dashboard, the gaping hollows where seats once rested. You run your fingers over the faded metal edge, imagining the countless journeys and whispered conversations that once filled this space. Caleb watches wordlessly, content just to see you sharing in this hushed reverie. After a long moment, he nudges you playfully with his shoulder, a gentle press of warmth that feels as comforting as an embrace.

“Could use some tiny hands,” he teases, leaning against the car beside you, his voice low and warm, carrying faint echoes of that younger Caleb who taught you to drive. “You could fit in places I can’t, pipsqueak.”

You smile softly at the nickname, the affectionate teasing, the silent promise woven subtly between his words. It’s his way of inviting you into this dream he’s shaping, into the gentle labor of restoring something broken into something beautiful again. It’s Caleb all over–believing deeply in what others overlook, seeing potential where the world sees ruin.

You brush rust-stained fingertips against the car’s cold metal again, the sunlight warming your shoulders, the soft drone of insects and distant birdsong creating a slow, sweet soundtrack for this moment. Caleb stands close enough now that his presence is like a solid warmth against your side, steadfast, reassuring. Something twists softly in your chest, tender and achingly familiar, like a song you haven’t heard in ages but still know every word to.

This, you think to yourself, is how all great things begin–not in perfection, but in quiet hopefulness, patient hands, and hearts that see beyond the surface. You glance sideways at Caleb, the way the afternoon light catches in his eyes, the tender lift at the corner of his lips, and you feel yourself drawn inevitably into this new adventure he’s chosen for you both.

You’re not sure how long you both stand there–sunlight warm on your backs, breathing in the faded scent of oil and metal, silent promises passing gently between you–but when Caleb finally speaks again, softly, decisively, you know you’ve already made your choice, just as he made his.

“This one,” he says firmly, a note of finality in his voice, gaze still fixed on the car. He turns his head slightly, those deep violet eyes meeting yours like a vow, and his smile blooms into something brilliant, hopeful, utterly genuine. “Let’s take her home.”

You nod, unable–and unwilling–to hide your own fond smile in return, and together you both step back, leaving your fingerprints in dust, your silent hopes tangled with rust and old dreams, ready to bring something broken back to life.

The garage Caleb calls his own isn’t much to look at from the outside–a sagging structure tucked behind his family’s house, its paint peeling in long strips like sunburned skin, the roof patched here and there with mismatched sheets of tin. But inside, it’s a kingdom.

Posters from old car shows and bands you both loved when you were younger–Sex Pistols, Def Leppard, AC/DC–are tacked haphazardly to the walls. A battered cassette deck hums softly from a workbench cluttered with socket wrenches, oil cans, and faded Polaroids stuck with yellowing tape. There’s an old green couch against the far wall, threadbare and drooping, a graveyard for stray tools and half-drunk bottles of Coke.

The Firebird sits square in the center, the centerpiece of it all.

It took two days to drag her home and clear enough space to work, but the moment she rested beneath the buzzing fluorescents, it felt like she belonged. And maybe you did, too.

Caleb tosses you a pair of oversized coveralls that smell faintly of gasoline and soap, a teasing glint in his violet eyes. “Hope you’re not afraid of a little dirt, pipsqueak.”

You catch them against your chest with a dramatic oof, grinning despite yourself. “I’ll have you know,” you say loftily, stepping into the baggy legs, “I’m a professional now. Expert dirt-getter.”

His laughter bounces off the metal rafters–rich, warm, the kind of sound you feel under your ribs.

You start with the seats. Caleb shows you how to find the bolts hidden deep beneath the rusted frames, your fingers bumping clumsily against the cold metal. He kneels beside you, demonstrating with slow, easy movements, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his back every time he leans forward. His forearms flex as he works, and you try not to notice, not really, not in any way that would make things weird.

“Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, and when you flash him a glare, he smirks wickedly.

“I know that,” you huff. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

“No one said you were, pipsqueak,” he says easily, bumping his shoulder into yours with deliberate gentleness. “You’re just… fun-sized.”

You stick your tongue out at him and return to wrestling with a stubborn bolt, cheeks burning hotter than they should.

The hours pass in a haze of dust and low music, the scratchy vocals of an old cassette mixing with the clink of tools and the rhythmic scritch of sandpaper. You lose yourself in the work, hands blackened, arms aching pleasantly from the effort. Grease streaks your face and smudges your clothes, settling into the crooks of your elbows, the creases of your palms. Somehow, it feels right–like this is what you were made for: this dirt, this sweat, this slow and steady act of bringing something broken back to life.

At one point, Caleb leans over to show you how to wedge a ratchet into a tight corner near the floor pan. His chest brushes lightly against your shoulder, warm and solid, and when you glance up, he’s impossibly close. His hair falls slightly into his eyes, damp with sweat, and there’s a smudge of oil trailing along the line of his jaw.

You freeze, half holding your breath, your hand still clutching the ratchet awkwardly mid-air. Caleb notices the grime streaking your own cheek and, without thinking, lifts his thumb to swipe it away. His touch is gentle, slower than it needs to be, the pad of his thumb lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

“There,” he murmurs, voice roughened slightly from the dust in the air–or maybe something else. His thumb brushes across your skin again, lighter this time, before he draws it back, clearing his throat quietly.

You mumble something in return–maybe a thanks, maybe just a noise–and duck your head back toward your work, praying he can’t hear the way your heart thunders wildly against your ribs.

From the corner of your eye, you catch him looking at you again–not the playful, teasing glance he usually tosses your way, but something quieter. Something almost… awed. It lasts only a moment before he schools his face back into easy nonchalance, tossing a bolt into the battered coffee can you’ve both been using as a parts bin. But the look lingers, burned into the inside of your chest like the slow fade of headlights down an empty road.

Later, when the sun begins its slow descent, casting the garage in long golden bands of light, you both step back and survey your progress. The Firebird’s interior is gutted, seats piled neatly to the side, bolts and panels catalogued into little cardboard boxes with Caleb’s careful scrawl. Dust floats lazily in the shafts of sun, and the world feels smaller somehow, folded neatly into this warm, messy moment you never want to end.

Your arms are streaked with grease, and there’s a tear in your jeans you don’t remember getting, and you’re absolutely certain you’ve never looked less presentable in your life. But when Caleb glances at you again, his smile is so easy, so fond, that you think–maybe just for a heartbeat–that he’d rather have you here like this, messy and real, than anywhere else.

You don’t dare say anything. You don’t want to risk losing this fragile, perfect thing you’re building together–not just the car, but something quieter, something stitched carefully between laughter and stolen glances and the brush of fingertips over dusty cheeks.

Instead, you nudge him lightly with your shoulder, mimicking his earlier teasing, and grin when chuckles low under his breath.

“You’re not so bad for a shortstack,” he says, voice playful but soft, carrying a note of something unspoken.

You bump him again, just to feel the solid, familiar weight of him beside you, and the two of you stand there for a long moment in the golden hush, breathing in oil and sun-warmed metal, the Firebird gleaming softly between you like a dream just beginning to take shape.

–ENGINE (The heart–beginnings of yearning.)

The heart of any car is its engine, and right now, the Firebird’s heart is just an empty hollow, a cavernous space yawning wide where metal and machinery should breathe life into steel and chrome. It feels like possibility and like absence, like something desperately waiting to be made whole. When Caleb first lifts the hood for you, revealing that gaping emptiness, you feel it somewhere deeper than just your eyes. There’s a quiet ache in it, a yearning not so different from the unnamed feeling you carry around yourself these days.

Caleb pulls an old tarp off a collection of boxes, revealing the meticulous puzzle he’s assembled piece by painstaking piece: pistons, rods, rings, timing chains–all patiently waiting, polished and lined up with careful precision. This is how he is with everything, you think quietly–calm, determined, making sense of chaos until it’s something whole and beautiful again. You envy that quality more than you’d ever admit.

The afternoons blur into one another, each stretching long and slow beneath the lazy summer sun. You’re out in the garage every day now, elbows-deep in engine grease, fingertips raw and stained from endless sanding, oil smudges stubbornly clinging beneath your nails. Your clothes are a lost cause, grease-splattered shirts and jeans becoming badges of honor rather than accidents. The radio hums quietly in the corner, cassette tapes cycling through the familiar rhythms of your shared childhood–Springsteen and Mellencamp, Petty’s melancholy lyrics mingling with the hum of cicadas outside the open garage door.

Together you work meticulously, learning the careful ballet of assembling an engine from scratch–pieces sliding smoothly into place with Caleb’s steady hands guiding yours, gentle yet firm. You memorize the slow, attentive way he explains everything, voice patient and easy. He trusts you more each day, passing you tools and tasks without hesitation, as if he’s always known you’d fit beside him exactly like this.

When the pistons finally slot into place for the first time, a flush of pride warms your chest. Caleb notices your silent triumph and nudges your shoulder gently, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles.

“See? Told you you’d get it, pipsqueak,” he says, his voice low and warm, something more than teasing lingering softly behind his words. You duck your head, smiling, heart stuttering beneath your ribs.

Between the scrupulous steps–aligning crankshafts and securing timing chains–the conversations between you shift quietly, deepening with each passing hour. Caleb speaks of dreams he’s never mentioned aloud before: opening his own garage someday, maybe even taking over the one he’s apprenticing at now. There’s pride and silent ambition in his voice, and you find yourself swept along by his easy confidence, drawn gently into the soft warmth of his hopes.

You, however, find it harder to speak your own dreams aloud. Instead, you talk quietly of your fears–the nagging sense of being small, left behind somehow. Your own aspirations feel less clear, murkier, harder to grasp. How can you explain to Caleb, who shines effortlessly, drawing people to him without ever trying, that your own life feels tentative, uncertain? You work at an ice cream store, scooping cones and serving sundaes, watching kids and families pass by, their laughter and chatter flowing around you like water around a rock. You don’t hate it–but sometimes you feel like you’re watching your life from behind a glass counter, invisible and unable to truly touch it.

Caleb hates it when you say things like that. He stops working entirely when you mutter something self-deprecating, something quiet and dismissive, and the forceful gentleness of his response takes you by surprise.

“You’re not small where it counts,” he insists, voice roughened by sincerity, violet eyes darkening seriously as he studies you. “Never were, pipsqueak.”

You feel yourself flush again, heart stuttering hard against your ribs, your chest suddenly too tight to breathe properly. Caleb rarely speaks like this, rarely lets seriousness harden the edges of his playful nature. It unsettles you, makes you ache in a way you don’t quite understand–like something warm and tender opening inside you, vulnerable and uncertain.

You duck your head again, busying your hands with tools and engine grease, too afraid to let him see how deeply his words have burrowed beneath your skin. You want to believe him–you desperately want to–but doubt remains, whispering from somewhere deep inside you. Still, Caleb’s conviction makes you want to trust, want to hold onto this moment, his steadfast certainty like sunlight warming your shoulders, chasing away shadows you’d grown used to.

Late in the afternoon, while aligning the crankshaft carefully into its bearings, your fingers slip awkwardly, fumbling clumsily with a stubborn bolt. Caleb moves without a word, his hand covering yours, gently steadying your grip, guiding your fingers back to where they belong. His palm is rough, calloused, yet impossibly tender, fingers lingering softly over yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Neither of you speak, the moment stretching between you, filled with unspoken things, fragile and tremulous.

When he finally draws away, the absence of his warmth leaves you strangely bereft, hollowed out in a new way you don’t fully recognize. You glance sideways, catching him watching you with quiet contemplation in his eyes, a look that’s almost longing, though you can’t quite trust yourself to read it clearly. He’s Caleb–charming, charismatic, effortlessly magnetic. You know half the town is probably head-over-heels for him, and yet here he is, quiet and patient beside you, spending his summer afternoons breathing new life into old steel and rust, as though there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Maybe that’s enough, you think, tightening the next bolt carefully, fingers trembling slightly. Maybe just having this–these gentle moments, this quiet understanding–is more than you’d ever dare to ask for anyway. You don’t have to name it, you don’t have to define what this is or what it might become. It’s enough to feel the steady presence of him beside you, the rhythm of your days marked by laughter and the slow, methodical work of rebuilding this heart of steel together.

The sun sinks lower outside, painting the sky in streaks of apricot and lilac. Caleb pauses to wipe his hands clean, streaks of grease still shadowing his fingertips. He nudges you gently again, that familiar warmth returning to his voice, layered with quiet meaning.

“You and me,” he says softly, nodding toward the engine. “We could build anything, you know.”

You glance up, meeting his gaze. For just a moment, something open and vulnerable flickers between you both, a truth held steady beneath his careful gaze. You nod numbly, feeling something deep inside you shift into place, just like the last piston slotting neatly home.

“Yeah,” you reply quietly, your voice almost a whisper, careful not to reveal too much. “I know.”

The days roll by in slow, hazy loops, stitched together with warm grease-streaked afternoons and the thrum of distant thunderheads gathering on the horizon. In the lull between wrench turns and socket sets, you start to notice things. Not big things, not moments that stop your breath–but small ones. The kind you only realize you’ve been storing away when it’s too late to pretend they don’t matter.

Like the way Caleb always brings an extra soda–root beer for you, because he knows you like the glass bottles better. He never says anything, just hands it over wordlessly, the glass sweating in your palm. Or the way he leans into door frames when it rains, all tall limbs and lazy posture, but subtly tilts his body just enough to keep the worst of it off your shoulders. It’s instinctual, unconscious–the kind of consideration that’s never been asked of him and yet seems woven into who he is.

And then there’s how he looks at you–or maybe, more accurately, how he doesn’t look at anyone else.

People come and go from the garage sometimes–friends from the shop, old classmates, girls who lean into their laughter a little too obviously when they spot him covered in grease and smiling in that slow, golden way of his. He’s charming, everyone says so. Popular without trying. Caleb’s the kind of guy people want to orbit. You used to wonder if it bothered you. Now you know it doesn’t–not really. Because he never looks back. Not the way he looks at you, with quiet attention and a softness so steady it feels like a place to rest.

He asks you what music you want on before you even speak, knows which tool to hand you without you needing to ask. At some point, his hands start brushing yours more–passing bolts, steadying tools–and he never pulls away too quickly. Not anymore. Neither do you.

You’re not sure what this is. What it could be. But you know, somehow, in that space behind your ribs, that you’re becoming each other’s heart without even trying.

It’s late one afternoon when the sky suddenly turns mean. Thunder rolls in like an angry drumbeat, low and heavy. You’re elbow-deep in the wiring harness while Caleb turns the carburetor, the Firebird’s innards slowly knitting back into something that almost breathes again.

The rain comes fast–loud against the tin roof, a metallic lullaby. Caleb doesn’t flinch. He just shifts beside you, leaning his shoulder closer to yours, and grins.

“Guess we’re stuck here for a bit,” he says, brushing a streak of oil from his jaw with the back of his wrist. “You okay with being trapped with me, pipsqueak?”

You snort. “Trapped? Please. You’d get lonely without me, anyways.”

He laughs, full and warm, the kind that spills into your bones and lingers there. “I think I’d survive without your commentary on my spark plug gap.”

“I think you wouldn’t survive without me making fun of your spark plug gap.”

“You wound me,” he says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest, but the look in his eyes is soft, fond. Like he’s grateful for your presence even when your words are sharp. Especially then.

The rain grows heavier. Water runs in small rivulets down the windows, blurring the world outside. Inside the garage, the light is golden and comforting, making everything feel like a memory even while it’s still happening.

You settle onto the couch for a break, dropping beside him with a sigh. He tosses you a rag, and you wipe your hands while he fiddles with the radio dial until something older comes through–a song from your shared childhood, something scratchy and sweet. Phil Collins, maybe. Or Bryan Adams. It hardly matters. The moment’s already perfect.

“I remember this,” you murmur, head tipping back against the couch cushion, the ceiling fans clicking above you in a lazy circle. “You played it on repeat one summer. Drove everyone nuts.”

“Not you,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “You never complained.”

“Yeah, well. I was too busy trying to keep up with you.” You mean it as a joke. Mostly. But it comes out softer than you intend. Honest.

Caleb’s smile falters just slightly–not in a bad way, but as if he’s considering something. Turning it over in his mind.

“You never had to,” he says after a beat, voice low. “I mean it. You were always enough just… being you.”

You glance at him, and the way he says it–like it’s the simplest truth in the world–makes your breath catch in your throat. You look away too fast, down at your hands still covered with traces of grease and oil, suddenly not knowing what to do with them.

You want to say something back, something real, but the words get lost somewhere on their way to your mouth.

Instead, you lean forward and grab another part from the toolbox, letting the silence settle again, but it’s not heavy. It never is with him. Just comfortable. Like the moments between switching gears–necessary, natural, leading somewhere you can’t quite see yet.

Later, after the wiring’s cleaned and the timing chain finally aligned, you both stand over the engine bay in shared satisfaction. It’s still not finished–there’s so much left to do–but for now, it’s enough. The Firebird has a heart again. Quiet and waiting. Ready to run.

Caleb wipes his hands on his jeans, and without thinking, offers you the last sip of his soda. The gesture is so casual, so second-nature, it sends a small, unexpected ache through your chest.

You take it. Drink. Smile.

He watches you with that quiet, unreadable look of his again. The one that makes you feel seen. Not admired, not adored–known. All your edges and doubts laid bare. And still–still, he stays.

“You think we’ll finish this by the end of summer?” you ask, mostly to fill the space, though part of you dreads the answer.

“Maybe,” he answers, dragging a hand through his hair. “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get there.”

We. The word hums through you, steady and certain.

He smiles, soft and easy. “You and me? We’re the team, remember? As long as we’re in it together, we can fix anything.”

You want to believe that more than you’ve wanted anything in a long time. And for the first time, you think maybe you really do.

–TRANSMISSION (Learning how to move forward–together.)

There’s a delicate rhythm to shifting gears–a careful dance of timing, precision, and patience. Caleb’s voice hums gently beneath the hood of the car as he walks you through it, fingers tracing the smooth curve of a gearshift, each gesture slow and steady. You watch him quietly, memorizing the way he moves, the fluid certainty of his hands and the soft, thoughtful set of his brow. It’s familiar, almost achingly so, and you realize he’s taught you all this before. Years ago, when you’d sat beside him in his old Mustang, the sunlight melting gold over the cracked parking lot. You remember his laughter back then, warm and reassuring, as you’d fumbled your way through clutch pedals and stalled engines. It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet nothing’s changed at all.

“You already know most of this,” he murmurs, a faint, teasing smile curling the corners of his mouth, “or did all of that expert teaching of mine slip your mind?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. He chuckles, a deep, comforting sound that mingles softly with the summer breeze drifting through the open garage doors. The sunlight slants lazily through dust-specked air, the afternoon worn comfortably around you both like a faded denim jacket. You listen to him anyway, hanging onto every quiet word, every patient instruction, not because you need to hear it again, but because it feels good just to stand beside him like this. Together. Like it used to be.

And somewhere in the gentle lull between his words–somewhere beneath the hum of cicadas and the murmuring of the radio–you start to understand why transmissions matter. It isn’t just about gears shifting smoothly or engines humming to life. It’s about timing. It’s about things aligning perfectly, synchronizing just right so nothing stalls or falters. Caleb explains it with a seriousness that surprises you, his voice low and rich, as if he’s talking about something sacred, something infinitely fragile.

“Everything has to work together,” he says softly, fingers brushing lightly over the gears. “Miss one step, one little shift, and everything falls apart. You gotta trust the timing, trust yourself, and know exactly when to move forward.”

You nod quietly, letting his words settle deep in your chest, feeling their gentle weight like stones dropped carefully into still water. You can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about more than just the car–but the thought drifts away, unspoken, replaced by the comfortable silence you always share.

Later, as evening slips into night, you find yourselves working beneath the soft glow of a bare bulb hanging over the engine bay. Caleb’s decided to test an old Chevy engine he’s rebuilt for someone else, its heart throbbing quietly beneath the hood. He gestures for you to climb into the driver’s seat, trusting you without hesitation.

You slide into place, feeling the old leather seat creak softly beneath you, simple and comforting. Yet your heart kicks harder, nervous suddenly in a way you shouldn’t be. You know this–it’s as familiar as breathing–but it’s the way Caleb watches you, so patient and expectant, that makes your fingers tremble just slightly when you grip the wheel.

He nods, eyes gentle, voice calm. “Just like always, pipsqueak.”

You exhale carefully, foot pressing slowly on the clutch, feeling the quiet catch of gears beneath your palm. But something slips, just a fraction–your timing just off–and the engine stalls abruptly, coughing once before falling silent. Your stomach tightens painfully, embarrassment flaring hot in your cheeks. You stare at the dashboard, fingers white-knuckled on the steering wheel, afraid to meet Caleb’s gaze. You know better than this. He knows you know better. A pang twists sharply inside you; you don’t want him disappointed–not in you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, barely audible, staring fixedly at the silent dash, cheeks burning fiercely in the dim garage.

But Caleb just laughs softly, warm and unbothered, leaning closer, reaching out and gently ruffling your hair. The casual affection eases something inside you immediately.

“You’re fine,” he murmurs reassuringly, the words kind but firm, smoothing over the anxious twist in your stomach. “Even pros stall sometimes. It’s about how quick you recover.”

You glance up hesitantly, heart still thumping too fast, and see nothing but easy warmth in his eyes. No disappointment. No impatience. Just Caleb, steady and certain as ever.

He starts the engine again, guiding your hands gently through the motions until the car purrs evenly beneath your fingertips, humming softly in perfect harmony. You sit there in silence, breathing slow, the calm returning to your chest like a steadying hand.

Later that night, you borrow his uncle’s old convertible, cruising aimlessly down winding back roads beneath the velvet-black sky, the breeze catching in your hair, tugging softly at your clothes. The radio murmurs quietly, a familiar old song drifting through the night air–Foreigner, maybe, something nostalgic and soft-edged. Caleb drives with one hand lazily draped on the wheel, the other arm resting along the back of your seat. Neither of you speak much, content just to sit together, hearts beating in tandem beneath the hum of tires on asphalt.

You tilt your head back, eyes closed, letting the wind carry your thoughts away like leaves scattered down an empty road. Caleb shifts gears smoothly, effortlessly, the car moving like an extension of himself, natural and confident. You feel every muted shift resonate through you–a soft vibration, comforting and secure.

When you finally glance sideways at him, his profile glows softly in the dashboard lights, quiet and thoughtful. Something seems to flicker briefly across his expression, something almost vulnerable. He opens his mouth slightly, as if he’s about to say something important, something tender–but instead he just swallows, gaze snapping to meet yours in a warm, wordless glance before returning to the road ahead.

You turn your head back again, heart beating slow and careful. The stars glide gently above, blurred by the speed, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. It feels like you’re standing somewhere delicate and fragile, balanced carefully between gears, between moments–waiting quietly, patiently, for the right timing.

You understand, suddenly, what Caleb meant earlier in the garage: that moving forward requires patience, a trust in timing, and an understanding that every little shift matters. One wrong move might stall everything–but the right move could send you hurtling forward, smooth and easy, like you’ve always belonged exactly there.

And somewhere beneath the gentle hum of the engine and the whisper of night air around you, you realize quietly–almost wordlessly–that you don’t want to move forward without him. You’re not sure exactly what that means, not yet, and you’re afraid to name it aloud–but it’s there all the same, resting softly behind your ribs.

Caleb seems to sense your realization, glancing again at you with that affectionate look he always has, the one that makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He smiles softly–barely there, a gentle upward curve of his mouth–and shifts smoothly again, moving you both forward together, steady and sure, toward whatever comes next.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to. Not yet.

The road stretches out ahead, illuminated only by the headlights slicing gently through the darkness, guiding your path toward something uncertain, unnamed, but inevitable–something you’ve been moving toward without realizing it, each gear shift, each subtle glance, pushing you slowly toward it.

Together.

–BRAKES (When you have to stop, even when it hurts.)

July has settled into something thick and slow, syrupy in the heat, the kind of weather that makes everything stick to your skin and refuses to let go. The garage air hums quietly with the metallic whir of box fans trying desperately–and failing–to move the sluggish summer around. Caleb works beside you, sleeves rolled up neatly past his elbows, the thin cotton of his faded t-shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He’s concentrating, brows knit slightly as he leans deep into the engine bay, one hand braced against the Firebird’s warm metal shell, the other gripping a wrench tight enough to whiten his knuckles.

You steal glances sideways at him between your own tasks, eyes drawn softly to the line of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his movements, so familiar now you could trace each one with your eyes closed. It’s comforting in the simplest sense, standing next to him like this, working side by side as you always have. But lately, comfort has been shifting into something else–something unnamed and tenuous, something you’re almost afraid to acknowledge even to yourself. It simmers quietly beneath your ribs, barely-there and gentle, until suddenly it’s not.

The garage doors are wide open to the street, and sunlight spills lazily across the concrete, pooling around your sneakers and Caleb’s work boots. You both glance up when a soft, unfamiliar voice calls Caleb’s name, lilting delicately like the chime of small silver bells. There, framed in afternoon gold, stands a girl you’ve never seen before–pretty in that effortless, polished way you’ve never quite managed. Her hair catches the sunlight, gleaming in soft waves, and her pale pastel sundress makes her look like she’s stepped straight from a magazine spread, a glossy contrast to your oil-streaked jeans and rumpled shirt.

Caleb’s face brightens in recognition, the wrench slipping from his fingers into the cluttered toolbox with a sharp metallic clang. You notice–immediately, instinctively–the way his posture straightens, the easy smile spreading warm and open across his face, eyes sparkling with pleasant surprise. He wipes his hands roughly on an old rag, stepping toward her, already laughing softly as she murmurs something you can’t quite hear. The sound feels distant, muffled somehow, like you’re suddenly watching the scene unfold from behind thick, fogged glass.

You linger by the Firebird, your own hands curled absently around a screwdriver, knuckles white from how tightly you’re gripping the handle. You’re careful to appear disinterested, but something twists painfully in your chest–sharp, unexpected, quietly fierce. It’s nothing you’ve ever let yourself name, something tucked away deep beneath the easy, familiar rhythm of your friendship. But now, watching the casual intimacy of Caleb’s smile directed toward someone else, it rises abruptly to the surface, raw and vulnerable and achingly confusing.

Their laughter floats gently toward you, soft and bright, the sound wrapping itself around your throat like a tightening thread. You try not to listen, try to focus instead on the wiring harness and screwdriver in your hands, but you hear snippets anyway–references to old friends, memories you’re not part of, something about a summer party that happened before you and Caleb ever found this quiet rhythm of working side by side. Each shared word feels like a silent confirmation of your exclusion, a reminder of something that never quite belonged to you.

Caleb seems oblivious–or maybe he’s pretending. You’re not sure which would hurt less. He leans casually against the tool bench, arms crossed easily, listening attentively as she speaks, his violet eyes warm and affectionate. She laughs at something he says, her delicate hand lightly touching his arm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You feel your stomach drop at the sigh, hollow and heavy all at once. It isn’t fair, you know that, but a strange possessiveness flares suddenly within you–strange, ugly, and frighteningly real.

You turn away sharply, back toward the engine bay, burying your attention fiercely in the familiar, comforting tangle of wires and grease. You don’t want to watch anymore, don’t want to feel these complicated, ugly things twisting quietly inside you. But every muffled laugh, every gentle murmur behind you feels like a fresh wound–silent, subtle, yet aching in a way you can’t fully understand.

Hours seem to pass, each minute stretching like warm, sticky taffy in the slow afternoon. When you finally glance back, they’re standing closer now, Caleb’s eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles gently down at her. Something deep inside you cracks softly at the sight. You’ve seen that look before–directed toward you in quieter moments, soft with patience and kind teasing. But now it feels tainted somehow, uncertain, fleeting. You wonder suddenly if you’d imagined it all–every glance, every touch, every shared smile. If the intimacy you’d felt had only ever been childish affection, innocent and short-lived, easily given and just as easily forgotten.

Eventually, the girl leaves, her laughter trailing like perfume behind her, sweet and lingering. Caleb stands by the open garage door, watching her go, sunlight highlighting the thoughtful set of his shoulders. He turns back toward you slowly, smile fading into something quieter, almost questioning, but you look away quickly, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what you might see–or what you might not.

You clean up in silence, careful not to let your hands shake as you wipe grease from your fingertips. Caleb says nothing, but you can feel him watching, silent and puzzled, uncertain in a way he rarely is. You want him to say something–anything–to reassure you, to laugh away your sudden uncertainty and restore the delicate balance you’ve shared, but the silence hangs awkwardly between you, heavy and new.

When you finally leave, slipping quietly out the garage door into the fading daylight without a word, you glance back only once. Caleb is still standing there, framed in the soft, amber glow of sunset, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite read–something almost desperate flickering softly behind his eyes. But neither of you speaks, neither of you breaks the silence, and so you turn away, heart twisting painfully as you disappear into the evening shadows.

That night, as you lie awake beneath tangled sheets, staring at the ceiling, the painful ache inside you settles wordlessly, stubbornly into place. You wonder bitterly if you’ve misread everything–every gentle glance, every careful gesture. If Caleb has only ever seen you as someone younger, smaller, someone to protect and guide, a kid he’s been quietly humoring all these years. You curl your fingers tight into the sheets, jaw clenching around the painful, humiliating thought, realizing for the first time that maybe you’ve always been a step behind–always catching up, always wanting something just beyond your reach.

Maybe everything you’d felt–everything you still feel–has always been just yours alone.

In the weeks following that afternoon, everything feels different–blurred somehow, like looking through rain-streaked glass. You begin to slip quietly away, retreating little by little from the warmth of Caleb’s orbit. Visits become shorter, your laughter muted, strained. Where you’d once lingered comfortable beside him, passing gentle banter back and forth, you now keep yourself guarded, words fading into careful silences. The garage, once your sanctuary, feels tight and suffocating, walls pressing closer each day. You convince yourself it’s better this way, safer. You’ve always been a step behind, after all–always the kid, tagging along, clinging to someone who never truly needed you in the first place.

You bury yourself deeper in work, the Firebird, focusing fiercely on sanding rough edges, smoothing primer coats, finding any excuse to keep your eyes carefully downcast. You pretend not to notice Caleb’s gaze on you, patient and puzzled, increasingly desperate as each silent afternoon passes. When your hands brush accidentally–still inevitable despite your best efforts–you pull back quickly, cheeks burning, heart aching sharply beneath your ribs.

Caleb notices. Of course he does. He always notices. It kills him quietly, painfully, evident in the shadows beneath his eyes, the uncertain lines forming at the corners of his mouth. But you refuse to confront it, refusing to see beyond the stubborn walls you’ve built, determined to shield yourself from truths too painful to bear.

Then, one evening as the light outside turns purple and dusky, he finally snaps.

You’re alone together in the garage, the Firebird freshly painted and gleaming softly under the glow of the hanging bulb. Despite its outward beauty, the car remains hollow, silent without its heart, its emptiness mirroring your own careful distance. Caleb watches you quietly from across the room, jaw tense, violet eyes clouded with silent hurt he’s no longer trying to hide.

You keep your gaze fixed stubbornly downward, sanding the same smooth spot over and over until your fingertips ache. Suddenly, Caleb crosses the distance in swift strides, stepping directly in front of you, leaning heavily against the Firebird, blocking your escape.

“Stop,” he says quietly, voice low and thick with frustration, and your hands freeze mid-motion, sandpaper trembling faintly in your grip. You can’t meet his gaze–you’re afraid of what you’ll see there, afraid it’ll confirm every ugly fear you’ve been carrying for weeks.

He exhales sharply, forcing himself steady, voice softening slightly, though the ache still threads gently beneath each word. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your chest tightens painfully, a hot lump rising swiftly in your throat. You shake your head, words stuck fast in the back of your mouth.

“You have,” he insists stubbornly, eyes narrowing in desperation. “Don’t deny it. Did I–” he pauses, voice breaking. “Did I do something wrong?”

You swallow roughly, finally daring a glance upward. Hurt flickers openly across his expression, raw and vulnerable, and something twists sharply inside you, your heart aching fiercely against your ribs.

“No,” you whisper hoarsely, voice rough, unsteady. “It’s–it’s not you.”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking dangerously, his voice gentle yet edged with quiet frustration. “Then what is it? You’ve barely spoken to me since–since that afternoon. With her.”

You flinch visibly, eyes dropping immediately to the floor. Embarrassment floods hot and bitter through your veins, your fingers curling tightly into fists at your sides. You shake your head again, mutely denying everything you’re afraid to say aloud.

“You think I’m blind?” Caleb asks, voice shaking now, frustration breaking through his frayed control. “Or stupid? Do you really think I’d ever–” he cuts himself off sharply, jaw tightening in anger–not at you, but at the misunderstandings hovering painfully between you both. “Look at me,” he demands softly, voice barely above a whisper, but so full of hurt it cuts deep.

You finally raise your eyes, gaze locking helplessly onto his, heart thundering so violently you feel dizzy.

“Have you ever,” he begins quietly, achingly, voice raw with vulnerability, “ever seen me with someone else? Honestly? Have you?”

You swallow thickly, head shaking slightly, unable to form words around the lump tightening in your throat.

“Exactly,” Caleb breathes roughly, fingers trembling slightly at his sides. “And yet you’re pushing me away, convinced I’m something I’m not. Convinced of something I’ve never felt, never wanted.” He pauses, voice cracking softly. “Not from anyone but you.”

You stare at him, speechless, your pulse roaring loudly in your ears. His words sink slowly into your chest, slipping quietly past the fragile walls you’d so desperately constructed. You’re wavering now, breath hitching, terrified of what he’s saying, even more terrified of believing it.

“Don’t,” you whisper desperately, eyes flooding suddenly, hot tears burning your vision. “Don’t say that. Don’t say something you don’t mean just because you’re trying to fix this.”

Caleb’s eyes darken further, pained and wounded. He reaches out instinctively, fingers ghosting gently along your cheek before falling away abruptly, hands dropping helplessly back to his sides.

“You think I don’t mean it?” he asks hoarsely, voice aching, the hurt in his tone palpable. “After everything–after every afternoon we’ve spent in here, every drive we’ve ever taken, every stupid joke we’ve ever shared–you think I’m just humoring you? Treating you like some kid I keep around for fun?”

You nod miserably, tears slipping silently down your cheeks, raw humiliation tightening in your throat. “Isn’t that what I am?” you whisper brokenly, your voice barely audible. “Just a kid, Caleb? Someone you’ve always looked after?”

He makes a soft, desperate sound in his throat, reaching for you again–this time catching your shoulders gently but firmly, forcing you to look up, his violet eyes fierce, bright with sincerity and hurt. “You have never–never–been just a kid to me,” he says, intense, voice quavering slightly. “Do you hear me? You were never just some kid.”

You stare up at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, tears still quietly tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

“Then what am I?” you choke out, voice shaking softly, frightened yet desperate for an answer. “What have I ever been to you?”

He breathes sharply, thumbs brushing along your shoulders, holding you steady. His gaze softens into something heartbreakingly tender, eyes searching yours frantically. “Everything,” he whispers roughly, the word so kind, so merciful, so achingly vulnerable, it steals your breath completely. “You are everything to me. I don’t want anyone else–I never have. Not once.”

You break quietly, shoulders shaking with sobs you’ve held in far too long. Caleb gathers you close immediately, strong arms folding around you, pulling you gently to his chest, holding you steady against the warm, comforting beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly against his shirt, voice muffled, tears soaking through the thin fabric. “I’m so sorry–I didn’t–I couldn’t–”

He shushes you softly, palm brushing gently over your hair, holding you securely. “Don’t,” he murmurs soothingly, voice thick with emotion, warm breath kissing your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just–please, don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out, pips.”

You nod, face buried in his chest, breathing him in–oil and soap and quiet summer nights. It feels right here, held tight in his embrace, the hurt finally bleeding into relief, truth settling sweetly between you.

“You scared me,” you whisper, voice trembling, unguarded and real. “I didn’t know–I thought it was just me, all this time. I thought I was imagining everything.”

Caleb’s grip tightens around you, his cheek pressed comfortingly against your hair, warm and tender. “You’re not imagining it,” he whispers, voice steady, achingly sincere. “You never were.”

You hold onto him tighter, heart slowly steadying, truths whispered softly between you, gentle reassurances stitching the cracks back together. And finally, for the first time, you believe him.

–SUSPENSION (The delicate balance–learning to trust the ride.)

Summer tilts gently toward its close, lingering like the final chords of a song that you can’t bear to finish just yet. August heat mellows into a softer warmth, shadows stretching a little long, the evenings breathing a quiet coolness around the edges. Time feels delicate now, precious somehow, the last golden days slipping silently between your fingers like sand. You’re aware of every moment–keenly, almost painfully aware–as though you’re trying to hold onto each one before it slips inevitably away.

The Firebird is close to finished now, so near completion you can almost taste the sweetness of it–bittersweet, maybe, because finishing it means letting go, moving forward. And you’re close to finished too, nerves stretched taut beneath your skin, emotions raw and frayed. Every glance Caleb gives you feels deeper now, layered with a vulnerability that hadn’t existed openly before. It’s delicate, careful–still threaded softly with echoes of awkwardness–but slowly, surely, comfort returns, piecing itself back together beneath your fingertips.

Caleb asks you to help him install the suspension–an intricate, delicate system of shocks and springs, designed carefully to carry weight and soften every jolt the road has to offer. It feels fitting somehow, poetic even. You’ve both been carrying each other’s weight quietly, gently absorbing shocks without realizing it. Now you’re here, together, working side by side once more, meticulously putting into place the final pieces that will carry you both forward.

The garage feels hushed, peaceful in the late afternoon sun. Caleb works silently, his hands sure but movements slightly cautious, mindful not to disturb the balance that’s slowly, painstakingly returning between you. You match his quiet, saying little, yet each small task feels significant–passing tools back and forth, holding parts steady for one another. The silence is gentle, comforting in a way that hasn’t been for a while. Yet beneath it lingers something raw and open, a muted awareness that makes your heart beat faster whenever Caleb’s finger’s brush against yours.

You watch him as he tightens bolts, grease smeared lightly across his knuckles, forearms flexing beneath rolled sleeves. He’s tense in a way he rarely is, his movements precise, deliberate, almost overly careful–as though he’s still afraid of pushing you away again. You ache softly watching him, wishing suddenly that everything could be easier, wishing desperately you knew how to fix things properly, completely.

Then, quietly, carefully, you move closer. You slide beside him to help align a stubborn bolt, shoulder brushing gently against his, aware of the faint hitch in his breath. He doesn’t speak, just keeps working, breathing slower now, steadier. You’re grateful he lets you close, grateful he trusts you again, even if it’s tentative, fragile.

The afternoon wears on, shadows sliding longer across the concrete floor, sunlight filtering golden through the half-open garage doors. Caleb finally breaks the quiet first, his voice rough, barely above a whisper.

“This is important,” he says softly, hands gripping the wrench tighter than necessary, knuckles white. “It’s gotta be done right, or everything else falls apart.”

You look up slowly, watching him, sensing there’s something more behind his words–something he can’t quite say yet. You nod, signaling you’re listening, signaling you’re there. He takes a measured breath, grounding himself, and meets your gaze finally–violet eyes raw, defenseless, agonizingly open.

“I don’t just want you in the passenger seat,” he says eventually, voice low, thick with something you’ve never heard from him before–need, maybe, longing, definitely. “I want you here. With me. Always.”

The words land like feathers between you, heavy and fragile, yet precious in their vulnerability. Your heart swells painfully, fingers quaking slightly where you grip the suspension coil you’re holding. Caleb watches your reaction wordlessly, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling softly beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

“Caleb,” you whisper, voice trembling, unsure how to respond to such raw honesty, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion in his gaze. He steps closer, wrench dropping from his fingers to the concrete, forgotten entirely.

“Tell me you understand,” he murmurs roughly, voice tight, eyes desperate, quietly pleading. “Tell me you feel it too–that it isn’t just me. Tell me you want this, us, as much as I do.”

Your heart skips treacherously in your chest, words catching tightly in your throat. You nod quickly, helplessly, eyes shining, vision blurring. “I do,” you manage, voice shaking, throat closing. “I’ve always wanted–”

He doesn’t let you finish, closing the distance swiftly, catching your face carefully in his still-grease-smudged hands, and kisses you–messy, urgent, impossibly tender, lips slightly parted, warm and careful against yours. His fingertips tremble slightly, the faint roughness of his calloused palms feeling like home, safe yet thrilling. You kiss him back clumsily, heart swelling fiercely beneath your ribs, heat flooding through your veins, dizzying and overwhelming. It feels like every careful moment, every gentle glance, every ache you’ve quietly carried is pouring out into this single, desperate kiss.

When he finally pulls back, breathing ragged and shaky, forehead pressed fondly against yours, you let out a quiet laugh–a soft, tearful, joyfully astonished sound that quickly dissolves into a gentle sob. Caleb laughs too, relief spilling through him visibly, thumbs swiping carefully over your cheek to wipe away tears.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers kindly, voice impossibly tender, lips brushing reverently over your damp cheekbone. “Pipsqueak.”

You laugh again, breath hitching, wet, heart aching sweetly at the nickname spoken now in the softest voice you’ve ever heard him use. You press your face tightly against his chest, letting the strength of him steady you, the comforting scent of grease and soap and summer filling your senses, grounding you.

He wraps strong arms around you, littering the crown of your head with soft kisses, mumbling soothing nonsense words that mean everything.

“I thought it was just me,” you whisper against his chest, fingers clutching his shirt, desperate not to let go. “I was so scared, Caleb. I know what you said that day but I still thought I was alone in this.”

He tightens his embrace gently, breathing against your hair. “You were never alone,” he murmurs roughly, voice thick with quiet regret. “I should have told you sooner–I was just as scared as you. Terrified of ruining everything we’ve ever had. But god, the thought of losing you–”

He trails off, shaking his head, his breaths becoming slow and steady to regain his composure. “I can’t lose you,” he finally whispers fiercely. His voice breaks around the words, raw and open. “I need you here, always. Exactly like this.”

You nod against his chest, heart slowly calming in tandem with the steady warmth of his embrace, finally allowing yourself to believe him truly, finally feeling completely safe.

“I want that too,” you whisper, eyes drifting shut, inhaling him deeply, chest swelling with quiet happiness and overwhelming relief. “Always.”

He holds you closer, fingers gently threading through your hair, lips pressed to your temple, murmuring quiet promises you’re finally ready to trust completely. And in this fragile, tender moment, it feels like you’re both suspended carefully–balanced delicately on the edge of something new, something thrilling and real.

Neither of you moves for a long time, simply holding each other, hearts beating in sync, breathing slow and gentle, the garage around you softly lit by fading golden sunlight. The Firebird sits silently beside you both, patiently awaiting the final touches–just like the two of you, ready to carry the weight together, carefully absorbing every shock that comes your way.

Together, at long last.

–HEADLIGHTS (Looking ahead–the future shining bright.)

Late August has a certain magic to it–one foot still in summer, the other gently stepping toward autumn. The air turns just a bit sweeter, carrying faint whispers of falling leaves and cooler nights to come, but tonight still feels like pure summer, warm and inviting beneath a deep velvet sky scattered carelessly with stars. The Firebird sits proudly beneath the soft glow of the garage lights, finally, beautifully complete. It gleams, sleek and smooth as liquid fire, its cherry-red paint reflecting your smiles on the glossy surface like something out of a dream.

Caleb invited you tonight with an air of quiet excitement, eyes sparkling with barely-contained pride. You came prepared, carrying a silly gift hidden behind your back–an apple-shaped air freshener you’d picked up from the gas station on your way over. A joke, but also not, a tiny symbol of something sweetly familiar, something that felt like home. When you presented it to him, dangling from your fingertips, Caleb laughed–a deep, warm sound that settled somewhere inside your chest–and carefully hung it from the rearview mirror with exaggerated solemnity.

“There,” he teased, grinning widely as it swung from side to side, its cheerful scent filling the car’s interior. “Now she’s perfect.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. He leaned forward, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your forehead, and you felt the blush rise immediately–warm, comforting, still surprising somehow.

Now, shoulder pressed against Caleb’s in the Firebird’s front seat, your heartbeat flutters gently, fingers drumming lightly against your knees. Everything you’ve both worked for, every careful step taken together, has led here–this quiet moment under the stars, anticipation crackling like static between you.

Caleb’s hand hovers uncertainly over the ignition, fingers brushing against the keys dangling loosely from the steering column. You glance sideways at him, heart swelling at the gentle set of his profile, bathed in soft moonlight. He’s so heartachingly familiar to you, yet new somehow, transformed from the boy you once knew into the young man beside you now–steady, patient, a quiet strength you’ve come to lean on more than you’d ever admit aloud. He’s impossibly beautiful tonight, messy dark hair catching in his eyes, lips curved ever so slightly in anticipation, eyes painted in the colors of nebulae reflecting the warm glow of dashboard lights.

“You ready?” he asks, glancing sideways at you, lips lifting into an easy, affectionate smile.

You nod, chest tight with excitement, fingertips tracing lightly along the Firebird’s smooth leather seats. “Ready when you are.”

He turns the key slowly, deliberately, eyes shining as the engine rumbles to life, low and powerful beneath you both, humming evenly, perfectly. The sound floods the car, fills your chest, spills warmth and joy and sweet triumph into every empty space between you. The headlights blaze suddenly, piercing the darkness ahead, two beams of golden-white slicing neatly through the night.

Caleb exhales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel, a proud, relieved smile spreading wide and open across his lips. He shifts gently into gear, foot pressing lightly on the clutch as if testing the waters, making sure every carefully assembled piece aligns perfectly. The Firebird responds smoothly, like an extension of his touch, purring contentedly as it rolls slowly forward into the quiet night air.

You sneak a glance at him, heart threatening to explode, something tender fluttering deep inside your chest. Caleb meets your gaze, eyes softening, the corner of his mouth lifting as he watches you. For just a moment, the air feels delicate, suspended between you, a thousand quiet promises whispered silently beneath your shared glance.

“She drives,” he murmurs, almost reverently, violet eyes sparkling, thumb brushing against the wheel. “She really drives.”

You grin fondly, nudging his shoulder lightly with your own. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He laughs, low and warm, settling around your heart like a bed of flowers, easing something tight and uncertain inside you. “Not with you beside me.”

You glance down, heart stuttering at his sincerity. You swallow, daring yourself to believe every soft word. “You mean it?”

Caleb shifts into neutral, letting the engine idle as he turns to face you fully, one hand reaching to brush lightly along your jaw, thumb tracing against your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs gently, eyes serious now, quiet reassurance threaded deeply in his tone. “You’re enough. You’ve always been enough. You don’t need some grand plan or future mapped out perfectly to matter–to me or anyone else.”

Your throat tightens, vision blurring with sudden tears you blink stubbornly back. “But you’ve got dreams, Caleb,” you protest, voice quavering, vulnerabilities surfacing with a vengeance. “You know exactly what you want, exactly where you’re headed. I don’t–I’ve never known.”

He shakes his head gently, eyes tender and patient, fingertips brushing your hair back from your face. “Dreams change, pipsqueak. Life changes. All I know–” he pauses, breathing quietly, “–is whatever comes next, wherever this car takes us, I want you there with me. Always. Just you. Exactly as you are.”

Your heart breaks softly, beautifully, something warm and healing spilling into your chest cavity, chasing away shadows you’ve carried for far too long. You lean forward, heart swelling fiercely, and press your lips to his–a quick, soft kiss, sweet and playful yet carrying all the meaning you can’t fully articulate aloud. Caleb smiles against your mouth, fingers cupping your cheek, warmth flooding sweetly between you.

When you finally pull back, faces just inches apart, Caleb grins, eyes bright and teasing. “Careful, shortstack,” he murmurs playfully, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Keep kissin’ me like that, we’ll never make it out of this driveway.”

You laugh, heat flooding your cheeks, heart thundering in your chest, comfortable and safe yet thrilling in its newness. Caleb turns back toward the road ahead, shifting into first gear again, his hand reaching instinctively to find yours, fingers tangling together between the seats.

“Wanna ride with me, pipsqueak?” he asks, grinning broadly now, eyes crinkling at the corners, sunlight somehow woven into every glance. “Wherever this thing goes?”

You squeeze his fingers, warmth expanding deeply throughout your body, certain of only one thing–one truth you’ve quietly known all along, even before you’d allowed yourself to believe it.

“Yes,” you whisper, eyes shining, heart finally settling into place, safe and secure. “Of course I do.”

He smiles tenderly, eyes softening, fingers tightening lightly around yours, and presses the accelerator carefully. The Firebird leaps forward smoothly, powerfully, headlights slicing easily through the darkness, illuminating a path toward whatever lies ahead–unknown yet filled sweetly with possibility, tenderness, and gentle, inevitable joy.

You lean your head back against the seat, smiling, breathing slow and steady, comforted by the hum of the engine beneath you and the warm, reassuring presence of Caleb beside you–steady, patient, and wholeheartedly yours.

You don’t know exactly what’s next, don’t know exactly where this road might lead. But as long as you’re beside Caleb, heart open and trusting, you’re certain of one thing–wherever this journey takes you both, you’ll be exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together. 

NOTE: thank you so much for reading! @gojover perhaps this is for you since you lowkey went feral at the thought of mechanic caleb (not judging). i am also in no way a mechanic nor am i qualified or skilled to be building cars so there are definitely a hundred thousand inaccuracies so please go easy on me (art by DeluluDough on X)

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Thank you for everything you do! This page is amazing! I’m looking for #Sterek where One of them is super smart and the other is the best athlete, they don’t run in the same clicks, but outside of school they are close! Anything like that? TYIA!!

I love this trope!

begin again by bleep0bleep

(1/1 I 2,501 I Teen)

Ten years ago Derek turned down Stiles for prom.

Now it's high school reunion time.

seems to me it's chemistry by HalfFizzbin

(1/1 I 4,153 I Teen)

Awkward Nerd Derek has been crushing on Handsome Jock Stiles since forever—so getting paired with him on a Chemistry project is definitely the best/worst thing that's ever happened to him.

Hot Nerd Alert by alisvolatpropiis

(1/1 I 4,537 I Not Rated)

Derek can't believe he's actually doing this: taking a selfie snap of the guy he’s been crushing on for weeks to prove to Danny that one, yes, he really does exist, and two, he really is that hot and thus he is totally justified in being too scared to make a move.

Or you know, even talk to the guy outside of the class they share.

In his defense, this isn’t just any guy. This THE guy. Hot Nerd. The utterly adorable but still somehow insanely sexy freshman in his twentieth century American Lit class who he’s been lusting over since the first day of the semester. If there were ever a time for him to be that person who tries to be subtle while taking snaps of other people, this is it.

Game On by stilinskisparkles

(1/1 I 6,391 I Teen)

Derek first sees him from across the quad four days into fall semester. He’s sitting on one of the long benches, a marker pen in his mouth, grinning at something the kid lounging on the bench beside him is saying. When he laughs properly he pulls the pen out and throws his head back, his neck a long, lean line Derek is entranced by. He flicks the page in his book and highlights something, tossing the cap up in the air and catching it with his teeth.

But Then What... by orphan_account

(3/3 I 24,343 I Explicit)

Senior year is almost over, and all Stiles needs to do is keep his head down to survive. A teacher calls in a favor, leaving him stuck tutoring Derek Hale, one of the most popular jocks in school and a member of a group of douchecanoes who have bullied Stiles for years. He's someone Stiles totally hates. Totally. Like, doesn't like him even a little bit. DEFINITELY isn't attracted to him.

Except that is a total lie. Fuck his life, seriously.

The Awkward Love Life Of A Sheltered College Werewolf by AllTheseSquaresMakeACircle

(10/10 I 30,134 I Explicit)

Derek had been used to being home schooled. Being used to be surrounded by pack, and nothing but pack. When he decides he's going to attend college, like a normal person, his family has a fit. Derek goes anyway. It's scary and new and exciting. Then he meets Stiles. Then...Things get even more exciting.

A Cunning Plan by yodasyoyo

(17/17 I 32,737 I Teen)

Stiles has a plan to get Lydia Martin to notice him. Derek is not impressed.

If you asked me if I love him, I’d lie by dereksstilinski (greyslittlediaries)

(18/18 I 37,305 I Explicit)

Derek has already typed the entire report out and even got all of the stuff prepared for the poster that Stiles and him will have to present. Derek found that he actually didn’t mind doing all the work when it was Stiles he was doing it for, but he wasn’t going to let Stiles get away completely. He was going to get Stiles to come over and help with the poster, so help him god.

When the Universe Comes Knocking (It’s Polite to Open the Door) by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) 

(6/6 I 135,402 I Mature)

It was like a door he’d nailed shut in his brain suddenly exploded open, all of his past confusion and anger and hurt and adoration flooding out at once. Stiles? Was it actually Stiles?!

Stiles, the guy he’d had a crush on for fucking years growing up. The guy who’d been an absolute dick to him their whole last year of high school.

The guy who’d told him he loved him in a dirty men’s bathroom on prom night while drunk and upset because he thought Kira was Derek’s girlfriend.

That Stiles? But it couldn’t be!

Burn with hellfire in the blue light of midnight by babisays

(20/20 I 203,189 I Teen)

Stiles met the Hale siblings when he was eleven years old. Now it has been six years since he lost his best friend Cora in the fire, and Derek and Laura left Beacon Hills.

Six years was a long time, so he didn't think he would ever see them again, but now he was wondering what the hell was Derek Hale doing back in Beacon Hills.

[sheeezu]

⋆ Shift - Energy conversion method ⋆

This method basically materialises your DR when you divert your precious mental and spiritual energy towards it.

It's a pretty easy method and the time period might vary for different people, I don't think it should go over an hour.

First, what is energy and how can you start consciously feeling the direction of your energy.

Energy and vibrations are practically the same thing. You must have heard about it if you've dwelled into astral projection or the gateways tape, where one of it involves imagining putting away your negative emotions/energy in an energy convertor box.

Although this method doesn't rely on visualising, what we're going to achieve is to take our energy, which is characterised by strong emotions, and put it towards our DR, WRs, kind of like a vending machine, you put a coin in to get your desired product.

Think of it, at all times we are putting emotional efforts into something, e.g your CR while going through your day, you feel at all times. If we talk about shifting, we have an attachment to the practice of shifting to our affirmations, towards hope of being in your DR, one day, tonight, etc. We all do this, but to shift, we need to throw this away. By following this principle of emotional involvement, and instead directing it directly towards your Dr, reality will shift for you.

Anyways, enough rambling, let me explain the method.

Basic concept of the method- in theory.

Energy, it exists in many other forms in us. But for this method we'll be taking our emotions, feelings. Feelings which are strongest in order of time, because the reality we're in and the ones we usually shift to involve the influence of time - past, present and future.

In order of the strongest feelings, we can form a direct connection to our Drs.

Past - Nostalgia.

There's nothing stronger than nostalgia, which leaves you feeling trapped in the nicest way possible, in the middle of your memories. I still remember it, my waiting room which i based off my grandparent's house, which always gives me a strange sense of comfort and nostalgia, the sharp subcontinental sunlight which fills me with warmth makes me feel familiarity which I can't describe.

In your DR and WR there must be something which causes you to be filled with nostalgia, it's perhap a memory from your childhood, or if you go into the specifics stuff like me, like how the light from the streetlights illuminate the fog on a winter day, or if you're shifting to your WR it's a special object, a place. Don't chicken out on this one, you're a living breathing person in your Dr, who has lived there their entire life.

Present - Desire, need, passion.

In the present, the strongest you could feel is having an impulse to act passionately, associating it with your DR. You're not a robot who's stuck up on affirming, you're someone who's already in your DR, so full of life.

Future - excitement.

Your plans in your Dr fuels you with excitement. Sure, you have already assumed you're already in your Dr, but that doesn't make it any less exciting to wake up and do what you love, to see the faces of your loved ones. You feel strongly regarding your foreseeable future in your Dr.

Basic concept of the method- in practice.

You could do this at anytime, but it's best to do this when you're relaxed. Your tiredness level doesn't matter, nor does your position while laying down, it's best to just not move, but if you're not comfortable with it, you can move around but try to not focus on it, focus on what's going on in your mind, because that's what shifts you.

Close your eyes, the best thing you could start off with is light daydreaming about your DR, for better or quicker result during the whole method it's best if you think of more decision/consequences based scenarios, afterwards, or during if you're going to affirm, I'd recommend visual affirmations (go around a specific place in your DR, see affs written around in any way you could think of).

We're checking into our DR. Now you're going to tell yourself that you are present in your DR fully, physically, mentally in your 4D, so you're supposed to remind yourself that 3D follows right afterwards.

Now, we're going to do a little on our own to attract results in 3D instantly by converting our energy, and expressing our DR in emotions.

All those emotions I've mentioned before, you're supposed to practice them in order of time, time does not exist anywhere else, just in your DR.

You could this by visualising scenarios where these feelings are induced naturally, for past, you can flash nostalgic images in your mind, or by listening to nostalgic voices relating to your DR as if listening to an old tape.

For present, if you're laying next to your S/O, do you feel desire to just roll over and just hug them? Other than that, you have a need to sustain yourself, your humanely need to stretch in bed, get up to eat, look out the window into the morning sky.

For future, if you work an engaging job, you could get excited about it. Other than that, hype up your future goals, aspiration.

If you've done this by adopting the nature and characteristics of your DR self, you can shift easily. You can add a wider variety of emotion. Importantly, don't fall into any doubts about you not being there, about you still being here, if you can't get over the gut feelings or if the shifting symptoms are intensifying periodically than you can keep repeating your scenarios/words/voices which induce these emotions for you.

...

Before I fall into a deep contemplation on how I could've improved this post and my explanation I am just going to go watch dead poets society because I miss it.

...

[natalievoncatte]

Lena squared herself up after she stepped from the elevator.

This has taken considerable work. She’d had to arrange for her absence from boarding school to go unnoticed, or at least, unremarked upon. If Lillian got wind of her running away, she’d have been skinned alive. Perhaps literally. Since her adoptive father’s death, she’d actually looked forward to school, and to being away from Lillian’s abuse. Lex was now the only thing keeping her from Lena, and Lex was preoccupied with his project.

Her brother had been away for school for some time, but they had summers off together at least. When Lex took over the company when he turned 21, he grew distant and aloof, spending more time with his friend Clark or at work than with family.

With his absence came Lillian.

Still, she had managed to build a support network. Frank, her bodyguard-slash-driver was Lex’s man, but he was useful. Lena had spent months buttering him up to participate in her plan: she needed wheels.

In the meantime she’d acquired blackmail material. The head master at the school gave her a broad latitude after she implied that she might expose certain proclivities of his. That gave her the time away she needed. She’d carefully negotiated a higher allowance from Lex in exchange for accelerating her studies in anticipation of beginning her undergraduate studies at sixteen, which was a triviality for her anyway.

Lena walked down the hall, heart pounding against the backpack clutched to her chest. Each step felt heavy, alive with portent.

She could turn back now. She could turn her back now.

What if she was wrong? Paranoid, addled, as crazy as her mother, just like Lillian said? What if she was about to not only blow up her whole life, but slander her brother. If this went sideways, she didn’t know what exactly would happened to her, but Lillian had once, while tipsy on whisky from Lionel’s stash, told Lena that if not for Lex, she’d have Lena garroted with piano wire and buried on the estate, and like any bag of trash, no one would notice she’d been disposed of.

When she told Lex, her hands shook like leaves. He looked at her for a long cold moment and she worried that he’d slap her or scream or throw her out of the house, but he simply said, “I’ll talk to her about it.”

He did. She never made another threat.

He also brought her a wooden box, ornate and polished. Lex sat next to Lena and opened the box, showing her the contents, lying on red velvet. A five shot snub nose revolver and two speedloaders.

“I’ll teach you how to use this,” Lex said, grimly. “I know you’re smart enough to know if you need to. If anyone tries to harm you, kill them. I’ll clean it up.”

Lena had been terrified of it for months, even as she enjoyed the shooting lessons from Lex, given in a remote part of the estate near a burbling creek, the shots cracking the morning peace and shaking dew from leaves.

She had the gun in her backpack, and her hands were shaking.

The other contents of her bag were a weapon far more devastating. She was about to fire it and she’d have to accept the consequences.

Finally, she stood outside the door. Apartment 18B. The name on the lease was Lois Lane, but according to Lena’s reconnaissance, Clark Kent had been living with her virtually full time for the last six months, not long after something changed in his relationship with Lena’s brother.

Lena’s hand hung before the door for a good minute before she knocked, weekly. She hadn’t considered what might happen if they were simply not home. Her legs felt watery and her eyes burned. She knocked again. She was committed now.

The door swung open and Lois Lane stood before her. She was beautiful in an understated way, obscured by limp hair in a chaotic bun, rumpled clothes, and the stink of coffee on her breath.

“Who- what? Kid, what do you want?”

“I need to see Clark Kent. Is he here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Lena Luthor.”

There was a gust of wind behind her, and Kent stepped into view.

“Lena?” said Clark. “Lex’s little sister? What are you doing here?”

Lena’s throat went tight. She swallowed hard, and as she anticipated, his demeanor changed. He softened. He craned forward slightly, studying her intently, and his brows shot up when looked at her bag.

He was checking her vital signs and he’d spotted the gun. In the bag.

“He knows you’re Superman,” Lena choked out, “and he’s going to kill you.”

Lois glanced at Clark with a stunned, stunned wide expression. Then, she grabbed Lena and yanked her inside, slamming the door. Lena squeaked.

“How do you know that? Lex knows? Did he tell you? What do you mean he wants to kill Clark?”

“Hey,” Clark said, crouching beside Lena to bring himself to her level, resting a comforting hand on her slight shoulder. “Take a breath, Lena. You’re safe here.”

In Lena’s plan, she was going to begin explaining, starting with how she deduced his identity and lay out what she discovered in his files. That was her plan, but no plan survived first contact with the enemy.

Lena began to sob.

Superman knelt beside her and removed his glasses, and enveloped Lena Luthor in a warm, protective hug. She sobbed harder, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” Lois whispered.

She drew the gun out of the bag and checked it with professional, practiced familiarity, dumping the shells into her hand.

“I think she’s telling the truth.”

Clark nodded.

Over the next hour, Lena was swept to Lois’s big couch and sat in the middle while the pair sat on either side of her. When she was hungry, Clark went out to get her favorite guilty pleasure meal, a big greasy burger and fries, and a milkshake too. Between bites, she explained everything, telling them about her brother’s insane plan to turn the sun red.

They believed it all. Lena had receipts.

Eventually, Lena was exhausted, everything had been said, and she sat with dull shock on the couch and stared at the black mirror of a blank television set, marveling at how small and helpless she looked, like a drowned rat.

“Why don’t you lay down for a while?” Lois said, gently. “Here, I’ll put something on the TV for you.”

Lena didn’t make it ten minutes in before she was asleep, curled tightly on one end of the couch with a pillow under her head.

She woke sometime later. It was dark now and she heard voices on the far side of the apartment.

“I called Bruce. He said he’s in, and he’s bringing reinforcements. I’m going to try to get a Green Lantern on board. We have to move fast. Nevermind me, if Lex does this, millions of innocent people will die. We’ll have to move fast.”

“What about the girl?” said Lois. “She can’t go home now. We have to get her somewhere safe.”

“I have to get you both somewhere safe. I should probably come up with a reason to get the building evacuated. One Lex realizes he’s been caught out, he’ll come after both of you.”

“You’re right.”

“I want you to go out,” said Clark. “Make it look like you’re heading out to a convenience store. Bruce is sending Alfred to pick you up, he should be here in an hour. I have somewhere else in mind for Lena.”

“Where?”

“It’s better if I don’t tell you, just in case.”

When he emerged from the back bedroom, Clark Kent was resplendent, clothed in the persona of Superman.

“Lena?” he said, gently. “We have to go. I’ll take you somewhere safe, where your brother won’t find you.”

Lois joined him. “You’re going to put on some of my clothes, and I’m going to check your hair. You can’t take anything with you. Lex Luthor might have been tracking you the entire time.”

Lena’s stomach dropped. What if she was right? That might be a move Lex would play, tracking Lena so that he could use her against his enemy. Lex had become cold, single minded. Lena was wondering how long it would be until she was disposable.

“Okay,” said Lena.

“I’m going to have to fly you.”

Lena did as she was told. She put on an outfit that belonged to Lois, a hilariously oversized Gotham U sweatshirt and leggings. When it was time, Superman bundled her up in his cape.

“I’m scared of heights.”

“I would never drop you,” he said.

Lena screamed when he took off. She was glad for the cape, glad she couldn’t see the ground. She curled up around him and pressed her eyes tightly closed, wondering exactly how fast they were going.

The landing came surprisingly fast. He’d alighted on the grassy lawn of a lovely beach house. Lena smelled something baking and heard voices inside. Clark knocked on the door.

A girl, a little older than Lena, opened the door. Golden curls spilled over her muscular shoulders, and she wore an oversized pair of glasses that did nothing to dull the endless depths of her blue eyes. There was something profoundly sad behind the curiosity in those eyes. She looked at Lena with mild confusion.

Lena stared back. There was a wild stirring in her stomach, and she shifted uneasily on her feet.

Then, the girl addressed Clark in a rapid, clipped, and utterly strange sounding language.

It hit Lena like a shockwave.

They were speaking Kryptonian.

“Lena,” said Superman, turning to her. “This is Kara Zor-El, my cousin. The last daughter of Krypton.”

[max-nicoxfandom]

A little snippet based off this post

Tim and Stephanie would both like to preface they know what they're doing is a bad idea. They do not need Duke, who is also listening in, to repeatedly tell them how terrible of an idea this is. He still does anyway, just to make sure he can rub it in when this all backfires later, but really, Tim and Stephanie already know.

They have both just decided to ignore that silly little fact in the name of information gathering.

So here sits Steph and Duke, huddled up in Duke's bedroom in front of Tim's laptop. Tim, meanwhile, is disguised as some random blonde haired, brown eyed kid. His fake backstory is vaguely based off one socialite or another, because even though he can change his tone or his accent, he just can't seem to hide the wealthy sounding lit in his voice.

In the back of his head, Jason and Stephanie's voices overlap. Once a rich boy always a rich boy, they say. Tim shivers.

"The Baby Bird has landed in The Nest." Duke sighs over Tim's com. "I still don't understand why the codenames are necessary."

"You know why they're necessary."

"Ow!"

Tim may not be in the same room as them, but it's not hard to figure out that Stephanie gave Duke a good punch on the arm. If Tim was there himself, he would've done it too. Duke knows that saying Peter's name within a miles range of the manor will cause the entire family to appear.

Duke himself wasn't even originally part of the plan! The only reason he's here is because Steph said Peter's name while they were talking, and then Duke just happened to wander one of the empty rooms in the manor! Seriously, what business did he even have in there?!

"Landing in the nest." Tim whispers. "Muting now."

"Roger that."

He mutes their side of the com, so they can hear everything he hears, but he can't hear them. It can be overridden by the two still at the manor if the need be, but Tim has faith that he at least won't fuck up that bad. Not bad enough for any help Steph can offer to be useful, at least.

He steps inside the coffee shop Peter frequents, oddly enough, it's actually called The Nest, and Tim's favorite cafe. It's the only place he can get their liquid death special, and he's pretty sure the only reason they keep it around is because he always tips at least $200 when he comes.

It makes sense that Peter would also frequent the place since he's his future nephew. Though, it's probably because Tim passed down his coffee habits. A fact that he will elect to keep from Dick so the man doesn't kill him before Peter's born.

Speaking of Peter, he just sat down in the far corner booth. The one that still has ink stained in the old wood, from that time he got a little too frustrated working on a case here. The one that has Dick's lightly carved initials in the side of the table, because when he wants to spend one on one time with Tim he likes to bring him here, knowing he can't say no to their coffee.

It makes him warm, knowing they probably continued the tradition with Peter when he was old enough.

Currently, Peter is tinkering with a futuristic looking watch. His coffee sits a good distance away, an obviously learned behavior, because Tim does the same thing after many many many drinks lost to an unrefined sweep of his arm. He's pulling other pieces out of a good sized black backpack next to him, quickly covering the whole booth in random looking machinery, completely engrossed in his project.

So Tim does what any other self respecting uncle whose nephew doesn't know he's his uncle, would do. He buys his favorite coffee, adjusts the blonde wig by running a seemingly innocuous hand through it, tips the barista, and sits across from his nephew with a smile.

He calls it a win when Peter wearily returns it.

"Sorry if I'm intruding." Tim starts, throwing a little rasp in his voice for the sake of his cover. "I was just curious about what you're... Working on... Looks complicated."

"Oh, it's a uh-- personal project. For my mentor. I'm under strict NDAs."

Tim nods. He wonders if Peter's telling the truth, and if he is, he's sure the NDAs are from WE, it's just a question on who he's referring to as a mentor.

"Ah, that's too bad. Do you mind if I just sit and watch? For curiosity's sake, I mean."

Even to his own ears that sounded suspicious, but he's never been good at improv. That's more Jason and Dick's thing.

Peter, at the very least, doesn't seem to care. He just shrugs and sips his coffee.

In that case, whatever he's working on probably can't be replicated at this point in time. There's probably some big discovery that hasn't been made yet, which makes Tim wonder who made the discovery. He'd bet $50 on himself or Bruce.

Conversation doesn't continue after that, so Tim just sits and observes.

Peter is clearly skilled. He moves with an assured elegance only to be competed with by himself and Jason, since both of them are the most skilled engineers of the family, though in two different fields. It's especially impressive with the eyebags that pull heavily on Peter's face, which he's sure he got from Bruce and not him no siree. Peter did not learn to overwork himself to death from him, that would be unacceptable.

The exhaustion leaks into his whole body. Low shoulders, slow movements, heavy slouching, small periods of zoning out and coming back to himself. He looks a little bit like shit, if Tim were to be fully honest.

At least it will be easier to get information out of him this way. The quicker they get information, the quicker they can send him home, the quicker his family can bundle him up and let him sleep for a week.

"So," Tim cannot help but break the silence. He's an anxious talker. "Your mentor? Is he cool?"

Peter pauses, his eyes slowly dragging up to meet Tim's brown contacts. "He's the best. I spend basically all my time with him nowadays."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He's kinda hard on me, but it's just cuz he cares, y'know? He thinks he's this like- manipulative genius that has somehow fooled me into liking him, but honestly, he's giving himself too much credit. He just doesn't want to accept the fact that he's a good person, or that he's gone soft."

Peter rambles and Tim listens, nodding along as he talks. He's sure Duke and Stephanie are tuned in as well. Between the three of them there's no way they don't at least get some information on how to help him.

"I'm sure your parents are thrilled about that." Tim puts implication in his tone. He's not sure what he's apparently implying, but insinuation tends to make people defensive, and getting defensive makes people talk.

Peter does not get defensive.

"I wouldn't know." He shrugs. "They're not here for me to ask."

"Oh, where are they?" Tim asks, like an idiot.

"Dead."

Tim's whole world may have just crumbled before his eyes. He feels like somebody just crushed his lungs with their barehands, and then stuck them back in, sideways.

The first thought that comes to him is he cannot tell Dick. Under no circumstances can Dick find out. Hell, Tim kinda wishes he hadn't found out.

"I'm sorry for your loss." His throat is dry, the coffee isn't helping.

"Nah, it's alright. They died when I was little, so I don't have a lot of memories of them anyway."

"I-It's still unfortunate." Tim coughs. "So who raised you then? If you don't mind me asking."

A smile overtakes Peter's face. It's warm, loving, and wistful. It makes Peter look five years younger, and that makes Tim's heart clench.

"My uncle and aunt did."

"You look very fond of them."

Peter looks more awake than has this whole time, just the slightest bit bashful. "I am. They're the best."

Tim is having a hard time grasping how utterly crushed he feels, he can only hope it doesn't show on his face as he talks. Maybe he can play it off as being overly sympathetic.

"So it was just you guys then? No other family?"

"Nope." Peter shakes his head. "My uncle didn't really get along with any of them, and after he took me in, my aunt went no contact like he did."

So it was probably Jason who took him in then, which is somehow exactly something he would do and nothing like him at the same time. Tim has to wonder where Bruce was, or himself. And which aunt? Tim bets on Stephanie, but it could've been Cass.

"It sounds like you've lived an interesting life."

"Yeah. I wouldn't trade it for the world though." The truth in those words aches Tim's chest, he feels so winded... Lost, maybe. He almost forgets to listen when Peter continues reminiscing. "My aunt definitely did her fair share to make it interesting. She's basically the fiery redhead stereotype, but she cares a lot about everyone..."

Whatever Peter says next gets lost as Tim sinks into his own thoughts. The aunt is not Cass or Steph, unless one of them has been repeatedly dying their hair for years. Steph might still be on the table, maybe. More likely is Barbara, or possibly even Kori, maybe Roy is trans and hasn't told anyone yet. He'll have to ask Jason when he gets the chance.

Tim regrets his coffee, he thinks he's gonna be sick.

"Are you okay?"

Clearly, Tim is doing a bad job at hiding it.

"Yeah, sorry I need to get back home now, but thanks for keeping me company."

He could have stayed. Probably should have, even. But Tim doesn't think he can stand another moment with that old ink stain in eyesight.

"Oh yeah, it's no problem. I didn't mean to ramble to you like that."

Peter rubs his hand on the back of his neck, his eyes trailing off in the distance. He's embarrassed, he knows it for sure because Dick makes that exact same expression.

Tim walks out, and the chime of the bell above the coffee shop door sounds more far away than it should.

He can distantly hear Stephanie's voice in his ear say, "Well. Fuck."

Tim couldn't have put it better himself

I wrote this at 1am and it's barely proofread so don't @ me if there are mistakes. Who would've thought this would be my first piece of writing posted on this blog, huh

1) the watch. It's the universe hopping watch from spiderverse, figured that'd be a good explanation for how he got here and for what he's doing at the coffee shop

2) complete coincidence that it was that coffee shop fyi, he just needed a place to work

3) he chose that booth bc it's the booth that overlooks the entire cafe. It's vigilante 101 about seating choices.

4) thank you to @magicpiano for the original post. I have so many more thoughts about it but I doubt I'll write another piece... Maybe <(͡⁠°⁠‿⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)>

Send me an ask, if you want /⁠ᐠ⁠｡⁠ꞈ⁠｡⁠ᐟ⁠\