#like lotsa angst | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

niyafics · 4 months ago

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: •̩̩͙ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝙨𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 ⋆｡° •̩̩͙ ໋:🦁

chap1 : sweet talk frat!oldmoney!paige bueckers x reader AU

˳ ⋅ ⊹ wc: 5k (*cries*)

˚ ⋅ ⊹ cw: alcohol (barley), swearing, LOWKEY EMO/LONER READER(i love opposites srry), estranged relationship with parents, golden retriever x black cat dynamic, an au things r diff obviously, the frat is made up lolol and not an established relationship either , lotsa building. angst(?), daddy issues(?). only proofread by me lolllll

˳ ⋅ ⊹ abt: after a long night of serving snobs you try to get a drink and a cute, hyper, frat girl home from college bails you out. now she won’t leave you alone.

˚ ⋅ ⊹(a/n): ty if u waited to read this, n srry if it sucks as always lolol. feel free to still use this idea btw!

ANOTHER exhausting night catering to posh assholes, and their colleagues. Some were easier to service. They screwed their face when you walked up, like you’d been interrupting a conversation, before bluntly repeating their orders, barley slow enough for you to hurriedly jot down.

They don’t thank you when you bring the food, they seldom look at you, like eye contact or a smile costs, and leave a fat tip that was probably change in their pocket.

Other times, it’s almost exactly the same. But, in place of the silence that showed they’re ‘better’, men the age of your parents, slipped a disgusting comment about your figure or an aggressively sexual invitation.

This long in the food industry, you were used to it. A forced laugh usually wards them off, and yet, it makes the evening drag. The 10 hours feels like 20. Your social battery is completely fried by the time you make it to your studio. Usually.

Certain nights, the tips stack so good, you have to reward yourself. This night in particular, you made the rest of your rent, and had fifty dollars extra to spend. Why not get a drink? It had been so long since you had alcohol warming your insides and cheeks. Since you had someone decent looking flirt with you face to face.

Your feet are throbbing after your shift, the money in your pocket keeps you motivated to get at least buzzed.

The bar you choose seems new, at least that’s what it’s listed as, nearby your place. Still cheap, but with a pathetic effort at millennial decorating. You wouldn’t see any of the richies you had to deal with at your job here, sucking their teeth at your chipped nail polish and beaten Vans. Throwing your apron in the backseat, you spray perfume to fight the smell of kitchen on you, and shake your hair free of its tie.

A chimes goes off, as you step inside, the place is almost empty. A middle aged couple play pool in a dim corner, and a few other groups or people spread out, leaving plenty room. Outdated music plays that clashes with the theme, so you get a feeling the decoration is just an effort to keep up with the times. You plop down in a stool at the bar with a grunt, sighing in relief, looking at the menu above, even though you were going to order the last drink you remember.

The bartender is a cute ginger, with freckles dotted on her face and down her arms. She glances over a few times with an apologetic smile, while an inebriated old man talks her ear off. You lift your hand to let her know to take her time, fiddling with a jar of toothpicks in front of you.

The bell echos at the front from behind you, and a rush of obnoxious conversation follows.

It was a warm summer night, and the suburban kids of the wealthy were home from school, but they usually drove through, to the overpriced clubs that suited them. You huffed an annoyed breath, taking a glance behind you. Everyone else’s head swiveled with yours. The children of the wound up business men you’d spent hours tolerating.

“This place stinks, like, actually..” One girl whispered. Two guys beside her laugh like hyenas.

“Yeah, good pick, Bueckers..” Another seethed sarcastically in disgust, with a string of chuckles following.

“Not too bad..” A tall blonde with her hair in a neat low bun pushed through and interjected. That must’ve been Bueckers. She turns to the group and gestures towards the pool table the couple had been playing at. You stared her down in her khaki shorts and pressed, short sleeve polo. Her friends dressed in similar preppy fashion. “Pool table’s cool.”

The couple of boys in outfits similar to hers groaned, moving towards it. The older couple was long gone, seemingly taking the group as a cue to leave. You were taking it as the same, still, you lingered. Your fingers dug into the leather of the back of the chair, looking at the lanky, yet toned, woman established as leader. A shorter girl, with brown hair, in an almost blinding white tennis skirt and jacket set, trailed behind, hooking her arm with Bueckers, as they walked over.

You identified her as the one that commented on the smell, she was right, but you still didn’t like her. A feeling bit at you that you pushed off as irritation, swiveling back around with a closed mouth scowl. The fiery haired bartenders’ kind green eyes met you, raising a brow.

“See someone you know?” She asked while drying a shot glass and setting it back on the rack behind the bar.

“No, thank god,” You joked, another whip of air pushing from your lips, relieving tension. “I’ll take a vodka and sprite, please.” She tilts her head knowingly, and begins to concoct it, while you reach into your pocket to pull out a twenty. Her hair whips back around with the drink and you’ve forgotten about the group. As she sets it down, a frown comes on her face at the sight of the bill. You’re raising your brow now.

“I forgot to tell you, card only, sorry…” The bartender bites her lip nervously, pointing to a sign behind her to back her up. Your shoulders slump, already knowing what your bank account looks like. A pang of disappointment stings your chest but you swallow it, and reach for your card anyways. You don’t know why. You already know it’ll decline. The sprite and vodka bubbles infront of you tauntingly.

“Put it on my tab.” A warm voice speaks up, and you feel a figure take the seat beside you, her long legs not fitting under the bar. They bump your thigh ever so slightly, as she swivels in boredom, facing you. Bueckers from earlier had came up to buy the first round. She shoots you a rosy lipped smirk, her blue eyes searching to meet yours for approval. You look down, putting the money back in your pocket instead, not feeding in. Her bottom lip purses out, brows stitching together so slightly, she probably thought you didn’t see it out the corner of your eye.

She slips a luxury brand wallet out her shorts, still looking at you when her slim fingers drag the thick black AmEx card across the granite bar, thick and shiny. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Bueckers, (Paige Bueckers, as the AmEx said) was trying to show off. Her icy orbs don’t leave you. You sip from the stirring straw as the bartender takes the card away. “Thank you.” You finally say after she leaves.

“No problem, doll face,” Her confident smirk is back as she scans over your work clothes. You’re not insecure, you fear that she’s sizing you up. That she can see the coffee stain at the bottom of your department store t-shirt, and feels oh-so sorry for you. You take a secretly angry sip. “What are you doing here all alone?”

You roll your eyes so hard they might fall out, finally lifting to meet her stare with a reserved expression. It doesn’t deter Paige, it makes her chuckle instead, and for a second you can hear a hint of nervousness.

“Okay, stupid question, sorry..” Her head turns back to the bar with a blush spreading into her round cheeks. For a second, you smile too, feeling something you can’t place, for a stranger making a corny move at you. Probably from the cocktail. You shake your head trying to pull yourself out of it.

“It’s fine, I’m just getting a drink after work..” You answer, although you usually wouldn’t. Something about the way she drank you in, her eyes pleading for approval with her metal rectangle of riches. It wasn’t hungry or cold, it was more like ‘please like me’. You exchange names, even though you already knew hers.

The server is back over, looking at Paige expectantly for her order. She gets a round of beers, turning back to you.

“Well, if you’re not too tired, you should come play me in pool,” Paige plucks up her card, and each Corona set infront of her. Two in each hand, between her fingers, then carefully swiveling around and standing. “I’ll buy you another.” She winks.

You hold her gaze and your breath until she walks away. Tipsy from the sips due to low tolerance, you slump back into the seat.

You had gone back to the pool table, even though her friends made your stomach twist. Their judgmental looks phased into the background as you and Paige played, the 3 watching, talking amongst one another. She had a talent of making it seem like you were alone.

Paige ordered another drink for you as promised, but you both barely drank again after your first, focused on the generic pool table. On the interesting stranger in-front of you.

Paige had politely demonstrated. Guiding your arms with her own, both lurched over the table, her hunched over you. She has to explain something an extra time, when her hips bump into you, and you space out. Once you get the hang of it, you’re ahead by two, determined to get the 8ball first.

Paige threw her head back once she misses a hole again for the same ball. You can’t help but explode in giggles, covering half your face with your palm. Catching you anyway, she grins at you, a twinkle in her eye as she squints.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, gorgeous.”

Her group watches you both banter, the short brunette coiling her face at you in the same way she did when the sticky stench of the bar hit her nose. You shoot an apologetic smile, awkwardly, even though you hadn’t done anything to her.

Paige ends up winning, with your head start, that you start to suspect was on purpose. Halfway expecting her to try to take you home, something heavy sets over you near the end of the night, asking if you wanted to leave with her. She was beautiful, seemed kind, and generous. Why not?

To your disappointment, and mostly curiosity, she gives the back of your hand a firm kiss instead, swapping numbers, wishing you a good night. You find yourselves turning to steal one more glance, walking to your cars, hers sleek and black with an engine the yelled as she veered away with her companions.

It started off with a simple ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’. You had full intentions of brushing her off after the bar. The two of you had shared a moment, that’s all, nothing would come from someone like that and someone like you.

Paige was persistent. She woke up around 2 when you’re enjoying your last hour of freedom before work, with offers to interrupt her precious rest and take you, pick you up, bring you lunch.

“I have to come in early.”

“I have to stay late.”

“I don’t have a lunch.”

You shot her down, only because you knew she wouldn’t be moved. Secretly, you didn’t want her to know where you worked. The mystery, and push of you was better than the reality, you figured. That you were taking an involuntary gap year from your dream school, you were paying out of pocket for. Refusing to take on too much debt, you saved to return. Friends suggested asking your parents, they weren’t offering, so why ask?

Paige was restless to meet again, you could tell from her invitations sprinkled in every conversation, the past few days. Never could you figure she’d show up to your job though.

You’d been thrilled to leave your shift. It wasn’t bad, it was slow, which is somewhat worse. The dark sports car from a few days ago would have been the farthest thing from your mind, if you didn’t see one so similar to it. Parked right next to your old Honda, in the nearly empty lot.

Your steps slowed and you stared, dumbfounded. The windows were tinted an illegal amount. It’s low rumbling is flicked off and exactly who you figure pops out from inside.

“My dad loves this restaurant.” Paige smiles, like you’re casually meeting here. You nod knowingly.

“Why do you know where I work?” A groan escapes you, trying to speak sternly, your small grin betraying you. The blondes smile stays put, tucking a few of loose curls behind her ear. She waits for you to step closer, to the open car door she’s leaning on with her elbows.

“Yeah, well, my friend said he’d seen you, when he was out to eat not too long ago,” She throws a shrug like the next part is the normal thing that anyone does. “You go to work at 3…they close at 11…I just kind of….” As she spoke it out loud, the pink from a few nights ago returned to her face, heavier now.

“That’s super creepy, you know?” You tease her. If she was anyone else. Heat spreads in your cheeks, shifting the weight on your feet, to distract from it. Still, her ego isn’t bruised.

“You don’t think that,” Said with a chuckle, like she knows it for certain. You’re about to shoot a rebuttal about how she’s basically a stalker. She doesn’t stop speaking. “On your next day off. Let me take you out.” Not said in the form of a question.

“Hm…” You hum, putting your finger to your chin. “I am off tomorrow, but I’m sure you knew that too.” Teasing her again.

“Maybe I do.” She throws her shoulder up with a sly expression. You raise a brow at her that she ignores. “We could go play tennis at the club, or I know a few restaurants. Way stricter dress codes than here, though…Do you have tennis skirts? How about heels? You don’t seem like you’d wear either of those. That’s fine, we can go shopping before we go..” Paige is rambling. Your arms slump in disbelief at how fast she’s talking, having a conversation with herself, almost.

“Or even better, we could make a whole day of the shopping. Then we go to dinner. Forget it, let’s just wait and I’ll get us floor seats to th-“

“Okay, wait!” You stop her before she makes up her mind to fly you out of the state. “This is super overwhelming. I will only go on one condition.”

Paige clings to your every word, finally quiet, her face flushed slightly with embarrassment for over talking.

“It has to be something normal. Something even I can afford.” Paige makes a face at you, like what she named off were tame settings for getting to know someone. You rub your tired face, and walk over to your car, the door creaks when you open it.

“Okay, okay!” She rushes over to you, closing it back, “Something normal. I’ll pick you up, and we can do that.” You tilt your head up at her, both of you soaking each other in for a moment.

“Unless, you’re only capable of lovebombing..” You narrow your eyes at her with a smirk. Paige bursts out laughing.

“It’s not lovebombing, if it doesn’t stop, though.” grinning so hard all her teeth are showing, you don’t realize you are too.

“Right.”

You find yourself dreading Paige seeing your unkept apartment building. At around the time she usually is just waking up, she’s parked outside. Paige doesn’t see you walking up, being too busy with texting you she’s outside for the third time in five minutes.

She has no witty line prepared when you slide into the passenger seat, finally not in your work clothes, or makeup hours old. Her mouth is just gaped open like an idiot, she shuts it, when you give her a weird look.

You smelled like a bakery, in shorts and a crop top to accommodate the weather, with no clue where you were going, only that it’s across town, presumably near where she grew up.

“You look really pretty,” the corner of her lip curls up. It feels awkward, you’re still flustered hearing it. Picking at your nails nervously, while your eyes wandered up her to meet her own pair. She was in denim shorts this time, with a plain T-shirt, white and blue Jordan’s. It looked different from how she dressed at the bar with her friends, you felt less underdressed than you thought you would. “Finally get to see you outside of work.” Paige head turns to you every so often, one hand on the wheel, her elbow leaning against the armrest.

“Thank you, you look good too..” You bite your lip, gazing out the window, as she breaks at a red light. Good was just putting it lightly. Two pieces of her hair braided in the front, the rest straightened past her shoulders. Mascara coated her long lashes, and silver jewelry accented her whole body.

It was real silver and diamonds, you guessed, from the way it glimmered against the light. You stare down her arm taking up most of the rest between you. It reaches down, grabbing your hand, locking fingers automatically. Her thumb rubs the back of your palm.

It’s a park that she pulls into the lot of. A ice cream truck is a few spaces down, with families and small children waiting in line. Paige holds her finger up to you, signaling you to wait there. You don’t question it, unbuckling your seatbelt, agreeing to stay put.

You watch her jog up to the back of the line through the rear view, in front of you the vast greenery, sprinkled with jungle gyms, walking trails, and benches. The park near your apartment had grass high up to your knees, this grass looked like it was trimmed daily.

You’re suddenly anxious to get out the car. Paige comes back, this time holding a coned ice cream and some in a Styrofoam cup with a spoon. She opens your door for you, then hands you the cone.

“Thanks.” You lick a side that was melting, and Paige sticks a spoonful in her mouth beaming, with a nod.

Both of you decide to sit down, and enjoy your frozen dairy in silence for a few minutes. Then you smile and speak.

“Not a fan of cones?” You ask her, taking a long lick. She watches your mouth for a second then gently comes back to reality.

“Too messy.” Paige replies, shaking her head like she’s trying to push a thought away.

“Of course, too messy.” A smile is etched into your face the whole time, barley faltering. Paige gets a feeling you’re teasing her.

“Yeah,” She turns towards you, leaning her elbow on the back of the bench. Another scoop is shoved into her mouth before she dramatically adds. “I only get cones when my butler is here to wipe my mouth, duh.” You shove her shoulder gently, both of you erupting into tiny chuckles.

Small talk drives you crazy, but as you do it with Paige, it warms you up. You even find yourself asking questions. She talks about playing basketball as a kid, all the way to high school. Paige mentions how her dad is essentially a business mogul for a marketing company, and expects her to follow suit. She had been doing well so far, amazing grades, joining the same fraternity, like he wanted her to. Omicron Tau Sigma.

Her apprenticeship at the company her father ran with his fraternity brothers started a week ago, and she didn’t seem worried. As she put it, their less than welcoming children that she was forced to acquaint with and host, was work enough. You figured those were the friends at the bar.

“Don’t get me wrong, they’re cool, and I have my moments where I’m worse.”

“Oh I’m sure..” You mumble between laps.

“Watch it.”

Before you know it, it’s your turn. You skip out on a lot of details, telling her a bit of your childhood, that you’re taking a gap year, and aren’t close to your parents. You didn’t have a pre planned multimillion dollar future, that didn’t have to be said.

“I don’t get you.” It’s so sudden, you don’t know how to respond., and you were used to being caught off guard.

“What’s there to get?” Paige nods, like she figured something out. You stare blankly until she further explains.

“You hate people. Or maybe you just seem that way. Either way, you’re closed off,” more vanilla into her mouth, as you’re starting to bite into the waffle cone. “You live alone, no mention of friends—“

“You’re very observant.” You nod thoughtfully.

“You’re very impossible.” Paige mumbles, finishing off her cup, and tossing it in the trash beside the seat.

“I just like being alone, what’s so special about it?” You look off at someone playing with their dog. “It’s the safest place to be. Depending on yourself, the only person who is reliable.” You cringe. It sounded edgy, yet, it was the truth, and you learned it the hard way.

Paige gives her full attention. Her hand crosses on-top of yours. For the first time, she looks sad for you.

“Safe doesn’t mean lonely. And all people aren’t the same.” A quick curl of her lip, lifts and falls from her face. You think about giving her a tough time. Shutting her down. Pushing those thoughts away, you quietly think about what she said, instead. She starts to talk again.

“You can, like…come over. Only if you want…. My place is right on the water.” Paige avoids your eyes, bracing your answer, a coolness to her voice that she seemingly flipped at will.

“Perfect place to throw my remains.” You roll your eyes at her, she wraps a arm around you suddenly, pulling you in.

“Good point.” She huffs, sarcastically, with a stupid grin, resting her chin on the top of your head. You jab her playfully.

You knew exactly the neighborhood she was talking about. With all the mini mansions, and huge pillars near the front doors, turned away from a private lakeshore. You passed it a few times. Your heart thumped thinking about being inside one. One where surely someone from her family would be.

Her rounded puppy eyes, and the look of willingness to follow you everywhere, had you agreeing before you truly scaled out the situation.

The driveway is so long you figured it burns gas just to drive up it. Big to match the massive house sitting beside it. Even her house stood out amongst others, there wasn’t anything traditional or welcoming about it. It was modern and cold, like a display home you didn’t want to mess up.

Paige snaps you out of your daze with the opening of your side. She takes your hand and guides you to the solid white doors. There’s a pin-pad above the silver knob that her fingers type so fast, you’re not sure exactly which number she’s pressing.

You’re staring wide eyed all around, anxiety making your heart drum in your ears. She hasn’t noticed the clamminess in your palm yet, thoughts of pulling it away before you faced whoever was inside stormed your mind. Walking in as friends already raises questions, you could only imagine the drilling questions reserved for Paiges’ partners.

Before you can make up your mind, she’s practically dragging you inside. Paige tosses her socks and shoes, you follow after her. The dark wood is warm under your feet. Heated floors. The interior design is just as minimalist as the outside. A few family portraits, and pictures of Paige at all ages, are blown up larger than you thought they could be, nestled on walls.

One wall, of the living room you get pulled through, to get outside, holds shelves of memorabilia. Framed jackets, paddles, shirts, brooches, several pictures of people in the same colors, trophies all consistent with a theme of gold and navy blue. A golden lion, with luscious mane, in the middle of every piece. You want to slow down and look, maybe even ask questions. You decide to ask when the time is right, considering how annoyed she’d been with explaining it earlier on the bench.

The glass slides open with a whoosh of air. Of course the backyard has been tended to, with lush grass, and intricate stone arrangements around the base of trees. Vibrant flowers are planted in rows around the balcony, between two trees, near the wooden stairs leading to the pier, there’s a hammock, chairs sprawled out nearby.

Walking briskly down the steps, Paige clasps your fingers with her own, guiding you down. She sits with a soft exhale making small waves with her feet in the water. You’re still mesmerized at seeing a lake so clear. You’d never leave this pier if you were her, you tell Paige. She responds with a dry, closed mouth laugh.

“You can have it. And everything that comes with it..” She looks down into the water, or her reflection, you can’t tell. Your eyes don’t leave her, when you sit down on the worn wood. Half your foot is in, and it’s warm, so you drop the other. Her thigh is flush with yours.

“Not having fun in the castle, princess?” You kick the water lightly, sucking in the fresh air deeply. She rests her head on your shoulder, suddenly, making you perk.

“Not really.”

A snarky remark is at the tip of your tongue, so you bite it. How could having everything handed to you, make you sulk in private? You thought, looking at a few fish swimming just below your toes.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“No you don’t.” You reply quickly, thinking about something else instead just in case.

“Yeah, I do,” Her head lifts up to look at you. There’s a slight hurt behind it.

“Shut up,” You sigh, gently pulling the weight of her head back onto you. “It must be…hard to keep up with.” That’s the only way you can put it, to try and soothe her.

“No, it’s not,” She admits, the sun beating down on the both of you through the leaves of trees overhead. “It’s not like working 40 hours a week, and still barely making it, I know.” Your arm wraps around her.

“Your dad graduated from my dream school,” It blurts out of you like vomit. It was drumming in your mind when you saw a diploma with the signature seal to it, framed alongside the other accomplishments. The words don’t stop. “I’m struggling because, yes the pay sucks, and because I’m saving to go back.” You’re almost gritting your teeth at the confessions. Paige pulls away and you let her.

“Damn. Dream school?….Really?” A silence sets over, you not replying. Paige gets up, standing beside you, wet feet dragging water next to you. She holds her hand out, you look up at her for a moment, her hair reflecting to look gold and white. You finally take it, her pulling you to your feet, and slowly up the steps this time around.

Once you reach the grassy yard, Paige stops dead in her tracks, like a deer, barley breathing out. Your feet start to dry in the blades of grass, by the time Paige speaks. Well, whispers.

“Shit, they’re here..” She’s mumbles under her breath. You’re about to ask who but the hearty laugh of a group of older men comes from the living room. “I forgot that was tonight..” Paige pulls the both of you to the side of the house, by the drive way, your legs barely keep up without a jog. Her fingers tap the pin to a room that’s used for coats, shoes, bags, all amounting to the cost of a small house. Theres three steps up to a black door that Paige opens so slowly, it looks like it pains her. You squeeze her wrist, stopping her.

“What?” She whispers.

“Who are we running from?” You whisper back.

Paige doesn’t respond, letting you hear the chatter of now voices young and old. Then she raises a brow at you, her only answer, twisting back towards the entrance.

“Because of me?” Your voice cracks as you ask. Paige turns around sharply, taking your face in her hands, brows furrowed in seriousness, foreheads nearly pressed together.

“Never. Because. Of you.” Her hushed, stern, tone makes a feeling you don’t recognize in your stomach, flip the desert inside it. “Okay?” This part is soft, and so is her expression. You nod slowly, as if in a trance, not wanting her mouth to move away from yours.

Having to fight back the urge to clash lips, Paige quietly steers you into the kitchen, the door closing behind you with a click.

Her slim shoulders drop, like you’re finally safe, bare sets of damp feet padding to the refrigerator. It’s roomy, and untouched, with the same dark flooring from the living room, where deep voices still laugh and discuss amongst each other loudly. The marble island sits in the middle, between the stove and fridge. A TV is installed outside of the door she digs two seltzers out of.

She gestures for you to follow her. You’re frozen still. Eyes bulging out your skull, social anxiety causing a tremble through you, at the sight of the small group crowding in. It was the other three, one guy shorter, with a mullet, the other taller, skinner than Paige, and of course, the brunette. An evil smirk stretches across her lip fillers, letting you know nothing good will come from this interaction.

It wasn’t them you’d been worried about though, it was the man towering behind Paige, his arms crossed, features scrunched in a frown, similar to Paige’s own. Mr. Bueckers, it has to be.

The way she jumps, when she swivels away from you, makes you think she’s going to drop the cans, instead, she squeezes them until they dent on the sides.

“So nice of you to join us, Paige. With company too?” He lets out a low, unimpressed, whistle.

🦁chapter 2

#paige bueckers fanfiction #DID I BLOW IT PEOPLE #let me know #cause i’ll quit rn #paige bueckers x reader #wlw fanfic #lesbian fanfic #paige bueckers au #paige x reader #paige bueckers x y/n #spoiled 🦁

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juniperdugong · 11 months ago

Text

Photobooth - Wonwoo

WC: 2.8k || Genre: Fluff, Angst (?) || Ooo they crushing on each other

A/N: We'll call this a late bday present for him lol lotsa fluff, is this also angst? Idk. This is the song I had on repeat writing this, Imagine it during the climax

You and Wonwoo had hung around the same people for a while, your friend groups slowly merging before you could comprehend it. So it wasn't exactly a surprise that you'd see him here tonight but you're trying your best not to look in his direction all the same.

You guys haven't talked much... or really at all without someone else in the group being there. It's a given seeing as you're both on the introverted side anyway.

Over time you've grown to welcome seeing his face at a party or in a crowd and you've developed a little bit of a crush, one that you definitely did not mean to create. But really who could blame you?

It was Wonwoo. And the way his messy hair hung so perfectly over his face. How his glasses would fog up on occasion. And god... the way he'd lift his shirt up just a tad to wipe them. You might be insane for the thought but there's no way someone that attractive isn't getting gawked at 24/7, like clockwork.

And that's exactly what you're trying to hide as he sits across the table from you. You're drinking more than you had before he got here and you can feel the heat in your face as the buzz sets in. You've been avoiding his eyes as best you can, but you can't help noticing that he's been looking at you very intently since he sat down.

Wonwoo's been nursing a beer for the past 30 minutes, his face still slightly red from the pregame he and the boys did at the previous bar. Now he's sat in front of you. Purposefully he had pushed Dokeyom out of the way to get this seat but now that he was here he had zero idea of how to approach you. He's been trying to catch your eye the entire time but you haven't looked his way once. He goes to speak but is interrupted.

"Guys! I have a great idea!" Your friend stands up to address the table, the fact that most of you are completely out of it only makes it so that several people are cheering her on the moment she rises. "Let's go to a photo booth shop!"

In minutes someone's already handled the bill; No one cares to ask questions this far into the night. And your posse is perusing the streets looking like a bunch of fucked up college students; Not exactly wrong but not right either.

You're hanging back in the pack like you usually do. The cold air hitting your warm face feels so good that you have to close your eyes to take in the feeling. "Hey." You're startled from your daze as you see Wonwoo pull back and wait for you to catch up to him, "The night air?"

"Yeah, feels nice." The silence grows between you two as you continue walking side by side. Neither of you can tell if the heat you're feeling is from the drinks or from the intense blush you feel coming on but both of you are glad that tonight is breezy, the air serving to calm down some nerves. The last time you were alone was that night.

Not too dissimilar from tonight actually. A bunch of your friends were hanging out at a camping-themed cafe where you could sit around a fireplace. Due to how many of you there were several campfires were taken up.

You and Wonwoo sat a few chairs away from each other, by coincidence you had ended up in this smaller group as a close friend also sat here. It didn't take long for either of you to notice the other. Small glances back and forth and flickering smiles when you caught each other's eye.

Somewhere along the way, almost everyone got up to go and order more food, and as people trickled over to the counter you and Wonwoo were eventually left alone.

The tension was thick with unspoken attraction and you were both waiting for the other to make any moves. Finally, with a lump caught in his throat, Wonwoo got up and sat in the chair next to you. "Y/n, right?" You gave a little nod and chuckled, "Yeah and you're Wonwoo?". "Yep, exactly right."

You guys kept talking and talking the entire night, the conversation never dipping into silence or awkwardness, it felt like you could be here forever and never get bored. It all seemed to come naturally with Wonwoo.

Even once your friends came back the chatting didn't stop. Some of them eye the way you guys had gotten close within a matter of minutes, smirks as they could see the connection forming before their eyes. The way that with each new topic, you guys somehow managed to get physically closer. Scooting your chair to hear him better. Wonwoo leaning in subconsciously as you ramble. Both of you are practically knee to knee by the end of it.

More and more of your group dispersed as it got later in the night but you both were too enthralled in conversation to notice anyone had left until it had gotten dark.

"It was nice talking, y/n." The way the moonlight and campfire gleaned on him made your heart race.

"Yeah, I had a lot of fun Wonwoo." His cheeks hurt from smiling so much and his chest burned whenever anything so much as a smirk was on your lips.

"I'll see you around?" You hoped he was talking sooner rather than later.

"Of course!" He held onto those words like a promise.

It wasn't until you both had gotten into your cars that you realized that you didn't get each other's numbers. Shit!

It's been months since then. You've seen each other at other hangouts but neither of you had the guts to talk to the other again. Something ate at the confidence you had that night and you haven't been able to look him in the eye since. You'd never thought that you'd have a crush this intense at your age but something about Wonwoo made you feel like a highschooler again.

And he's been the same way, although a bit more direct than you. Every time he's seen you since then he'd try to get closer to you, at least be near you to quench his thirsty lovesick heart with your voice... Even if it's not directed towards him. Just staring at you made him flutter, honestly. He's been festering on these feelings for a while, even since before that night if he was being honest, but every time after that his tongue hasn't been able to form coherent sentences around you. It's like a curse.

A curse that it seems some alcohol can quell, at least for a little bit.

"We haven't talked much, have we?" He starts, the shop is just around the corner yet right now he prayed that it was miles away so he could take his time.

"Nah, we haven't. Not since..."

"Not since the campfire?"

"Yeah."

"Hey! You two! Get inside!" A quaint smile forms on your lips as someone yells for you to hurry up. Wonwoo gives a small chuckle but bites his lip to suppress the touch of anger rising now that your conversation has been cut short.

As you get in you can already see that everyone takes charge in claiming different accessories and filing into photo booths in small groups. You didn't really feel up to taking photos, far too heated from Wonwoo's company from before. Looking around, you spot some fun sunglasses shaped like daisies. They were good enough for photos and who knows? Maybe sober you will like the outcome.

After grabbing the sunglasses you dip into an empty booth and begin going through all the different styles. You're slightly hiccuping and now you can definitely feel the alcohol kicking in.

"You mind?" You'd just settled on the only appealing style out of your choices, one obviously meant for couples, one surrounded by red and pink hearts. Of course, Wonwoo had to interrupt. You have half the mind to tell him you do mind jokingly but you're too swayed by him to joke right now, "Not at all."

Now you're sat squished up in the booth with him. The flush on your face could be explained by the drinks but it's more than likely getting redder due to Wonwoo's presence.

"Sorry, all the others were taken and I didn't want to be left out." An excuse, he'd seen you come in here and he was eager to talk to you again. Alcohol really did wonders for confidence.

"It's fine, really." You smiled a bit in his direction and suddenly his heart is thumping like a rabbit's foot. "I don't even like taking photos..."

"Why not?"

"I never like how they come out."

Impossible, you're like the most beautiful person in the world, y/n. He can't even begin to comprehend your way of thinking. You were the most stunning thing in his field of view whenever you were around, how could pictures with you in them ever turn out bad?

"What?" Fuck Did he say that out loud?

"What?"

"Did you just *hiccup* call me beautiful? Wonwoo."

"I don't know." His eyes are wide and suddenly he feels as sober as a dog. He feigns innocence with a confused stare in your direction and thankfully your drunkenness takes him for his word.

"Wonwoo..." A numbness came over you that allowed for words to spill.

"Yeah, y/n?"

"I think I really like you." Great. Now he's sure he's completely sober. He turns to you, the sunglasses hiding your drowsy eyes as you lean against the side of the booth. And he's not even sure if you'll remember saying this. Great!

"You mean that?" Please say yes.

"Mean what?" You're completely out of it and he can see it, as quickly as he resigns to you forgetting what you said you speak again, "That I like you? I do mean that."

His jaw drops and he isn't sure what to do. Does he run away and grab one of the accessories that will cover the intense heat on his face? No, he doesn't want to leave you. Does he tell you he likes you back? No, that's in vain you're already not all here. Well, you are in a photo booth... He presses the START button.

"Will you be mad if I kiss you right now, y/n?"

You look at him with glazed-over doe eyes, letting the sunglasses slip off your face and fall to the floor. You didn't know if this was some sort of sick joke, a hallucination fueled by the copious amounts of alcohol in your system, or worse a drunken mistake on his part. But it was too sudden a question for you to process the options in this state.

3...2...1...Say Cheese!

"Sorry, I shouldn't have asked-" He opens the curtain to the photo booth and is ready to get up. This was a bad idea. Nothing you said should mean anything to him but it doesn't keep from the pang of disappointment he feels. Suddenly your hand is gripping his wrist telling him to stay seated, and he does.

3...2...1...Give the Camera a wink!

Both of your hearts are racing. The tension of the moment suffocates you guys but you're too caught up to notice the heaving of your breaths. You grab his face with both your hands, trying your hardest to focus on just him. Your stupor makes it extremely hard but you persist with the small amount of soberness in your body.

It takes far too long for either of you to realize as your lips press together. The shock of plush lips lights you ablaze, it's as if someone held a flame to all the booze coursing through you. You're too far gone to know that you're the one that had leaned into him and not the other way around.

3...2...1...Blast off!

If Wonwoo's eyes could pop out of his skull they would. He's nearly out of the frame of the camera as you push up against him. Your brows furrow as you close your eyes getting more into the kiss and now he's feeling awkward with his eyes wide open. He thinks your focus might just be the cutest thing he's ever seen. God, you are all he wanted, huh? A smile creeps up on his lips before he lifts his glasses and deepens the kiss, placing a hand on the small of your back and using the other to gently wrap around the back of your neck.

3...2...1...Silly Faces!

Maybe it's all the drinks but both of you swear that the other's taste is addictive. Your hands travel from his face and down his neck, pulling him in impossibly closer. You're both hungry for each other, if any of the others saw it'd probably look like borderline cannabilism with how animalistic you were going at it. Mouths trying to trace the memory of each other onto the walls of your cheeks.

It was sensual yet innocent, any trace of lust replaced with an intense passion and love. You can vividly imagine the many kisses that you could share with Wonwoo in your lifetime. Pecks on the cheek, goodbye kisses as you leave the house, intense makeout sessions, all of it. All the little quiet moments of intimacy to the burning giant gestures of love, everything with Wonwoo. It's the only sober thought you think you've had all night.

3...2...1...Big Smile!

You release him from your grip, letting your hands rest on his shoulders. Wonwoo's arms hold you in place but loosen ever so slightly. Foreheads resting on each other you just take a minute to take it in. You let your eyes open and meet his, you feel his glasses fall on between you two.

"Sorry." You say as you back away, allowing his glasses to drop back down fully.

The silence is deafening. Outside you can hear as the rest of the group giggles and chatters on, oblivious to what's just happened. You wipe your mouth as you feel a slickness on your lips, your combined spit coating you both.

You're a lot more aware now. The kiss sobering you enough to maybe be able to remember this in the morning but you weren't confident in that thought.

While you're getting that realization Wonwoo's taken the liberty of doing the finishing steps on the photos. Printing 2 copies for each of you and inserting his own email when it asks him if he wants a video of the photo-taking process. Thankfully you weren't looking when he did that, hopefully, he can show you the video at a better time and you can reminisce on your first kiss.

You startle him as you stand up. A solemn look on your face at the thought of all of this being gone by tomorrow. You really wish you didn't drink tonight. That Wonwoo hadn't sat in front of you. That he hadn't stared at you with those eyes, the ones that made you so nervous that you had to chug drink after drink to just get a modicum of confidence. You wish that what happened in the booth had happened not because you were drunk but because you were ready.

He sees the look and wants to say something... anything if it'll make you feel better. He knows all too well that that look meant that you were regretting things.

You reach out to him, cupping his face in one of your hands and swiping at his cheek with your thumb before he can say anything. Biting your lip you look at him, the feelings are all too overwhelming right now.

"Hey Wonwoo, if you remember this in the morning... remind me of it so we can do it when we're sober sometime, yeah?"

With a slight nod, he leaned into your hand and gave a lingering kiss to your palm before watching you open the curtain and walk away. His eyes stayed glued on you through the window of the shop until the moment your taxi came. A hollow feeling overcoming him as the drunkenness sets in again, although he couldn't quite decipher if this down came from the drinks or from the pure ecstasy you gave and so quickly took away, maybe both.

He walked out of the shop, a group of high-schoolers giggling in merriment as they picked out their accessories and got into their booths. The thought of wherever his friends were was purely background noise at this point.

Getting out and into the cold air he stood with his back against the glass, clutching the photo strips in one hand and his phone in the other, he set an alarm.

"Remind y/n".

A/N: I really really fucking like this one guys, smiling throughout the whole writing process. Also lovelies, for those of you reading Perfection pls know that the upcoming chapter has been delayed till next Saturday! Please reblog and comment your thoughts and as always my asks are open to any and all thoughts!

SVT Taglist (OPEN): @bemybabiibish @bath1lda

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hwaslayer · 5 months ago

Text

wildfire (cs) | twelve.

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 4.8k

—chapter content/warnings: cussing, lotsa talk goin around, mostly focused on namjoon lol, i'ma tell yall rn - cant trust nobody!!, everyone is just onto san x oc but for the wrong asssss reasons, joon loves his 'yes or no' questions lmao, again - i promise you there is no ill intentions behind namjoon's actions - he is trying to see both sides but he has to do what he needs to do as a department chair first & foremost!! pls understand my guy.. he had to think quick!

Today, it feels like everyone is staring at you.

Today, it feels like everyone knows, and everyone is projecting their assumptions about you and San out into the world.

"You okay?" Eunchae looks down at you as you walk and avoid contact, keeping your eyes down on your feet below or your phone. "You're awfully quiet today." Maybe word hasn't gotten to Eunchae, Jurin or Felix yet, but you know it'll eventually make its way over.

Or, maybe they have heard and they're just waiting for you.

All you know is that you wanna hide under your blankets to prevent all this overthinking, this anxiety from feeling like everyone is watching you.

"Yeah. Just tired."

"You sure? I'm all ears, you know."

"Mhm." You give her a small reassuring smile as you tug on your bag. "Thank you."

"Course."

"Have you heard from Jiung today?" You ask. You haven't really talked to Jiung since your fight at the happy hour event, and he hasn't done much to talk to you either. It's a bit awkward, but whenever you and your friends are all together, you try to keep the peace and act like nothing is wrong. You do hope he's okay, and you do hope to have your bestfriend back— but you're still upset at the fact that he jumped to conclusions about San and accused him of forcing you into this.

"No. But, he did say he probably wasn't gonna grab lunch cause he needs to take care of some things."

"I see."

"I'll see you for lunch though, right?" You nod, just as the Biology building comes into view. "Goodluck with class today."

"Thanks." You squeeze her hand before heading inside for class. Luckily, Yunho said he wouldn't be able to join class today. You weren't really in the mood to deal with him, and you're more so worried about getting through class in one piece before your mind tears you apart with all this overthinking.

"Morning Y/N!" A student already sitting in the classroom says. You're instantly comforted as you greet them back and start getting set up at the front of the classroom. But, that instantly goes down the drain when two more students walk in together— eyeing you as they pass the front table before talking amongst each other.

Fuck.

You haven't heard from San either.

The world truly felt like it was swallowing you whole.

—FLASHBACK

"Hey! I'm back." You smile at Sunwoo as you place your things down at your desk. It instantly fades when you get a chance to look around the basement office, a few of your lab members talking amongst themselves while looking in your direction. You slightly furrow your brows, wondering what exactly they were talking about or why they felt the need to be doing all of that in your face.

Was everyone in on you and San?

Is this what everything has come to?

"Hey you!" Sunwoo looks up, noticing the shift in your mood. He turns to look at everyone, shaking his head before returning his attention towards you. At this point, everyone has returned to their desks or left the room to head into the behavior or wet lab rooms. "You good?"

"Hm." You hum. "I guess."

"You guess? How was the conference?"

"Good! It was chill. Jotted down a few presentations I wanted to share with you and Belle. Is she around?" He shakes his head.

"Haven't seen her."

"Hm, okay."

"You can tell me, I'm all ears." You look at your watch.

"I gotta run behavior soon."

"So, let's grab something quick to eat before you run behavior?"

"I'm down. Kinda starving anyway."

"Yeah, let's get something in you. You won't be able to focus otherwise." He stands and stretches before nodding towards the door. "So, what was the most interesting?" You follow behind him with your wallet clutched in hand, lingering eyes watching as you leave with Sunwoo.

"Maybe she's trying to get around the lab?" You overhear one of the guys say just as you walk out of the room with Sunwoo, pausing in your steps.

"Sunwoo."

"Huh?"

"Actually, you know what. I think I can hang on until dinner. I should get started on behavior. We can talk about this another time."

"Huh? No, let's get something really quick."

"You can go ahead without me. Sorry. I just realized I'm more strapped on time than I thought I was."

"Okay? But, I'm grabbing you a snack and you better eat it." He slowly starts walking backwards down the basement hallway, glaring at you.

"Thank you." Sunwoo watches as your head falls when you walk back into the basement office. Truth be told, he's been hearing the talk go around, but he's not one to meddle— especially if it has something to do with his good friends. He'll always be on your side, regardless of what people say or think.

And he feels awful it's starting to be more obvious around you. The talk. The looks.

He wishes he could do more as your friend to help keep it away from you.

—END

Namjoon is already having a rough start to his day despite it being one of the lighter days meeting-wise. He was woken up to an urgent, sensitive email from the dean about an anonymous tip that came in overnight about San:

Namjoon— Please get to the bottom of this; we received this tip last night about San and his student. 'Hi. I'm not sure who to direct this concern to anonymously, but I believe Y/N Y/L/N and Professor Choi (San) are in an inappropriate relationship. I think she might be using it to her advantage to move forward in the program and secure her spot in his lab.' I'd like to resolve this before the end of the week. This should not be taken lightly if this is true...

And the thing is— he's just frustrated that this has been taking up this time lately. He hasn't even gotten his own time to think properly. He could only sigh in disappointment as he got ready for his day, unsure of what else it could bring him.

He should've known the storm was coming.

Iseul tugs on her jacket as she heads over to the Panama Building, the wind cooling her cheeks as she made sure to clear her hour for this particular meeting. Most students are in class right now, so the halls are quiet, still. Iseul takes the elevator up to the second floor and steps out, rushing down towards the left end of the hall.

"Namjoon." Namjoon turns over his shoulder to see Iseul. His door is wide open since he doesn't have any important meetings for awhile, and he always tries to foster a welcoming environment by letting students [and faculty] know they're always welcome to pop in if they need him.

He did not mean her though, especially today.

"Iseul."

"Can we talk?" Namjoon quickly sizes her, realizing she's already inside his office. He doesn't necessarily have a choice, but he knows this talk was gonna happen sooner or later.

He knows Iseul always has something to say.

"You're already in my office so I don't think there's necessarily a choice." He says it in a slightly playful manner just so he doesn't come off entirely rude. "What's on your mind?" Iseul shuts the door and crosses her arms before looking at him. Namjoon sits on the edge of his desk, hands loosely clasped together.

"I think you might already know." He shrugs.

"Enlighten me."

"San."

"What about him?"

"Can you let him know how dangerous it is to be dating his rotation student? He's being stupid."

"He's a grown man."

"And you're the chair."

"Thanks for the reminder." He furrows his brows. "Respectfully Iseul, this is not a discussion for you, that's why I'm not trying to indulge."

"How is this not? He's putting his reputation on the line, along with the school's. Including yours—"

"I don't see where you're involved. You don't have anything to do with him directly or the bioengineering department." He crosses his arms and stands. "I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, but this wasn't your place to do so. I'll handle it and I'll take care of it, so you don't need to worry." Namjoon glares at her a bit.

"You're being so casual about something pretty severe." Namjoon pauses as he maintains his eye contact with her. She wants him to shrink and fold, but he won't.

"I think we both know that's not the reason why you're bringing this up." Her brows are knit tightly as they sit in an awkward, tense pause. "Aren't you tired of treating San this way? Why exactly do you feel so strongly about calling him out?"

"I'm not even doing anything to him—"

"You're right, you're not. You don't respect him, you don't acknowledge him, you don't know how to be civil with him. Yet, you don't see me calling you out on your behavior towards your ex-husband who has done nothing but try and keep the peace. I only ever hear San's name come out of your mouth when you've got something bad to say about him." She glares at him. As much as Namjoon equally tries to be there for all of the faculty and to not choose sides, one thing that can surely piss him off is when people act this way unwarranted.

So no, he won't sit back if he feels the hostility. He understands the severity of the situation and he has yet to gather his thoughts and his information, but he won't take this.

"So, you're gonna let this go? Do you even actually understand the situation, Namjoon? If you won't take care of it, I'll have no choice but to escalate this to the dean."

"I do, plenty. You don't have to tell me twice or how to do my job, Iseul." He walks over to the door. "I already said I'll take care of it. On my own terms and in my own way. Not the way you want me to." He places a hand on his hip. "And what makes you think we haven't already discussed this?"

"Fine. If that girl ruins everything for the school—"

"She won't." Namjoon cuts her off just as he swings the door open. "This will be taken care of, end of story. Is there anything else I can help you with that doesn't involve San and his personal matters?"

"No." She huffs a bit before walking out of the room. At this point, Jiung is cutting the corner and almost running into Iseul as he makes his way to Namjoon's office. Jiung does a curt bow to Iseul as she storms by, heels clicking away on the linoleum floor. Her feet are heavy, Jiung feels every step even as she gets further and further away.

"Oh, Jiung. Nice to see a friendly face." Namjoon lets out a breath and gives him a toothless smile.

"Professor Kim." Jiung gives him a bow. "Are you free right now?"

"Mhm." He steps aside. "Just finished with Professor Lee. Come on in." He welcomes him inside, a bit relieved to see his face and to be welcomed by his gentle aura. It's nothing like Iseul and he's grateful; although, it does make him a little nervous to see Jiung in his office when he doesn't necessarily belong to the department.

And just like Iseul, the buzz around campus, everything that's been going down— Namjoon already feels like he knows what this is about.

The only thing he can do is confront it and take care of it just like he told Iseul he'd do. But, how? He's not sure. He's gonna have to take the time today to sit San down and poke at his brain because he's just not understanding how all of this went down and why his name and your name are being tossed around together.

Maybe he just didn't wanna believe it was true; not with San, no. He couldn't. Both as his friend and colleague.

"What can I help with? I'm a little surprised you're popping into my office since you're in the electrical engineering department."

"Ah, cause.." Jiung slowly sits in the chair and sets his bag down. "It doesn't necessarily have anything to do with me." Namjoon cocks his head to the side.

"Okay, no worries. I'm all ears."

"I-I don't really know how to say this, but I'm mainly concerned about a friend. She's in the bioengineering department."

"I think I might know what you're talking about." Namjoon says, giving Jiung a nod to proceed with his explanation.

"Yeah, it's that. I feel like Professor Choi might have forced her into it, though. It just seems really out of character for Y/N, and I don't know. I guess it just feels like he might have said something or tried to take advantage of her."

"I understand your concern for your friend, but can you let me know why you think Professor Choi is taking advantage of her or forcing her into this?"

"I just.. it just seems off, is all."

"But, what if this is also Y/N's choice?"

"It's not like her."

"I'm not saying you don't know your friend, Jiung. But, there are things people are fully capable of doing that can come off as unexpected from your point of view."

"I talked to her after the whole happy hour thing went down and I found Professor Choi kinda cornering her against the wall. She didn't look scared or anything, but she did get defensive while I was talking to her and asking her about it."

"I see." Is all Namjoon says because one, he just doesn't know. Just like he told Jiung, there are probably things he doesn't know San is capable of doing. He needs to talk to him and that's the only way he'll get the proper story. The only way to get to the bottom of it is finally confronting San about the issue at hand.

Face to face.

To be honest, he's been putting off the conversation because it's not a conversation he wants to have. It's not easy, nor will the decision at the end be something he wants to do— but he has to.

"I'm sorry, Professor Kim. I don't mean to add to your plate, but I got worried."

"Is Y/N doing okay otherwise?" He nods.

"Think so. She hasn't been saying much. We got into a fight after I confronted her so we haven't been talking."

"Sorry to hear that. I'm sure things will smooth over sooner or later." Namjoon says. "Is there anything else you'd like to let me know?"

"No, that's all. I'm sorry I don't have much details, I'm just worried about her."

"All good, I understand. I'm sure she appreciates it, too. She's lucky to have a friend like you by her side."

"Thanks, Professor Kim. For hearing me out."

"Sure. I'll take care of it and see what I can do, okay?" Jiung nods and stands, slipping his bag strap over his shoulder.

"Can we keep this between us? Please don't mention that I stopped by."

"Of course." Namjoon says softly as he stands to walk him to the dior. "Of course." He repeats.

"Thanks."

"I just can't promise you I'll have any updates cause it'll be pretty confidential moving forward."

"It's fine. I get it." Jiung stops right before he steps out the door. "Thank you again."

"No problem. You know how to reach me if you have any other concerns." Jiung nods before slipping through the door and taking his exit. Namjoon exhales heavily before pulling out his phone to text the person he needs—

namjoon: can we talk in my office? i'd rather much do this today, not later.

namjoon: i'm free for the next hour and half.

san: yeah. i'll be there in 15 minutes.

namjoon: thanks.

He sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tries to gather his thoughts. It's the hardest thing to approach this as a colleague rather than a friend because as a friend, Namjoon would let this go. He knows San deserves to be happy, and it sounds like he is. That's all he's ever wanted for him especially after all the hurt and pain he had gone through with Iseul and Yunho. But as a colleague, his 'higher-up' even, it's wrong. San's happiness is wrong because it's with his student. A student who is a grown adult who can make decisions for themselves. It's wrong.

So, what does he do?

He feels a migraine coming on, so he tries to busy himself with some emails, making sure deadlines and reports have been submitted. Luckily, the dean is giving him some time and isn't pressing him for answers right this second even though he knows it's on his mind. If he was, Namjoon wasn't sure what he'd say.

He's not sure how he'll get San out of this.

"Yo." San appears in his office, softly shutting the door behind him.

"Take a seat." San immediately picks up on the vibe in the room and how stressed Namjoon looks. He knows they still need to talk about things, but something tells San it's become much deeper than that and he's not prepared for it whatsoever. No matter how hard he tried to prepare, there's no proper way to be fully prepared.

"You okay?"

"Honestly, I don't know." He sits back a bit, hands clasped on the surface of the table. "But, I'm just gonna get right to it because I think this is way overdue."

"Okay." San manages to respond softly.

"We need to talk about what happened at the happy hour event the other day, plus that whole thing with Iseul and Yunho." Namjoon pauses before he cuts to the chase. "San, why do I keep getting wind of you being in a relationship with your rotation student?" Silence. "Y/N, to be exact." He looks at him. "Is that what the whole happy hour thing was about? Is that what you three were discussing in the conference room yesterday?" He sighs. "I was try to push this off a little longer until I could figure out how to get you out of this, but word keeps going around and it definitely didn't help that you three had a screaming match about it." San sighs heavily as he sinks into the chair.

"Well, as far as I know, I wasn't planning on discussing my personal matters with Yunho and Iseul. They trapped me into the fucking—"

"San." Namjoon stops him. "Is it a yes or no?" Pause. San just looks at Namjoon and it's enough for him to put the final piece together. Everything had been about you from the get-go, but San still won't say it. He's doing everything to protect you, but this might be it; there's no way he can lie to Namjoon about this, or hide this from him any longer.

It's far too late for that.

"San." He repeats. "This is not the time to try and lie to me. I had two people talk to me about it and an anonymous tip came in that was sent my way."

"Who?"

"It doesn't matter." Namjoon furrows his brows and lets out a heavy exhale. "I need the truth from you. Now." The exasperated sigh that leaves San's lips is full of emotions; fear, anxiety, protectiveness, even.

"I'm sorry." Is all San can respond with. It comes out low, barely above a whisper.

"Why?" Namjoon cocks his head to the side, hands on his hips. "Why? I just wanna know why!" His voice is harsh, but he keeps his tone low. "A student, your student? It's damn near everywhere, you know that, right? I don't know how I'm gonna fix this for you, but you know they'll take action against her and probably you—"

"Namjoon, please." San pleads. "Please don't do this to her. Don't take her out of the program. Do whatever you need to me, but don't take it out on her."

"San." Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose before letting out an exasperated sigh. "You should've known better." He looks at him, but San can't even respond. All he can do is shrug and shake his head because he did know better, he just didn't wanna do better and chose to be selfish. "I need to figure this out before end of the day and report back to the dean. I can't force you to act a certain way or do things you don't wanna do. But, for this reason in particular, I'm gonna need you two to stop. You're not interacting with her on campus, you're not going to be involved in anything having to do with her moving forward." Namjoon shakes his head. "You both couldn't wait until graduation or something? I know it's years ahead but you know how this looks—"

"I— no. Things just happened. That's really the only way I can explain it. I'm sorry. The hell am I supposed to do? I can't help but feel how I feel for her." Namjoon sighs heavily, feeling torn between wanting his friend to be happy, but concerned and disappointed for his colleague.

"That isn't gonna fly. You knew better than to get involved with a student in your lab. You can't just risk everything you've built for yourself, San. You have no idea how much trouble you could get into if the school finds out just exactly how deep your relationship has gotten with her— let alone, your own rotation student!" His tone slight rises, but it falls when he sees San visibly shrink and lose eye contact with him. He paces around for a bit, hands still on his hips as he tries to figure out a way to brush this over before it gets way too messy and complicated. "I get you. I do. You deserve to be happy, and who the hell am I to police your actions? But, I can't have you do this to yourself or her. The both of you are grown so I expected you to do better."

"So, what's gonna happen?"

"Well, I'll need to let them know this isn't true and that you two aren't in a relationship. I'll have to remove her from your lab and I'll need to figure out where I can place her or what I can do for her."

"They won't kick her out, right?"

"Honestly, I can't even be sure. I don't think so, but you two will definitely not be allowed to be near or around each other." Namjoon looks at him. "Are you not even worried about yourself?"

"No, I'm not."

"She's worth it to you?"

"More than anything." San says softly. "Look, it's cliché but you really don't understand." Namjoon shrugs.

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I don't wanna take your happiness away, San. Believe me. That's the last thing I wanna do and this is already difficult as is. But, it just had to be her?"

"It did, yeah. And there's nothing I regret about it." Another small silence falls between them before Joon speaks up again.

"Do you get where people are taking this?"

"No, quite frankly, I don't."

"Favoritism, like you two are taking advantage of each other for benefits. It's becoming so noticeable that people are talking."

"You and I both know how great of a student she is. If she's received opportunities, it's because she earned them herself, not because of me."

"That's not how it looks. And perception matters. You know this. Relationships like this are literally a ticking time bomb for your career, the bioengineering department." He's gonna use the excuse that Iseul pulled because for him, as department chair, as someone who needs to keep the glue together for this department, it's true.

"I don't even see how we're doing anything wrong when we're both adults. She and I both know what this is—"

"That doesn't matter in this situation. There's a power dynamic here you can't ignore. Even if this is real, you hold her future in your hands. Do you understand?" Joon exhales, brows tightly knit together. "What about her fate in this whole situation? Do you care about that?"

"Of course I do. I care about her more than anything." San responds almost exasperatedly.

"Do you love her?"

"If I say yes?"

"Then, tell me. If you had to choose between your relationship or keeping her here, then what?" San sighs and runs his hand down his face. "Think about it. You deserve to be happy, but that girl also deserves a chance to keep going."

"Why can't we just keep it on the low, why do I have to choose? W-we can be more careful—"

"San, don't be stupid. I'm sure 'being careful' is how this all started, right?" Silence. "You know people are going to find out one way or another. It won't matter how real this is to you, to the both of you. She'll be branded as the professor's pet. Is that what you want for her? And you'll lose everything—your job, your reputation, ability to work at other institutions. Plus, the dean is still thinking about your program with Jongho and the real estate. This is going to trickle onto Jongho, too."

"No, of course not. And I don't want Jongho to take a fall because of me. But.." San sighs, his heart breaking the more this conversation goes on. He wasn't prepared to be here today, no. And he wasn't prepared for his mind to start thinking otherwise about your relationship, you. He was always sure of you, but now he's starting to feel like he's been too selfish;

Neglected you and your future plans. Your dreams, your goals.

"You're asking me to break this off. To break off my relationship with someone I truly care about and someone that genuinely makes me happy. Something I haven't felt in a long time."

"I'm sorry, San. I already told you how difficult this is, and it's not my intention to take your happiness away. I just need to protect you two from everyone, especially the dean. Please understand me and hear me. I'm asking you to protect her this way. If anything happens, it'll be the both of you going down and you know she doesn't deserve that either. "

"And If I don't do this?" San asks just to put the question out there.

"Then, can you call it love? Or is it just you being selfish?" San leans onto his knees, head falling into his hands. "I'm trying to come from a good place. Help me help you." He feels a headache coming on, thoughts running at a thousand miles per hour. He hates the thought of losing you; it makes him sick to his stomach. But, he can't even lie and say there isn't a piece of truth behind Namjoon's words.

Can San really say he loves you if he isn't doing the right thing for you? Is he being too selfish, assuming he could keep this on the low? Assuming he could be 'more' careful with you?

Is he selfish for wanting you by his side no matter what? Is he selfish for saying fuck it?

Is he selfish?

The last thing he wants to do is ruin your career, ruin you. Even if this will hurt like hell, he understands where Namjoon is coming from and knows he needs to put you first.

He's so conflicted. He has no idea what to do or how to move forward. Because as much as he knows he needs to do this for you and the sake of Namjoon, he doesn't want to.

He is scared.

"I need to head back to my office." San sighs and stands, but Namjoon follows closely.

"I don't have much time. I need to let them know that something is gonna be done and I need to prove it to them. You do hear me, right?"

"I do. I just.. give me a little bit of time to think, Joon. Please." Namjoon just nods, meeting San's expression. He feels bad, he really does. And as his friend, this isn't something he wants to do— but he has to. He could easily tell San to keep this on the low, to keep this a secret until things blow over but at some point, he doesn't trust himself to continue along with the story had anyone asked about it out of the blue.

Namjoon watches as San sadly walks off back to his office, eyes trained on the phone in his hand. San sees your texts, and usually, that'll be enough to put a smile on his face. He'll text back right away so you know he's been thinking about you; but today, he's thinking about you in a different light and he's not sure how to stomach it.

When he gets back to his office, he sees a few people from the lab lingering around— even you. You meet his eyes and his eyes meet yours, but he doesn't give you a smile.

His eyes don't glow like they used to.

His cheeks aren't threatening to glow that cute, rosy tint they do when you're around.

He just steps in without doing anything to acknowledge your presence and that already feels way off.

you: 😞 you didn't even look my way when you walked back into the office and i haven't heard from you all day.

you: i hate how all my papers and presentations are due this week. plus ppl have been weird, idk. i just wanna cuddle 😭

san: i'm sorry. it's just been a day.

you: that's never stopped you before... ☹️ what's wrong, san?

san: we should talk, baby.

—read 12.5 here

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thechaotictheoryy @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @mountiiny @naoristerling @onmymymyway @thecutiepieme @wyrated

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the-winter-spider · 4 months ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Seven

Steve x reader, Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: Angst, fluff, grief

A/N: HERE WE GOOO, bucky and u have more emotional convos as we go, sooooooo excited still a lot more parts to go!!

lotsa steve flashbacks in this one lol feels diabolical within the part where we see you know who again 🤣🫶🏻

Masterpost

---

“Steve, I swear to God, if you put one more thing on that pan, I’m leaving you.”

“Baby, have a little faith in me.”

“I had faith in you until you set the oven mitt on fire.”

Steve grinned at you, unfazed, standing in the middle of the kitchen like it wasn’t seconds away from being declared a disaster zone. “That was an accident.”

“You literally put it on the stove while the burner was on.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean to.”

You sighed, dramatically dragging a hand down your face as Steve turned back to the pan of food he was attempting to cook.

Attempting.

“Okay, let’s be real,” you said, leaning on the counter. “How many times have you actually used a stove?”

“I use it every day,” Steve scoffed.

“Uh-huh. To reheat leftovers doesn’t count, handsome.”

He was silent.

You grinned. “I knew it.”

Steve groaned, throwing a hand towel at you as you cackled, dodging it.

“Hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?” he muttered, prodding at what was supposed to be dinner but now looked like an unidentifiable charred mess.

“It would be, except now I have to cook and clean.”

Steve gave you his best innocent smile, leaning on the counter beside you. “I’ll do the dishes.”

You arched a brow.

“You’ll do the dishes properly? Or am I gonna find soap in the cups again?”

“You’re never letting that go, huh?”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed, pulling you against his chest and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Alright, alright. You win. Takeout?”

You grinned up at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

---

You hadn’t slept, you did try on the plane using Steve’s shoulder as a pillow, you had even curled up in the too-stiff hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Steve’s even breaths beside you but sleep never came.

How could it? In just a few hours, you were going to see him.

The thought alone was enough to keep your pulse hammering, your stomach twisted in knots, your breath coming too fast, too shallow.

So instead of lying there, drowning in your own thoughts, you had gotten up. Now, you stood in front of the small hotel mirror, staring at your own reflection, trying to recognize yourself, trying to find the girl you were before when Bucky was always there was a sure thing.

You looked… different.

Older of course and there was something tired in your eyes, something weighted in your features. Like grief had left its mark on you in ways you hadn’t even realized.Your spark that he gave you was gone, the colour of your eyes were dulled, you pretended to smile but it never reached your eyes, your hair even somehow lost its colour. You wanted to see him so badly but the you he was asking for, well she wasn’t here anymore. You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the sink as the nerves climbed higher, higher, higher..

“You okay?” Steve’s voice was soft, groggy, coming from behind you. “Wait, don’t answer that, that was stupid of me.”

You caught his reflection in the mirror as he sat up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, his brows furrowing the second he really looked at you. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched.

You hesitated before turning away from the mirror and crawling back onto the bed.

The second you were within reach, Steve pulled you against his chest, wrapping you in the kind of warmth that had been your anchor for so long.

His hand rubbed slow circles against your back, his lips brushing against the top of your head.

“Talk to me,” he murmured.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I don’t know how to do this, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you. “You don’t have to know.”

You closed your eyes.

“What if he’s different?” you whispered. “What if I’m different? Of course we are, and what if once he sees i’m not the same girl from when we were kids he, he…”

“Hey, stop.” Steve pulled back slightly, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

You blinked, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I just…” Your voice wavered. “I’ve waited for this moment for so long, I dreamed of it every night since the funeral, but now that it’s here, I don’t even know if I can handle it.”

Steve’s expression softened, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You can handle anything, sweetheart.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding once.

He studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “You want me to come with you?”

You hesitated, considering it but deep down, you knew you had to do this alone. “No.” You shook your head. “I think I need to do this by myself.”

Steve nodded, not pushing, not arguing. “Okay.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to pour every ounce of love and strength he had into you.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, your throat tightening. “Thank you.”

You weren’t sure if you were thanking him for the words, or for being here, or for holding you together when you felt like you were falling apart.

Maybe all of it.

Steve smiled, squeezing your hand one last time. “You ready?”

You inhaled deeply, shakily. “No.”

He laughed softly, standing and reaching for his jacket. “Yeah, you are, let's get up, you have an old friend to see.”

---

The party had been perfect.

Lily had been radiant, laughing and twirling in her birthday dress, surrounded by family, friends, and too many balloons to count.

Steve had been smiling the entire time, but you saw it.

The tightness in his jaw. The way his eyes lingered on certain moments a little too long.

You saw it because you knew what today was.

Not just Lily’s birthday, but the day he lost her.

And so, when the house was finally quiet, when Lily was tucked safely in bed, when the decorations had been taken down and the candles had long been blown out, you found Steve in the kitchen, his back to you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

His shoulders were tense, his head bowed, his breath shaky. A sound you had never heard before from him, a sob.

Your chest tightened. “Steve?”

He stiffened, turning his head slightly. He didn’t want you to see him like this. “Hey,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “I, just gimme a sec, baby okay?”

But you didn’t listen. You walked straight to him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead against his back and he broke.

His hands covered yours, gripping onto you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

“I miss her,” he choked out, his breath stuttering. “God, I miss her so much.”

Your eyes burned, but you didn’t let go.

“I know..” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I know.”

Silence settled between you, thick with grief and love, with loss and presence.

“I feel guilty,” Steve admitted after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

You frowned. “For what?”

He swallowed hard. “For being happy.”

A sharp pain shot through your chest.

You turned him toward you, both hands cradling his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Steve Rogers, listen to me.” Your voice was firm, steady, unwavering. “Natasha would want this. She would want you to be happy, to love, to live, to be the incredible father that you are.”

His blue eyes burned, but he nodded, swallowing thickly.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek, offering him a small, sad smile.

He let out a shaky breath, nodding again before pulling you against him, holding you close, his arms wrapping around you completely.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your hair. “She would have loved you.”

----

The hospital feels too bright. Too clean, too sterile, too full of sounds that don’t register in your ears.

Steve pulls into the drop-off area, putting the rental car in park. He doesn’t say anything right away he just reaches over, his fingers curling around yours, his grip warm and steady. “Text me when you’re ready, okay? Take as long as you need.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

He squeezes your hand one last time before leaning in, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “Go see your best friend.”

The words unravel something in you, but before you can even process it, your mom is already getting out of the car, waiting for you.

So you go. Steve watches until you disappear through the doors.

Suddenly it's real and you’re here, in the same building as him. You close your eyes trying to force yourself to wake up but nothing happens and you’re still walking into the hospital where Bucky Barnes is alive.

Your mother is talking, her voice soft but distant. You know she’s trying to prepare you, trying to keep you steady, but the words don’t land. Because as soon as you step inside you see her.

Winnie.

She’s standing near the waiting area, wringing her hands, shifting on her feet like she doesn’t know what to do with herself, her eyes meeting yours.

All the air leaves your lungs, she doesn’t hesitate. Before you can even take another step, she’s pulling you into a hug, clutching you tight, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.

“Oh, darling.” Her voice is thick, breaking, filled with too much emotion to name.

You squeeze your eyes shut, holding onto her just as tightly.

For a moment…just a moment you let yourself be the kid who used to come over for Sunday dinners, who used to sit at her kitchen table with Bucky, sneaking bites of cookie dough while she pretended not to notice.

Then, she pulls back, holding your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing at the tears already spilling down your cheeks. “I didn’t tell him you were coming,” she says softly. “Just in case.”

Your heart stumbles. “Just in case?” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t say it, but you know what she means.

Just in case it was too much.

Just in case you bailed.

Just in case he wasn’t ready.

Just in case this all came crashing down again.

You nod once, tight, understanding, terrified.

Winnie smiles softly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear the way she always used to when you were sixteen, the way her son had done one too many times before.

“I left to get him some water,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, steadying. “I’ll walk you in, then me and your mama are gonna get some lunch and leave you two kids alone.”

Your fingers curl into your sweater, your breath catches.

This is it.

No more waiting.

No more wondering.

No more silence.

He’s here.

You pause just outside the door, shifting on your feet, fidgeting, adjusting your shirt, brushing your fingers through your hair.

Then, your throat goes dry, and before you can stop yourself, you whisper. “Do I… do I look okay?”

Winnie freezes. And when she turns to you, her eyes are already brimming with tears. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Her hands find yours, squeezing tightly, grounding you. “You look beautiful.” Her voice wavers, but she smiles through it. “You always do.”

She inhales, blinking back tears, searching your face with something soft, something knowing. “And my boy in there?” She lets out a small, breathy laugh. “He will always think you’re the most beautiful girl…woman, in any room. Always has and always will, okay?”

Your lip trembles. You nod once, quickly, like if you linger too long in this moment, you might break. “Okay.”

She nods back, her smile watery, warm. With one last squeeze of your hands she opens the door.

Winnie squeezes your hand. “Ready?”

No. But you nod anyway.

Winnie knocks softly before pushing the door open.

“James, sweetie, I got your water,” she says gently, stepping inside. “And I have someone here for you.”

The room is dark, the only light coming from the small glow of the monitors beside the bed.

There’s a rustle of sheets, the sound of a sharp inhale, and you hear it, what once used to be your favourite sound in the world, his voice.

“Ma, I told you,” his voice is rough, raw, broken, so much deeper than you remember. “I don’t wanna see anyone unless it’s her. Please. I just…can’t.”

You stop breathing, your body feels numb, you dig your fingernails into your palms to try and ground yourself, your body glued to the doorway, unable to move.

Because he’s asking for you. Still. Even now.

Winnie sighs softly, moving to place the water bottle on the nightstand, without turning around, she reaches for your hand.

Her fingers are warm, steady, grounding, and she gives yours a firm squeeze, she looks back at him. “Good thing it’s her, then.”

You swallow hard.

And finally…finally…you step into the room.

Everything else fades away, all your nerves you had, all the negative thoughts floating through your mind because he’s there, right in front of you and he’s real, more importantly he’s alive.

For the first time since your last encounter on his driveway ten years ago, you’re looking at him, actually looking at him, not in a memory, not in a dream, but right here, right now.

Winnie says something soft, but you barely hear it before the door clicks shut behind you, suddenly it’s just the two of you.

You stare, you can't help it because it’s him.

But at the same time it's not, his hair is long, brushing past his shoulders, strands falling into his eyes. A beard shadows his jaw, uneven, a little unkempt, like he hasn’t had the strength to care.

His eyes, god, his eyes tell it all, they’re tired, dim, haunted, but they’re still and always will be your favorite shade of blue and you realize they’re staring at you like he’s not sure if you’re real.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again but no words come. His breath is unsteady, his eyes shining, filling, threatening to spill over.

Your own vision blurs, but you still can’t move, can’t breathe. You just watch. Watch as he pushes the blanket back, as he swings his legs over the bed, as he adjusts the IV lines without thinking. You watch as he stands, moving toward you, one step at a time, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Your lungs lock up, because this isn’t possible. You still can’t seem to wrap your mind around it because he was gone and yet he’s right in front of you, close enough to touch.

“Y/N.” His voice breaks on your name, his hand trembles at his side.

And again so softly, so breathless, so disbelieving. “It’s you.”

You feel like you can breathe again or maybe you can’t either way you don’t care because if this was the last breath you ever took you’d be okay because you finally got to see him again and against all odds, against all reason Bucky Barnes is here and after ten long years, he finally….finally holding you again.

“Bucky.” It comes out quiet, broken, barely more than a whisper.

But he hears it.

His breath catches, his eyes squeeze shut for a moment, like hearing his name from your lips is too much and not enough all at once. “I forgot what it felt like to hear you say my name.” He whispers, his right arm wraps around you, clutching you close, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

His left arm is in a sling, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to pull you into him completely. But you’re still frozen. Your body won’t move, won’t respond, won’t process that this is real.

“Please.” His voice shakes, cracks, pleads. “Please hug me back, Y/N. Please.”

Your arms move on their own.

You wrap yourself around him, fingers digging into the fabric of his hospital gown, clutching at his back like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.

Because the second your bodies mold together, the dam finally breaks.

You sob, so does he. Neither of you try to stop it.

You don’t know how long you stand there, clinging to each other.

Minutes. Hours. Forever.

But still it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to look at you, really look at you. His hand trembles as he lifts it, brushing the backs of his fingers against your cheek, wiping away the tears that won’t stop falling. “I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrow. “Bucky…”

“No,” he shakes his head, his voice raw, heavy with guilt. “I should have—”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head quickly, your hands coming up to grip his face. “Please, Bucky. I don’t want to do this right now.”

His brows pull together, confused, hurting.

“Just in case this isn’t real,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

“Just in case this is some sick dream, I don’t want to waste the time I get to have with you talking about all the should haves and what ifs, because I haven’t stopped thinking about those all these years” You choke out.

His throat bobs, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing the right one tighter against his face.

His eyes never leave yours. “It’s real, sweetheart.” His voice is low, steady, certain. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment for a long time.”

A shaky breath leaves you. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, his eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing, memorizing, memorizing.

“You’re here,” he whispers.

“So are you.”

The night air is cool, crisp, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace as you lie side by side with Steve on Lily’s trampoline.

The backyard is quiet, the only sound is the soft creak of the springs beneath your weight, the occasional whisper of wind through the trees.

Above you, the stars are scattered across the sky like shattered glass, endless, eternal. You exhale slowly, staring up at them, feeling so small and yet so incredibly heavy at the same time.

Steve shifts beside you, his fingers finding yours, lacing them together.

“We should do this more often,” he murmurs, his voice soft, thoughtful.

You hum in agreement, squeezing his hand, letting yourself exist in the moment. Before you even realize what’s happening, before you even have time to catch the words they slip out. “Bucky and I used to do this.”

The second his name leaves your lips, the air shifts.

Steve freezes.

You do too.

Because you haven’t said his name in years. Not like this, not in casual conversation, not in reflection. Not to Steve, not since you told him only once who the person you lost was.

You swallow, your chest tight, uneasy.

Steve doesn’t say anything right away, giving you the space to take it back, to change the subject.

But you don’t and for some reason you can’t.

So, you keep going. “When we were teenagers, we used to lie in the bed of his truck and look at the stars.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Sometimes we talked about stupid things, like if aliens were real or which one of us would die first in a horror movie, he always said me, by the way. I beg to differ.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at that, but he still doesn’t speak.

You lick your lips, hesitating. “Other times…” you trail off for a second before swallowing. “Other times, we talked about the future.”

Steve’s fingers tighten slightly around yours.

“It’s hard for me to talk about him,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It always has been.”

Steve stays silent, listening, waiting.

You close your eyes for a second before opening them again, staring at the stars, the same ones the two of you once laid under and all you see is Bucky.

“My whole life was centered around him.” Your voice wavers. “And then he blindsided me. It felt like he betrayed me and then…”

You inhale sharply.

“Then he was just gone.”

Steve’s hold on you tightens.

“There was no body, no answers, no nothing. Just… gone.”

The ache in your chest is so sharp, so deep that you have to pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. “We had these plans,” you whisper. “Dreams, stupid, beautiful, impossible dreams.”

Steve stays so still, waiting, his warmth beside you grounding you just enough to keep going.

“I found out in the worst way,” you continue, your voice bitter now, your hands shaking. “It was just days before we were supposed to leave for NYU. I went to the convenience store to get us slushies, to celebrate and I overheard one of his stupid friends talking about how he turned down his scholarship. About how he enlisted, just like his dad did.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I dropped the slushies, I didn’t even think. I just..drove straight to his house and there he was, loading up his car in his uniform, like he was about to leave without even telling me.”

Steve’s brows knit together, his breath slow, measured.

“I was so hurt,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I told him I hated him. That I never wanted to see him again.”

Steve lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it in this entire time.

“And then… he was gone.”

Your eyes burn, your chest aching so fiercely it feels like you’re suffocating. “He wrote to me for two years.”

Steve stiffens.

“I never wrote back.”

You sniffle, wiping at your face, feeling the weight of it all settle on you like an anchor.

“And then one day, my mom called and asked me to come home for the weekend. When I got there, Winnie and my mom were waiting for me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I knew before they said it.”

Steve’s hand clenches around yours.

“He was declared MIA.”

Your voice is so small, so hollow, like you’re reading off someone else’s tragedy instead of your own.

“And after a little over a year, his unit was presumed deceased. And that was it, that was his life just gone. There was a funeral but we had no body, no nothing.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, sharp and broken.

“We were just… expected to move on. Like he never existed, like my best friend, my entire world wasn’t ripped away from me overnight.”

Steve is completely still. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t speak. Because he never knew any of this, you had told him Bucky’s name once.

That was it. But now? Now, it’s all out in the open.

The grief, the guilt, the unbearable, all-consuming loss and suddenly, you feel so raw, so exposed.

“Say something,” you whisper.

Steve lets out a slow breath, shifting beside you.

Then, in one fluid movement, he pulls you onto his chest, holding you.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” The words are soft, heartfelt, full of something so deep you can’t name it.

You let out a shaky breath, burying your face into his shirt, letting yourself sink into his warmth.

Steve doesn’t ask more questions. He doesn’t tell you you should have moved on. He just holds you.

And as you stare at the sky, at the endless expanse of stars above you, you wonder if Bucky was up there looking down back at you.

Bucky is back in bed now, his body still weak, still healing.You sit beside him, your chair pulled as close as possible, your fingers curled tightly around him. His grip on your hand is strong, unrelenting.

Neither of you have let go, not since the moment you walked into this room.

His thumb traces slow, familiar circles over your knuckles, his gaze fixed on your intertwined hands as if he’s still trying to convince himself that you’re real.

That you’re here.

That after all these years of nothing, of silence, of darkness, of wondering if he’d ever feel warmth again he’s finally touching you.

Then, his grip tightens slightly. “Tell me about your life.”

You blink, startled, looking up to find his eyes already on you, desperate, pleading, like a man searching for something to hold onto.

“Bucky…”

“Please.” His voice catches, breaks slightly. “You and Ma, you’re all I thought about all these years. The only things that kept me going.”

His throat bobs.

“The thought of never seeing you again…” He trails off, shaking his head, his eyes darkening. “I couldn’t let myself think like that. I just… I held on to you. The memory of you. The idea of coming back to you. And anytime I thought about ending it, I just couldn’t imagine never seeing you again. That’s why I held on.”

Your breath hitches, your heart aching in a way you don’t know how to carry.

And when you don’t respond right away, Bucky panics—like maybe that was too much, too soon.

So, he adds..“That and Sam.”

You latch onto the name, ignoring the rest, needing a second to breathe.

“Sam?”

Bucky huffs a small breath, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips.

“Yeah, Sam. He… kept me sane. My best friend out there, though I’d never tell him that.”

You were so glad Bucky had someone out there, it hurt knowing that there was someone who was now closer to this Bucky than you were but you brushed it off, your voice is quiet, unsteady, but you offer him a small smile anyway. “I’d like to meet him.”

Bucky smirks faintly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“He’d like you, I know he would, because he pretty much already knows you.” He squeezes your hand. “I told him so many stories, told him everything about you. He said the two of you are practically best friends now.”

Then, his eyes narrow playfully. “But don’t change the subject.”

Your stomach twists, you shy away, looking down. “There’s not much to tell, Buck.”

“I don’t believe that.” His fingers tighten around yours. “Tell me about NYU. What happened? What do you do now?”

You inhale shakily, biting your lip. “NYU was… it was good. For a while. The first two semesters were great.”

His eyes light up, pride flickering in his expression. “But?”

You hesitate, you slowly look at him. “I never graduated.”

His face falls because that wasn’t like you at all, to fail, to give up on something. “What? Why not?”

You swallow hard. “Bucky…”

“No, why not?” He leans in slightly, searching your face. “Did you change your mind? Did you find another interest? It’s okay, you can tell me.”

You sigh, pressing your lips together.

“I just… after—” you can barely get the words out “After losing you, I lost a part of myself. I was failing. I wasn’t handing in my assignments, and they kicked me out of the program…I lost my scholarship.”

Bucky stares at you, his expression shattered. Like he’s watching the ripple effect of his disappearance in real-time. He never truly considered what his loss might have done to you, he knew you would be crushed but he hoped you would know that he would want you to be happy to live your life to the fullest like the two of you dreamt about all those years ago. “I’m so sorry.” his voice cracks.

“Don’t apologize Bucky” Your hand brushes his cheek wiping away the tears. “I don’t want to talk about me anymore right now.”

He studies you for a long, heavy moment.“Okay.”

Silence settles between you.

“Did you read my letters?”

Your stomach twists again.

You nod slowly. “Every single one.”

His shoulders loosen slightly, relief passing through his features.

“But,” you whisper.

His brows knit together again.“But what?”

You inhale deeply, your fingers shaking against his.

Quietly, guiltily. “I never opened the last one.”

Bucky freezes. “Why not?”

“Because then it would have been final. You would have been gone, and that would have been it. And holding onto that last letter meant you were still here…a part of you, unspoken and here.”

Your voice cracks, and suddenly, you’re sobbing. “I know it’s so stupid, I just..I could never let you go, Bucky.”

Your hands shake, your breath shuddering. “I tried to… I tried to forget you because it all hurt so much, I thought it would be easier. I thought forgetting you would take the ache away, but I don’t even remember much from the first two years after your funeral. I was so numb, it all feels like one long nightmare…I was never good at letting things go.” You laugh sadly “Steve, he helped me try to work through it all but I just…I could never get over it, I could never let you.”

Bucky sniffles. “When I was out there, I kept hoping that you were happy.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“That you were living out your dreams,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “Our dreams, I kept picturing you in that apartment we made up in our heads, with your new friends from school.” A sad, breathy chuckle leaves him. “Going to all the bars and having enough fun for the both of us and when we finally saw each other again, in this life or the next you’d tell me all about it.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “My dreams died with you.” You whispered

A knock on the door put the conversation to a halt, interrupting before Bucky could respond, Winnie poked her head in. Her eyes landing on Bucky then trailing down to your hands intertwined, her eyes softening at the sight “Sorry to interrupt but the nurse said visiting hours are over in a few minutes.”

You pull your hand away and Bucky winces at the loss of contact. “What time is it?” You murmur searching for your phone.

“Almost nine, darling.”

Your eyes widened, you had been here for hours, hours and it didn't feel like it, it didn't feel long enough “Oh” was all you said.

You stood up, hesitating. “I guess I should get going then.”

Bucky moving, tossing the blanket tossed to the side as he moved towards you. His right arm wrapped around your waist without permission, without hesitation, this time he didn’t need to ask you, you tossed your arms around his neck.

“You're still everything to me.” he murmured in your ear, chills running down your neck.

“I don't wanna go.” you whisper. “I wish I could stay.”

He pulls back, his lips grazing your cheek “I'll be discharged soon and heading home in a few days.” He said releasing your waist brushing your hair behind your ear. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

You nodded “Any day you want me here, Buck, I’ll be here okay?” You both hugged one last time before you kissed his cheek “I'll see you tomorrow Bucky.”

“See you tomorrow sweetheart.”

You headed towards the door, stopping to give Winnie a hug goodbye. “Steve is waiting outside for you, your Mom called him.”

“Thank you for everything.” You said

Turning around and looking at Bucky one last time you gave him a small wave and left.

Bucky sat on the edge of his bed looking at his Mom and his voice quiet “Who’s Steve?”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes

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thesummerpetrichor · 1 year ago

Text

𝓘 𝓷𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓘 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾:

𝒪𝒻𝒻 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑅𝒶𝒸𝑒𝓈

Javier Peña x afab!fem!reader

Summary: Its been five months since you started sleeping together, and you're having second thoughts about your "relationship" with Javier. But what does it matter to him? he hasn't even kissed you yet. 🍒 Continuation of “Off to the Races” and “Your Face is Shameless” but can be read alone.

Warnings: 18+ Only Minors DNI you will be blocked. Mentions of DEA, thicc age gap [Javi is in his 40s reader is in her early 20s], mentions of anxiety, major angst, situationship, guilt, unrequited love, self loathing, kissing [they did it!], Javier is emotionally unavailable, petnames, major dom/sub dynamic [dd/lg ish vibes], mean!Javi then soft!dom!Javi, degradation, dumbification, minor objectification, major size kink [Javi is bigger than and can lift reader], praise kink [finally some good girl action], daddy kink, choking, pussy pronouns, finger sucking, oral [f receiving], unprotected P in V [ do better!!]. Let me know if i missed anything 🫶

Word count: 5.4K

A/N: Hello!! I'm back!! thought it would be fitting to revisit these two post hiatus. Sorry in advance for the emotional torture that is about to ensue, but I couldn't help myself. Big thank you to @pixelsandothernonsense for being a big supporter of these two and fuelling their return on the blog time and time again. Lotsa plot, lotsa porn– as always. Hope you enjoy, nasties. Mwah

🍒Off to the races 🍒Your face is shameless 🍒Masterlist

You wanted it to be easy but it’s difficult. You wanted it to be over, but it was not.

While Colombia seemed to be all fun and games at first sight, the longer you remained stuck in the American embassy’s city centre building the more you longed for home.

Your research was hitting a roadblock, and things were hard. Funding was running out, and your professors were running away. Better jobs, better prospects. But your degree was the least cause for your troubles.

You were smart. You were controlled. You didn’t know what you were thinking when you got yourself involved with Javier Peña. It seemed fun at the moment- fooling around, messing with a man double your age and four times more qualified. Trying to wrangle his true intentions out from under his furrowed brow and frown.

Looking back you felt stupid. Embarrassed. A little ashamed of what you had become. How you let him treat you.

He used you like a walking sex doll. Didn’t give you one look afterwards. Maybe a pat on the back but somehow that was more insulting. He had never kissed you. And there you were, fixing your makeup in the office bathroom after an evening under his desk had ruined it.

It had been five months since the first time he'd bent you over his desk but you were only half way through your trip. Five more months seemed too long to bear. It made you sick.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror. You looked tired, and sleepy and your clothes weren’t crisp as usual. You felt a little bit like the tissue you’d just dabbed against your cheek. A little flimsy and a little dirty. A little used, perhaps.

It felt a little worse knowing it was all your doing. You weren’t expecting a man like Javier to change. Objectively, it wasn’t possible. But you still asked for more. For him to use and then forget about you. You wanted to leave. You wished he’d never seen this side of you. Frankly you wished you hadn’t either.

Because you were smart and funny and interesting and could talk about all sorts of things. You liked music and books and movies and trying new food. But he’d never seen you that way. He never would.

You hadn’t spoken to him once. Not about anything that wasn’t strictly utilitarian. Especially not after he started fucking you. It was far too awkward and far too intimate.

For him.

Your feelings flip flopped every day, from the casualty of the affair seeming rather appealing, to it making your chest ache. And yet you couldn’t seem to help yourself, unable to understand not only what this thing you had going on with Agent Peña was, but why you couldn't seem to stop.

Five months camping out in the office and you hadn’t missed a single day. No matter how bad the hurt in your chest you rolled out of bed and reminded yourself of why you were where you were. It worked. It hurt, but it worked.

But after five months it seemed like getting out of bed was suddenly impossible one morning and you thought it best to stay home. You got a few calls. One from Fiestl and Van Ness. Connie Murphy sent Steve over with soup when she heard you weren’t feeling well.

No news from Javi Peña.

You slept most of the day. With your computer shut and materials put away. You didn’t want to think about it. You fixed yourself dinner- instant noodles, and headed to bed once again.

You thought it was temporary but the excruciating pain only lingered and carried you on to another day confined to the four walls of your bedroom.

It was a bad idea- ignoring your work for as long as you did. You should have known that you wouldn’t be able to put it on the back burner- considering the neurosis surrounding your work, the fact you took a two day break was impressive. It wasn’t long before your anxiety was eating away at you, an impending deadline hanging over your head and reminding you the world didn't care about your little pity party.

Stupid as it was, you found yourself crossing the street at the witching hour of 23:00- clad in the soft cotton dress you forced yourself into earlier that evening. The friday night had persuaded everyone out of the office, and you weren’t surprised when you found the top floor of the embassy building cold and empty.

You were glad, and perhaps it was the only way you could stomach being there– alone.

Your desk was exactly how you’d left it a couple of days ago- your books piled in one corner, papers thrown all over the place. It was disorganised and untidy– very unlike you. You swallowed a lump in your throat as you began to sort things out, a feeling of complete exhaustion and defeat threatening to force you into your office chair. You glanced over at Javier’s office, signs he was out for the week prompting the slight relaxation of your shoulders.

When you finally sat down to get to work, your eyes couldn't help but flutter shut every few moments, the screen of your computer zoning in and out of your vision every now and then. The words seemed to escape you, four lines on your document all you could manage before you were pressing your forehead against the wood of your desk.

After spending the past two days sleeping somehow all you wanted to do was climb right back into bed.

Music, surely that would help! Or at least you thought, to no avail, a whole album played once, yet you could only manage another paragraph. Turns out burnout was real.. and it had decided now was the best time to get you. But you weren’t ready to pack up and banish yourself to your studio apartment just yet. So you upped the volume, and sat up just a little bit straighter in your chair, and got back to work.

Something about the loneliness of working in that drab, white, characterless office was especially miserable. So miserable in fact it was almost comforting, it was so miserable it was funny. It wasn't long before you were sitting completely straight in that sad, uncomfortable office chair, laughing at yourself with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. You were stupid, and acted silly, and had all these big feelings, but what did it matter? It was diabolical; the capacity Javier had for ruining your life, but soon enough you’d be out of here and one day you’d probably be laughing at the whole ordeal.

It was exhausting, but what could you do? The words came just a little bit easier from that point, and you felt yourself accept defeat and immersed yourself in your paper. At the end of the day you couldn’t control how he felt about you- you just had to take it or leave it. Not everything is that deep, you rolled your eyes at yourself, but you knew truthfully the lack of his care and affection was more than a little sting. You decided you were better off defining the “relationship” for yourself, and maybe showing a little bit more restraint. Who said everything had to be that serious, maybe you should've taken a page out of Javier’s book!

Yes that was it, not everything was that serious, was it?

You really wished you’d had the foresight to gauge the stupidity of trying to drown out your surroundings in a public space in the middle of the night. Sure, no external threat could get you inside the excessively secure embassy building, but what did that mean when the real threat to your sanity was the DEA attache.

Truth be told, you'd have jumped in fear if anyone had tapped their fingers on your computer screen, but when Javier rounded your desk with a raised brow and waved his hand in front of your computer, you were particularly startled.

“The hell are you doing here?”

Any other time you’d probably met him with a snappy reply, something to get him going, maybe rile him up enough till he was pressing your face against your papers and fucking you from the back. You wished you could have given him that response that day, but you were so completely out of yourself, you settled for a shrug and a normal “trying to finish this section”.

“That why you disappeared these past two days?”

“I wish.. probably would have been done by now.” His brows kit, somewhat confused and just noticing your tired, puffy eyes now that he was closer.

“When’s it due.” he leaned to sit on your table , and traced your features with his fingers. You felt your eyes flutter shut as the tip of his index ran along the bridge of your nose, and feared your new policy was at risk of being thrown right out of the window at his attention. Sighing, you leaned into his touch. Unhappy, but unable to resist it. “Next week.”

He pitched your damp cheeks between his fingers, gently shaking your head from side to side. “You've got time.”

You hummed and took a moment to look up at him- yellow table lamp doing his golden features all sorts of favours, ones that he didn't even need to begin with if you were being honest.The weight of his hand, the roughness of his skin against yours had a soft sigh escaping your lips.

Javier's hand moved slowly, almost hesitantly, to the back of your neck, and he gently guided you to stand. Your legs felt weak, but you helped yourself up long enough to watch him rise beside you, stepping closer. He stepped around you, positioning himself between yourself and the chair, his breath warm against your ear.

"Sit," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. His hand moved to the back of your neck again, this time pulling you down onto his lap. The gesture was possessive, not tender.

You obeyed, lowering yourself onto him, your legs on either side of his waist, dangling off the seat. Javier's hands rested on your waist momentarily, heavy and harsh, before drifting lower to your hips, pulling you further into his lap till you could feel his bulge swell against you. You felt yourself get wet, he lifted your hips and then pulled you back down against him, allowing you the slight relief of the friction as you felt yourself embarrassingly throb against him.

The proximity was suffocating, his scent—cigarettes, and aftershave. He leaned closer, and for a moment, in your delusion, you thought he might kiss you. Instead his fingers squeezed around your throat, breath fanning your lips. “You want to be daddy’s good girl, dontch’ya?” his voice was low, and biting, and you knew you were in for it, for avoiding him, when he tightened his grip at your lack of answer.

Slick pooled in your panties, and he let you press your hot core against him, undoubtedly able to feel how easily he could unravel you. You shifted your gaze up at the ceiling to avoid his own.

You squeaked out a feeble “yes”, already delirious. “Then why the fuck, did you think you could disappear without telling me?” He reached for the string that held together the top of your dress, rather aggressively tugging it undone, watching as it unravelled and revealed the soft cotton of your lingerie. “Busy” you whined when traced your skin with his pointer finger, palm coming to squeeze at your breast and then pull your bra aside.

“Not looking too busy now, are ya?” your nipple pebbled under his palm, his hot breath fanning against your skin as he trailed open mouth kisses along your neck. You whimpered, reaching to tangle your fingers in Javier’s hair. Surprisingly, he let you tug on his locks, allowing you to ground yourself as he sucked your nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around your bud. He came up to nip at your jaw and you whimpered a soft “M’ sorry”.

“What was that?” Javier rolled his eyes and growled in your ear, grazing your earlobe with his teeth, and pinching the flesh of your thighs, prompting you to speak up. And speak up you did, heat seeping into your panties at his tone and words. He didn’t respond to you, just hummed his assent and pulled you harder against him.

His hands found the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up and into his arms. You wrapped your legs around him and his big arms crossed under you to support your weight. Continuing to kiss along your neck he plopped you on the table, but you couldn’t lie, you much preferred being carried so gently in his hold. Thank god the desk had been cleared– giving him enough room to push you back against it. You didn't really want to unwrap your legs from around him, but he grunted disapprovingly before prying your legs from his waist. Your heart jumped as he took a seat on your dingy rolly chair, his large palms lifting your legs by your calves till your feet were planted on his thighs. You propped yourself up on your elbows.

Javier's eyes caught sight of your untied shoelace, a small hazard in the midst of your hurried night. As usual, without a word, he leaned down, fingers deftly working to tie the lace in a swift, fluid motion, securing the bow with a final, firm tug, patting the top of your shoe before returning to the task at hand.

His eyes were hungry like they always were, deep brown, alluring, the only readable emotion in them- lust. Those large palms parted your knees, making space for you between them. A tingle ran up your spine when he brushed the tips of his fingers against the inside of your thigh, dragging them along your skin till he was toying with the hem of your panties. He shifted forward in the chair, meeting your eyes as he planted a kiss on your calf, and then hoisted your legs up on his shoulders.

Javier took a moment to admire you, letting his rough hands roam under your skirt. You always wondered what those hands were doing; how they wrapped around his gun when he ran out of the office with it, how small they made the cigarette he was smoking look. You watched him grab, and hold, and type from across your desk when he hadn’t fucked you in a day or two, imagined those hands grabbing at your flesh and wrapping around your throat. You imagined him pumping his fingers in and out your pussy with your own hands between your legs in the middle of the night- unable to go mere days without him fucking you, salivating at the thought of those hands wrapped around his thick cock, wondering if he too couldn’t go without your touch.

Lost in your thoughts you shuddered when you felt him drag his tongue up the cut of your slit, the already moist fabric of your panties sticking to your skin as he nudged your clit with his nose. Your head fell back involuntarily, and you felt your arms ache as you continued to struggle to hold yourself up on your elbows. Seemingly, he had decided that day he wasn’t going to make you work for it- you looked like you were working far too much already.

“Look at me.” Javier sharply instructed from between your legs. Nipping the inside of your right thigh till you yelped in his hold. You weren't going to last very long at the sight of him, eyes glancing up at you as his mouth ghosted over your soaked pussy. You watched intently as his fingers pulled your panties aside, softly grazing your swollen flesh in a way that had you pulling your lip between your teeth to contain the pornographic moan that threatened to spill from your mouth and alert the security guard across the hall.

Your leg twitched on his shoulder as he licked a long, firm stripe up your aching pussy. Both your eyes fluttered shut as his tongue softly explored your folds. The sight of Javier between your legs was enough to send you over the edge, one that would live in your head for a very long time.

You struggled to hold his eyes with your own when he licked at your entrance, increasing his pace ever so slightly before he was softly sucking your clit into his mouth. Letting yourself lean back against the table you reached to continue to tangle your fingers in his hair, hoping he'd let you have his fluffy locks in your hold. Turns out you were lucky the first time, because as was more common, Javier reminded you of his “no grabbing at daddy” attitude by grasping your hand in his.

“No grabbin at daddy, babygirl” he murmured against your wetness and you shivered. His fingers engulfed yours, stroking your skin and moving your hands to your chest. His large palm covered yours and squeezed your fingers around your breasts. You moaned, and arched your back against the table up into both your palms as his tongue achingly slipped inside you.

The feel of his mouth against you was more than perfect, the way he expertly ate you out till you were wiggling your hips against his face, his nose nudging your clit as he fucked you with his tongue. Slow and soft then faster and rough, just how he knew you liked it.

He seemed to be enjoying the feeling of you just as much, groaning against your wet cunt everytime you twitched and shuddered against him, the taste of you prompting him only to bury himself deeper between your thighs, pull and grab at your hips, hold you close against him as your chest rose and fell.

Javier lashed his tongue at your entrance, then plunged it into your slick cunt. You felt your core tighten, and you knew you couldn’t hold on much longer. “Please…” barely able to complete your sentence you squealed when he circled your clit with his tongue. You could feel him grin against the inside of your thigh, and you reached for his hands on your hips to tug at his fingers feebly.

Making out the sound of his chuckle over your heavy breathing you whined, and then proceeded to melt in his hold when he responded with a rather gentle, yet delayed and somewhat playfully annoyed “You can come for daddy, babygirl.”

The grip of your fingers on his tightened, and you sighed, finally letting go as Javier worked between your legs. Your cunt clamped down on his tongue as he finished you off, licking you through your orgasm and holding your hips down as you shook and squirmed above him.

He kissed along your seam gently as you caught your breath, your breath hitching when he pushed two fingers in your still sensitive cunt to gently stroke your walls. He stifled a groan. You looked down between your legs as he withdrew those fingers and began to stand up. “She so fuckin wet for me, hmm?” He rubbed slow, soft circles on your clit, not caring to watch you intently for any giveaway that would instruct him on the perfect rhythm. He already knew what you liked- he didn’t need to bother. “Slutty little pussy achin’ to be fucked… after all these days, aint she?”

He took a second to get a good look at you as he moved closer between your legs, and you propped yourself back up on your elbows and wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him in.

“My good little slut”

Bringing his fingers to your lips he urged them open, pushing in and watching you suck gently on his digits. You shivered at the taste of your own arousal. As always you felt a little fuzzy when he did something like that– letting your eyes droop until he nudged you to release them with a pop. He ran those fingers across your lips, watching you struggle to keep your eyes on him as his hand drifted downwards to wrap swiftly around your neck. “That's better isn't it?” he pressed his clothed cock against your bare, swollen pussy, your panties surely on the verge of ripping the way they’d been pulled aside. Javier seemed to be thinking along the same lines as you, because in a moment he reached for them and urgently dragged them down your hips, unwrapping himself from your hold and holding your ankles in one hand as the other slid your panties all the way off of you.

When you whined at the loss of his body against yours he tutted, raising his eyebrows at you in warning.

He then grabbed your thigh with his hand once again, squeezing it and holding it in place against his waist. You heard the jingle of his belt as he undid it. A rough edge on said belt scraped against your skin, but it was difficult to pay attention to it when you felt him reach between your bodies to tease your dripping slit with his length.

It was sad to admit, but nothing took the weight of your shoulders much like the feeling of his hard cock sliding against your wet pussy, head bumping your clit till you were shivering and then notching at your entrance. You heard him mutter a strained curse under his breath at the feeling of your cunt sucking him in. Javier didn't waste much time, as much as he seemed to enjoy the sight of you deliriously wiggling your hips under him.

He leaned down and traced the curve of your jaw with the bridge of his nose, breathing in your scent as he pushed in– slowly and gently. Much slower and gentler than he had ever been before. Your legs tightened around him, hips lifting pathetically as you felt him stretch you open. It had been far too long since you’d had him inside you.

“Such a good little girl..” His hips snapped towards yours.

“Aren’t ya?” It was an out of body experience, so overwhelming and dizzying you could almost see yourself in the act. Your brain couldn’t comprehend that tone and that gentleness as is, forget when Javier’s cock dragged deliciously against your aching walls.

Your elbows caved from under you, letting you fall completely back against your little desk. Your head went to fall back soon after, but Javier had managed to snake his hand behind your neck– cradling your head and shielding it from the hard wooden table. Instinctively, you buried your nose in the collar of his dress shirt. He let you seek respite, palm holding you against his warm body, and pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck.

Your skin felt like pins and needles, little sparks bounced off your exposed waist and prompted you to wiggle your hips away from him at the intensity of the sensations. “Nah uh” yanking you back in his direction Javier squeezed your hips in his hands, refusing to let you escape the death grip he had on your body, pulling you towards him with every deep, slow, thrust.

“Silly little thing” He laughed against your lips, so close they brushed against you. You couldn’t help it when your mouth fell slack against his. He took your bottom lip between his teeth. He released it as your walls clenched around him, brows knitting at the feel of your warm, soft cunt around his cock.

“Mine aren’t ya? Daddy’s good little slut?” Unable to catch hold of anything on the table, your hands flew to his shirt, your fingers twisting the fabric as you gripped it as tightly as you could. He let you pull him towards you, one hand sneaking between your bodies to grab and squeeze at your breast.

“Then you’re gonna take it like I give it to ya?” You tried to nod, head lulling side to side and mouth hanging open, desperate noises leaving your lips. When your back arched against the table he pulled you into his chest, letting you wrap your legs around his waist so tightly you felt the leather of his belt cut into your soft skin.

Eventually he picked up his pace, and you could make out the sound of your pens clattering to the ground as your back moved relentlessly against the desk. The dim grey flood light above you came in and out of your focus, the heat that swelled up inside you hindering your ability to concentrate on absolutely anything. “Getting all cock drunk on me..” Anything but him. Yet another orgasm stirred in your tummy, your entire body hot and tingling with overwhelm. “There’s my good girl”.

He pulled you into him with every thrust, his hard length throbbing inside of you. “Just how I like ya’– no thoughts in that head’ve yours.” Your bare chest pressed against his soft shirt, but you longed to feel the heat of his body against your skin.

“Can't think ‘bout anything but daddy can you?” he managed to laugh, his thick cock dragging against your wet walls in a way that had your mouth falling open in a gasp. “Just daddy, ain't that right?” As usual he grabbed at every part of you he could, hands seeking purchase on any exposed skin.

He grazed your earlobe with his teeth as he spoke. “Poor baby, going dumb on daddy.” All you could do was whine. “Can’t hear ya..” you whimpered again, strained and hasty “yes”s leaving your mouth at record speed as the tension in your core threatened to burst.

“S’ how it should be” your dress made it easy for you to slide along the surface of the table as he fucked into your tight, wet heat, railing you as you twitched around him. You struggled to form a broken “daddy” between your lips.

“Stupid little girl can’t do anything but be daddy’s little sexdoll hmm?” you shook your head, but he grabbed your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed. “‘S okay babylove, s’ how daddy likes ya best” he shook your face gently, “when ya ain't runnin that smart mouth of yours.”

He grunted and sighs above you, seemingly lost in his own pleasure, not bothering for the first time to make you beg. It was as if the two days you spent apart had him prioritising other things. “Better this way isn’t it, nothin you gotta worry that pretty head about…” you felt your cunt squeeze him. “Not when daddy’s fuckin’ ya’”

You could tell he was close by the way his thick cock throbbed against your slick walls, the way his Texan accent came through just a little more than it usually did. Your thighs quivered against his waist as the heat continued to pool in your belly.

You knew he was close when he straightened up again, hands wrapping firmly around your throat as he angled his hips to hit that sweet spot inside you over and over. “C’mon baby, be a good girl and come for daddy” he tightened his grip, thumb reaching up to swipe gently at your slack lips.

You felt your pussy clench around his cock, finally letting go as you writhed under him. You heard him groan over the ringing in your ears, your own eyes rolling back as your orgasm rolled over you in waves. You gushed around him, your own release prompting his.

Watching his brows knit as his thrusts got sloppy might have well sent you on a second release, aftershocks making your hips wiggle against his palms as he squeezed them, his cock throbbing inside you before he erupted with a shudder. A string of strained curses escaped his mouth, chest rising and falling rapidly as he rode out his high.

You laid there, the heat from your exertion slowly dissipating. You felt Javier pull out, his spend trickling down your thighs, and slide your panties back up over your legs. A heaviness tugged at your limbs and made your eyelids droop. Every muscle felt loose, languid, as if all the tension and energy had been drawn out, leaving behind only a deep, satisfying fatigue.

Javier put his hands on your waist and lifted you off the table, you returned to your habitual silence, this time albeit far more satiated than before. You were dizzy, feeling like a small ghost floating in front of him, engulfed by his towering form. The world around you began to fade, sounds muffling and blurring into an indistinct background hum.

Every blink became slower, your vision narrowing to slits before closing entirely. You let yourself drift into that warm state between sleep and wakefulness, the exhaustion of the week catching up to you in more ways than one, uncaring of the sense that Javier’s eyes had been lingering. You felt him trace the bridge of your nose, reducing any prospects of you actually getting off that desk.

He fixed your lingerie and tied the bow of your dress back up, one hand returning to stroke your cheek. His other arm came to support your back as it wrapped around you, pulling you towards him. You looked up to find him watching you, with an expression you couldn’t bother to decipher at the moment.

You couldn’t help but fall into his chest as he stood above you, his arms reaching behind you as he packed your things in your work bag. You felt your eyes flutter shut again, complete exhaustion taking over your weak form. He placed a kiss to your temple, lifting you off the table once and into his hold once again. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking securely at the ankles. His hands gripped your thighs firmly, fingers digging into your flesh.

You felt cold again suddenly, and Javier readjusted his arms to hold you with his right while his left rubbed along your shoulders to warm up your skin, prickled with goosebumps.

Your head rested against his shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek a comforting, rhythmic lull. You nuzzled deeper into the curve of his neck, tilting your head till your nose was brushing the cut of his jaw.

Javier shifted slightly, and you could feel the subtle change in his posture as he leaned towards you, and his face came level with yours– you could feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the cool air around you. His hand cradled your cheek.

With your eyes still closed you felt his lips press gently against yours, so pillowy and soft you barely registered them. He tasted how you’d imagined so many times before– cigarettes, and whiskey. Melting into his touch your hands moved to ball the fabric of his shirt gently in your fist. His lips moved against your’s with a carefulness you couldn’t really understand, but the fact that they were at all was enough. Exhaustion aside, you had a feeling the triviality of the whole ordeal, its comfort and normality seemed expected. And just as quickly as it began, it was over.

Perhaps it had always meant a lot more to you, than it did to him.

The hand that was cupping your cheek pinched it and then snaked around your waist to help you find your footing on the ground, the same hand coming down to slap your ass as he pushed you towards the door.

In usual Javier fashion he checked his phone, uninterestedly murmuring a soft “you can start again tomorrow” as you stood in the elevator. He let you lean against him, his palm coming down to pat your head momentarily before it was back to sorting the files in his hands. You looked up at him, his mind now completely diverted to whatever he had come to collect in the office in the first place, so unbothered by what seemed to transpire between the two of you.

Perhaps nothing really did.

You wished his words gave you some motivation, but it was turning out to be really difficult to want to be anything more than his dumb, silly, little girl.

Who else is gonna put up with me this way?

I need you, I breathe you, I'll never leave you!

They would rue the day I was alone, without you

You're lyin' with your gold chain on

Cigar hangin' from your lips, I said, "Hon'"

"You never looked so beautiful as you do now, my man"

sakjdlakd I'm sorry I just can't let them be happy lmao. Hope you enjoyed this, and let me know what you think. Thank you to everyone who reblogs and comments on my content, you keep me writing. Dividers and banners by @/sardika 🐝✨💗

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 9 months ago

Note

Regretevator hcs with party noob, mozelle, infected and lampert with reader slouched over and have bags under their eyes but insists that they are fine but after talking for a bit reader admits that they havent slept well in a while bc folly keeps giving them bad nightmares?

Could maybe end in them comforting reader and in the end they actually have a good nap in the elevator with them ((angst to fluff my beloved)))

You mentioned wanting Bive added so I'll make sure she's on there!

.......

Party Noob

They're always in the mood to party, of course, but you often seem annoyed by their kazoo constantly going off.

If anything, your attitude towards them is almost comparable to Pest--except you don't say rude things. You're just..quiet and seem tired 24/7.

You always politely turn down Poob's invitations--which makes them sad, although they would never force you to attend any celebration--insisting you were okay.

The bags under your eyes, however, showed otherwise, as they were products of the sleepless nights you've had ever since Folly decided to invade your dreams.

Poob doesn't know this, though, and when you're both alone in the elevator, they finally ask why you never go to their parties, wanting to know what they could do to change your mind.

Then you reveal something surprising:

"It's not you or your parties, Poob. It's....her."

"Her?"

You finally elaborate on Folly and her torment. In the physical world, she knew your fears...and in these past few nightmares she dialed them all up to 11.

Your latest one involved Poob killing you with their horn for daring to show up at their party "uninvited", which horrified the party goer after you finished explaining.

"Wut?! That's not true! You r ALWAYS welcomed to mah parties, friend!! That lady is such a party poober." They frown. "Is that why ur afraid to go to one?"

"Yeah, I'm sorr....wait, you've seen her, too?"

"Yeh! Lotsa times! She always says I'm "special", but...that doesn't sound like a gud thing."

"...haha. No, it's not." You shake your head, finding relief that they could relate to you.

Folly claimed that Poob was repressing a lot of trauma, and their party obsession was just a distraction from something bigger. But obviously you weren't going to believe her.

After that conversation, they're willing to invite you to a chill party at their apartment. There's no crazy loud music. Just TV, video games, sweets, and the company of a friend.

Mozelle

"You don't look so well, dear."

Despite her demonic origins, Mozelle is very concerned for the well-being of her fellow elevator passengers (or at least those who respect her), so she could tell you were far from okay.

You keep insisting that you're tired from exploring so many floors, and for a while she seemed to believe you...

Until one day, she invites you to her castle for tea, and chastises you for lying to a princess.

"It's that abhorrent "dream parasite" that's been giving you nightmares, is it?" She huffs, realizing she was right as your expression changes.

Knowing that she's not gonna hear any more of your excuses, you finally admit that Folly is the reason for your exhaustion.

You try to avoid sleeping for fear of her appearing...and she's well aware of this, as in the physical world she vowed to never let you sleep again.

That terrified you, and Mozelle wanted to throw hands with her SO badly after that.

But instead, she tries working her magic to ensure you got a good night's rest in one of her guest quarter.....with the distant screams of the damned somehow not deterring you from drifting off.

When you awaken, she teleports you to her pet sanctuary, allowing you to help her take care of the odd and cute creatures, and even take another nap with them. 100% nightmare free.

For a "princess of hell", she was certainly acting like a guardian angel.

Unfortunately, she can't protect you 24/7. But if you're both in the elevator, she'll manifest some comfy pillows and blankets just for you (and her, bc she needs her beauty sleep, too!)

Infected

Similarly to you, sleep doesn't come easy for Infected..and it certainly doesn't stick with him for long.

As a gamer, of course, he just doesn't feel like he needs it.

So anytime he saw you come into the elevator, slouched and with dark bags under your eyes, he just assumes you're an "epic gamer" like him who lives by the "sleep is for the weak" mantra.

It's only when you started taking naps in a random corner of the elevator did he express concerns.

"Wh4t h4ppened, bro? G4me t00 hard last night?" He asks. "Trying t0 st4y 0n th4t grind???"

".....no, I was too scared to even leave my bed and go on the computer.."

"0h man, th4t sucks. Why were y0u sc4red? Did the b00geyman visit?"

"......."

"N0 way, did he?? I w4s 0nly kidding-"

"She." You correct, before telling Infected a little about the nightmares Folly has given you these past few days.

But you're sure he's gonna call you crazy or say you're having too much sugar..

However, he can actually relate to some of your bizarre dreams, not realizing you saw the same figure he did.

His virus made him often refuse sleep, but she had some influence in his decision to pull all-nighters, too.

He tried hugging you and while you're adamant about catching his sickness, you accept it for a few moments.

Next time you stop by his floor, he'll let you crash at his apartment to take a nap (but no promises that he's gonna keep quiet while gaming).

Lampert

"Are you getting enough sleep? You don't look too good. And you shouldn't be laying on the elevator floor. It's dirty."

Dude doesn't beat around the bush. He gets right to the point.

You get a little annoyed with his rants about germs so you kinda brush off his concerns and try getting whatever sleep you can (often drifting off while he's rambling)...

Until the one time you jolted awake after Folly made you endure a rather frightening nightmare--and Lampert's the only one in the elevator.

But at this point, he manages to piece things together.

"Oh..is it that annoying dream thing? I haven't seen her ugly face in a while..and I hope I never do again." He huffs. "Sorry you gotta put up with her, [y/n]."

"I've...been managing." You rub your eyes. "I'll admit, you've got guts back-sassing her when she could haunt your dreams at any time."

"Well she's really just pathetic. All that power and she's only interested in dreams? She can't even do anything in the real world. How dumb is that?"

"..it does sound pretty dumb."

"Yeah, she'll move on eventually. She left my bulb when my dreams got too boring for her."

Although that's all the "comfort" Lampert is willing to provide, it's enough for you to realize how ridiculous Folly's fixations on your dreams are.

Next time you're at the ROKEA floor, he'll let you take a nap on one of the couches, but if and only if you promise not to leave any crumbs (or drool) and clean it up before leaving.

Bive

"You see them too, don't you????!!!"

"Wha...?"

"The crimson eyes! What else could I be talking about?" Bive stares at you, the exhaustion on your face being apparent to her.

She's noticed it for a while, in fact, but every time you'd just ignore her wild rants and "conspiracy theories".

Taking naps in the elevator wasn't really an option when she was there, as her staring was uncomfortable and her constant needs to chatter/mumble to herself often kept you awake.

She's offered you coffee in the past, assuming you wanted to stay awake, only to stop after you told her that's the opposite of what you wanted.

After she mentioned "crimson eyes", that's when you realized she was aware of them, too. And aware of her.

When you decide to finally confide in her about your nightmares, Bive shudders and talks about having similar ones, but lately they've stopped...which she hopes is a good thing.

You learn she's terrified of going back to some placed called "The Lab"--likely where she was born--as Folly taunted her about that in the past.

Now you understand her attitude and mannerisms a bit more.

After talking, you feel slightly better, and you try to rest on the elevator floor-

Only for Bive to warn you about the "microscopic dust bunnies who don't like their space being impeded upon".

Will she stop you if you ignore her and fall asleep anyways? No. But she'll make sure nobody disturbs you.

Not that she'll ever tell you she's been keeping guard.

#clanask #anonymous #roblox x reader #regretevator x reader #regretevator infected #regretevator party noob #regretevator lampert #regretevator mozelle #regretevator bive #regretevator folly #headcanons #platonic #hurt/comfort

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lottesreads · 9 days ago

Text

Why Me? - Part 15

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Mitchell! Female Reader (Callsign Mantis)

Warnings: Forbidden relationship, some angst, fluff, lying, talk of abuse and bruises, swearing, brief mention of assault, just a tiny bit smutty (lotsa kissin'), shitty exes

Word Count: 11k (my bad)

Summary: You're on top of the world after your first real date with Bob. Things are starting to look up for not only you, but your dad when he asks for a favor. But of course, there's always something (or someone) from your past that will try to ruin any good thing you have.

A/N: This one only took like a month and a half rather than the regular three or four, it's a miracle! The story's really moving along now and I hope y'all are just as excited as I am. That being said I do love the comments and reblogs, they keep me motivated :)

Happy reading!

Masterlist

Bob pauses. Just for a second, allowing himself to rest his forehead against your own. Breathing you in, he brings his hand up to cup your jaw. Giving himself a view of your face, he gently caresses his thumb over your cheek as your eyes flutter to close. The Beach Boys are still echoing through the living space. A different song now, but he can’t place it at the moment when his thoughts are somewhere else.

“I wanted to be a gentleman, kiss you on the cheek after walking you to your door.” Your breathy laugh tickles his cheeks and he can’t help but smile.

“As nice as that sounds, I think I like this better.” He leans back, continuing to stroke your skin.

“I know, but you’re not supposed to kiss a girl on the first date.” A laugh escapes you. A genuine belly laugh as you try to turn your head away as you do so. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing”, you catch your breath, “It’s just, to be fair you did kiss me before a date was even a question.” He hums in thought.

“If my memory serves me correctly, you actually kissed me first”, he points out. Your jaw drops before you gather yourself.

“Ok, well you kissed me back”, you point a playful finger at him. “And then you felt me up in your driveway.” His jaw drops this time as he steps back from you, feigning offense. Even if he is joking, it’s obvious you caught him off guard through the sudden flush in his cheeks.

“I- I felt you up?”, he borderline scoffs. “That’s hilarious. You were the one with the wanderin’ hands”, he gestures wildly. You try hard to stifle a wild laugh you know is so close to breaking the surface.

“Oh really?” He nods, so sure. You bow your head, working up the courage to say what you want to.

“Well, my memory’s kind of fuzzy. Wanna show me what I supposedly did?” His hands fall to his sides, back straightening as he gives you a wide eye stare. His chest rises and falls as you tilt your head in his direction. Daring him.

He steps toward you, reclaiming his spot with his hand against your cheek. You inhale a deep breath as his mouth gets closer toward your own. Closing your eyes in anticipation you can feel his lips just a hair’s breadth away from yours.

KNOCK KNOCK

The sound coming from the door has you jumping out of your skin and far away from Bob. Somewhere Sylvia runs from the noise and retreats to Bob’s room.

The fear running down your spine reminds you of everything outside the bubble Bob created. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not supposed to be in his arms, but that’s exactly where you found yourself just seconds ago.

The two of you still. As if you don’t move they won’t somehow realize that you’re there.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The pounding fist comes again, and this time Bob clears his throat, motioning for you to stay put. He leaves and you hear a familiar voice come from the other room.

“Harry sent me over for a cup of sugar, he’s in the middle of making a cake and didn’t realize we were out. Silly man.”

“Of course, lemme go grab that for you”, Bob answers him, a bit breathless.

“I’m so sorry to bother you about this.” The sound of the door closing and voices trailing closer has you desperately looking around the sparse living room for a place to hide. The position of the staircase gives you no way to head upstairs without passing right by them. You quickly realize this is a lost cause and you’ll have to face it head on.

“No, that’s alright. I didn’t know Harry baked.”

Bob walks in first, giving you a deer in the headlights look before turning right into the kitchen.

“You know him, that man is just full of surprises.” Rich follows right behind him, already searching the space. And when his eyes come up with you, he has the audacity to act shocked. “Miss Mitchell! What a surprise”, sure it is. The light must catch your face in the best way because his joy is spoiled as he gets a better look. “Oh my god, who’d you get in a fight with?”

You can’t help but greet him with a fast smile, albeit a little panicked. Bob is busy trying to get him a cup of sugar as quickly as he can, leaving you to entertain his guest.

“Oh, just a baseball. I’m fine. How are you and Harry doing?”, you eagerly redirect the conversation. He takes in your outfit choice and flushed cheeks while you twitch in your spot.

“We are just wonderful”, he can’t hide the satisfied smile on his face from your presence. You’re almost sure that he saw you walking down the street with Bob and has a bet going with Harry that you’re actually here.

Bob returns from the kitchen with the sugar, attempting to usher Rich to the exit.

“Have you had a fun night?”, he asks with an air of teasing.

“Oh yeah, just sitting around with Sylvia while Bob went on his date. We had a lot of fun watching The Office.”

“Really?”, he squints his eyes as if he knows. And you know he does. There’s always the chance he saw Bob come back with you and not leave again until your walk.

Damn it. Your heart skips a beat and jumps back down to your stomach as you stumble through your words.

“Here’s your sugar Rich!”, Bob forces the container into his hands as he practically pushes him back to the front door.

“I should leave you two, lovely as always seeing you Miss Mitchell!”, he yells back as Bob shuts the door. Sliding his glasses off, Bob runs a hand down his face as he rests against the front door. Acting as a second barrier in case Rich decides Harry forgot something else for the “cake”.

He finds you waiting in the hallway, chewing the inside of your cheek. He huffs out a laugh.

“So he definitely knows”, you assert as you lean against the wall.

“Yeah, that means that he and Harry know.” Bob decides against telling you that Harry saw the two of you against his truck the other week. He’ll just let you assume Rich is telling Harry what he saw tonight. He’s sure Harry hasn’t told Rich what he saw anyway. Pretty sure at least.

Bob reaches for your hand as you cross the remaining space. You should be heading back soon, and he knows it. Which is why he gathers you in his arms as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry”, he whispers into the silence. You look back at him, a furrow in your brow.

“For Rich?”, you ask with a confused smile. He shakes his head, but you stop him before he can start. “Listen to me, Bob. In spite of every hoop we’ve jumped through, you still managed to give me the best date I’ve ever been on.” His initial instinct is to scrunch his face.

“Really? What kind of losers have you been going on dates with?” You hide your face in his shoulder again.

The kind where you hope you never see them again, that kind Bob.

“I’m not kidding. The effort you put in makes a girl feel special.” He’s subconsciously starting to sway with you again in a quiet motion. It reminds you of the ocean. Not the furious tides and currents that sweep people under and drag them out. No. The kind that allows you to float along the surface. The calming ones that almost lull you to sleep while the water laps at your arms, sun kissing your skin. The kind that reminds you of Bob’s eyes. You could get lost at sea just looking at him.

“I’m glad”, he whispers into your hair, placing a kiss at the top of your head. You almost don’t feel deserving of this kind of attention. He’s too good. “Is it the kind of date that makes you wanna go on a second one?”

You lift your head and see him giving you a soft smile. Nervous, but still there. Your hand runs over his jaw as you nod your head. There’s no hesitance when the two of you meet in the middle, and you feel him smiling against your lips.

You’ve been lucky enough to never eject from your aircraft, but now you know what it must feel like. Falling.

-----------------------

Bob kissed you once more, much like a gentleman would. And then drove you home. You weren’t surprised to find both Rich and Harry sitting on their porch when you left. Maybe Harry finished baking his “cake” early.

As much as Bob wanted to walk you back up to your door, he refrains. Opting instead to squeeze your hand and watch you go until the door is safely shut.

“Hey, how’d it go?”, your dad asks as he lounges on the couch. He must have left the bar early.

“Good”, you tell him as you try to wipe the grin off your face. “Sylvia’s a doll.” You try your darndest to avoid any more questions as you undo your shoes at the door. Your dad stands directly in front of the staircase, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was blocking your path.

“Did Bob say how his date went?” You expertly shrug it off as you avoid his eyes.

“Yeah, I think it went well. Said he’s going on a second date with her, so we’ll see what happens.”

“Wow.” “Wow what?”

“Didn’t know Bob was bold enough to ask for a second date while on the first, good for him.” He’s still standing directly in your way damn it.

“Yeah”, you chuckle as you attempt to sidestep him, “You’d be surprised.” He stands his ground while he folds his arms across his chest. Something you only see him do when he gets serious. That or nervously running his hands together.

“Well, I’m gonna-”, you motion with your shoe to the stairs behind his head. He turns, but doesn’t move. You cock your head, squinting in his direction. “Why are you being so weird?” His brows fly up his forehead, but you can tell he’s not completely there.

“I’m- I’m not being weird. I was just wondering if we could have our catch up tonight.” Shit. This cannot be a coincidence.

“Oh our fortnightly meetings?”, you try to laugh it off. “Dad, I’m tired. Can we do this tomorrow?” He contemplates it for a moment, but lets you go.

“Yeah, I guess we can”, he forces a smile before kissing your head. “Goodnight, kid.”

As you reach the top of the stairs, you take a second to look down. He’s still standing there, but this time with his hand rubbing his temples. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this anxious.

-----------------------

You hardly get any sleep that night. Even if you had the most amazing time with Bob, your overthinking has wrecked your sleep schedule.

There’s no way your dad can know, right? Right. And even if he somehow thinks there’s a possibility that you even went on a date with Bob all you’re going to do is deny, deny, deny. He can’t possibly have any kind of proof. Damn you for wanting to wear a dress for once.

Your father is already up for the day. He must have an even worse internal clock than you do, because he’s always up and ready by 5:00 am. This time, he greets you with a cup of coffee as you meet him in the kitchen. Steeling your nerves, you try to ignore the way your hand shakes as you reach for the mug he’s prepared you.

He doesn’t even notice. There’s something else weighing on his mind, and you don’t think you can handle one more second not knowing.

“How’d you sleep?”, he asks.

“Ok, spit it out”, you take him off guard. “What is going on?” He sighs, shaking off his wide eyes from your bluntness as he sets his Navy emblazoned mug down. He rubs his worn hands together as you take a deep breath. Here it comes.

“I’m going to ask Penny to marry me.” Oh- that is not what you were expecting to hear. He peeks a look at you from under his bowed head and you’re silent before you gather your bearings.

“Dad”, you almost gasp, “That’s amazing!” He visibly relaxes at your words, shoulders falling from where they were at his ears. You get up and give him a hug he wasn’t expecting. You’re amazed he doesn’t know anything, but you’re also elated he’s finally taking things seriously with Penny.

“Wait”, you push yourself away from him, “Have you talked to Amelia yet?”

“Not yet”, he rubs the back of his neck, “But I am going to. This is another reason why I wanted to talk to you.” He gives you a look. One that tells you he’s about to ask for a favor.

“What do you need?”, you eye him warily.

“I was hoping to get together and have a family dinner sometime this week. And maybe you can, I don’t know, talk to Amelia? Warm her up to the idea a little bit.”

“You think she’s going to be upset about it?” He weighs his head from side to side, turning to clean his mug. You down the rest of your drink, now able to stomach the topic when it’s not you.

“She’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

“Dad, she’s just protective of her mom. You can’t blame her for being a little apprehensive when you’ve been in and out of her life for the better part of 30 years.” He pauses at the realization, you do as well as you say the words. He will always go back to Penny. No matter what. And this time he’s here to stay.

“I think once she knows that you plan on proposing it’ll just solidify whatever you’ve told her already. I promise it won’t be as bad as you think.” He scoffs, staring at a point on the counter.

It’s quiet as he contemplates your words, only interrupting as you start to scrub your own mug.

“Why don’t you ever go on dates?” The dish slips out of your hand, and by some miracle doesn’t break as it ricochets in the sink. You huff out a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“Sorry, I just mean I’ve never met anyone you’ve dated. And I know for sure you haven’t gone on any dates since we got here.” Oh if only you knew. You take a second to collect your thoughts, nodding along to whatever he’s saying.

“I don’t know”, you shrug, “Just hasn’t been something I’m seeking out.” Which is the definitive truth. You weren’t seeking Bob out in any capacity other than by making a friend. And now look at you, head over heels for the WSO.

“Why not?”

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”, you glare at him from the corner of your eye.

“I just want you to be happy”, he shrugs.

“I am happy”, you conclude. “ I genuinely am, and maybe I don’t want a man coming along and ruining that. Plus-”, you add as you dry your hands on a dish towel, “I’ve seen what mankind has to offer, and so far I’m not impressed.” Translation: I don’t want a repeat of past mistakes. One bad experience is enough to ruin any ideation of a future with a happy ending.

Well, up until this point at least. This was sincerely your head space before you found out good men exist outside of fiction.

Bob is the first one to ever treat you like more than just a title, or a warm body. He treats you like a person. But not only that, he values and respects you. Something you didn’t think would be so hard to ask for.

He raises his hands in surrender, dropping the subject. For now.

-----------------------

You are ever so grateful for the reprieve Bob offered you over the weekend. Because Monday back at work is complete hell. Bob’s still driving you, which is nice to have some alone time where you can be yourselves. But when you get to work it’s a whole other story.

Thick packets are already at desks for the team to look at, and Mav goes over every single maneuver you’re expected to relearn and perfect in the next two weeks. All of them are evasive, which means more dogfights, which means more pushups to whoever loses.

By Wednesday you’re tasked with dogfight after dogfight, staying in the air as long as possible. It’s starting to put a strain on every muscle in your body, so even when you get to the tarmac you’re already flopping on your belly even if you didn’t lose. With the amount of dogfights each of you is competing in, it’s a miracle if you aren’t doing at least 300 pushups by the end of the day.

You can see it draining the rest of the team, as well as yourself. Bob almost has to wake you up when he stops at your house after work on Thursday.

“You ok?”, he asks, blinking hard under his glasses. His hair is almost completely slicked back from the amount of time it’s had to sit under his helmet today. Both of you reek of sweat and fuel, but it doesn’t stop the temptation to pull him closer. You stop yourself when you realize it’s broad daylight on your street, but god. You just wanna fall asleep with him next to you.

“Yeah”, you give him a tired smile, “Just wish I could go to sleep instead of dinner at Penny’s.”

“What about tomorrow? We can put on a movie and pretend to watch it while we’re asleep.” You don’t want to tell him your mind is wandering to a lazy makeout session on his couch as well, but a car whizzing by bursts your bubble.

“I think Fanboy said something about going to the Hard Deck tomorrow night”, you groan. “It might look weird if we’re the only two not there.” Not to mention that if Penny’s working your dad will most likely be moping around the house waiting until she gets done. He contemplates this for a second, and tries his best not to look any more deflated than he already is.

“Saturday?”, you suggest.

“Saturday”, he smiles. You squeeze his hand and hop out, resisting the temptation to do more. It’s been absolutely killing you to not kiss him hello or goodbye, but you know that will make it all the more sweeter when you’re actually alone this weekend. By then it will be more than a week of not feeling his lips on yours, god when did you get so desperate?

To be honest, even if you haven’t done more than holding hands in his truck, he’s made this week a lot easier than it would have been without him. It’s taking its toll on the entire squad, but even just catching his eye from across the room, or bumping his fist before take off sets you at ease.

It was an accident when you knocked your knee into his at the lunch table Monday, but he knocked you right back. It’s become your unspoken way of checking in with each other without anyone noticing. Just another part of your language no one else has the liberty of understanding or realizing is being communicated right under their noses.

-----------------------

“Jesus, dad. Calm down, she’s not gonna bite”, you tell him as you make your way up to Penny’s home. He’s tapping the side of the bowl with whatever concoction he mixed together last minute. You can’t help but yawn as you climb the last couple of steps to the door.

“Hey, look alive”, he almost scolds you, “You have a very important task here.”

“If I wasn’t in the air for five hours today or doing like a million pushups after, I might have the energy to argue with you.” Damn Hangman, getting the jump on you right before you were ready to finish for the day. “It’s gonna be fine.”

“You don’t know teenage girls.”

“Um, I think you’re forgetting I was one.” You knock at the door while giving him a lethal side eye.

“Yeah, but you weren’t-”, he weighs his words, “You didn’t do the normal teenage things.” You quirk an eyebrow.

“Oh you mean I didn’t steal cars or get drunk at parties?” His mouth falls open and he forgets his troubles for a split second. In all truth you were a very well mannered teenager. Respectable. Quiet. You had to be.

“Who told you I stole cars?”

“When did you steal a car?”, Amelia asks as the door cracks open. The two of you almost jump out of your skin at the sudden hormone riddled apparition at the front door.

“Hey Amelia!”, you greet in an over cheerful manner for someone who you would describe as a walking corpse. You’re sure your smile looks more painful than genuine. She must see the same thing you feel, because with a side eye that rivals your own she moves aside to let the two of you in.

Penny greets you in the kitchen, and you’re about to ask if she needs any help when your dad nods his head in the direction Amelia went in. You follow his lead, leaving the two of them.

Amelia is sitting in the living room, textbook open on her lap as she takes notes. She doesn’t acknowledge you as you sit on the other edge of the couch.

“What kind of homework are you working on?”

“Algebra”, she replies without looking up. You tap the sides of your thighs, glancing around the room, admiring the frames of pictures and seaside decor. The silence carries on as your fried brain tries finding another topic.

“How’s school going?”

“It’s fine”, she answers dryly. “How’s work?”, she surprises you by asking. But at least it gives you an in.

“It’s alright, Mav has been riding us pretty hard this week. But I know he means well.” She stops what she’s doing and quirks her head.

“Do you always call him Mav?”

“No, usually only in respect to work. That or Captain Mitchell. But at home he’s just dad.” She nods, hesitating for only a second before going back to her work. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know”, she shrugs, “I’m never sure whether to call him Pete or Mav, but if he’s gonna marry my mom I guess I should ask him what he prefers since I’ll be seeing him more often.”

“Well, if I know him he-”, you make a quick turn to stare at the girl, “Wait, how do you know about that?” She shrugs again.

“My mom’s talked to me about the possibility, it’s just a matter of time really”, she answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So you’re not upset about it?”

“No”, she shakes her head, “He makes my mom happy, and he’s already promised me he’s not going to break her heart again. I want to believe him.” You laugh silently to yourself. You wished you had the attitude of this girl when you were her age.

“Trust me, if he does he’ll have more than just you to answer to. But if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he will.” She nods at you, and then goes back to her homework. She leaves you feeling a little better, but still in silence as your dad “helps” Penny. You try to recall what you were talking about the last time you were together. Something about Amelia just being asked to a dance?

“So… you getting excited for Homecoming?”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” She keeps her head down.

“Do what?”

“Try and make an effort”, she so plainly replies in an annoyed sigh. “I already have step-siblings, I know how this works. Just because our parents might be getting married doesn’t mean we have to have a relationship.” Her attitude leaves a bad taste in your mouth, and you try not to grimace from old feelings surfacing at the comment. You take a breath.

“You know, I had step-siblings, too. It was always awkward around them, and neither of our parents tried to make an effort to integrate our families. I tried to get to know them, but they never seemed interested.” Her pencil stops moving on her notebook paper, but she still won’t look up. “I don’t want it to be that way between the two of us. Even if I am older by a few years-”

“Try more than a decade”, she interrupts.

“Ok, fine- Even if I am old enough to be your teen mom”, you get her to crack on that one, “I’d still like to try and be somewhat of a step-sister to you. If you want.” Her eyes stop on a single word, not reading just…staring. She doesn’t say anything, and you’ve almost decided to give up before she speaks.

“I’ve never had a sister before.” You exhale in relief.

“Neither have I really. Do you want one?” Her eyes dart to you, but you don’t look away. Steadying your gaze, you wait for her to come to you.

“It might be nice”, she tries to shrug the gravity off of her words.

“I mean, you can come to me about stuff you don’t want to talk to your mom about, we can have girls nights, you can call me at any hour- oh! And you can tell me all about the boy who asked you to your dance.” You try not to get ahead of yourself, but the way Amelia lulls her head back and tries to hide her smile just makes you want to keep going.

“But I’m serious. Whatever kind of relationship you want, I’m here for it.” The two of you come to a silent agreement and she continues on with her homework. Or at least that’s what you thought was happening. You’re left to twiddle your thumbs again while Mav and Penny get up to god knows what in the kitchen- actually maybe you should go see if they need any help.

“Do you mean it?”, the confident girl you’ve gotten to know starts to shrink in on herself. Nervous and insecure in the way she’s asking if you’ll stick around and be there for her. This is the kind of thing that reminds you of yourself at her age.

“Tell you what”, you turn and offer her your pinkie finger, “we’ll swear on it.” Her insecurity vanishes as she raises a brow.

“A pinkie promise? Are you serious?”

“Just gimme your pinkie you little shit”, she fails to hold back her laugh and gives you what you ask. The two of you lock fingers and you give her an unwavering stare. And with a nod of your heads the two of you forge the way for something neither of you have been a part of before.

“So does that mean I can ask you anything?” You squint, suspicious of where this is going.

“You can ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer. Why?”

“Just wanted to know how you got the bruise”, she motions to your face. It had been fading nicely over the past week, now just a faint discoloration of your skin remains. You huff out a breath, it’s no use trying to lie to this girl.

“Rooster threw a baseball at me.” Her face screws up in curiosity.

“Is it because you punched him in the face?” Your brows scrunch as you try not to smile at her. Of course she knows. “You’re a good liar, he’s not”, she explains.

“He hit me by accident, he got punched in the face cause he’s an idiot.”

“What did he do?”. A humorless laugh escapes your lips.

“He said something extremely, extremely thoughtless and rude.”

“He probably deserved it”, she decides. You try to stifle your smile, but just like a sister would, she’s already taking your side.

“Soup’s on kids”, the two of you turn your heads at your dads arrival. You don’t know how long he was standing there, but if the smile that he gives you is any indication you know you got your job done for the night.

“We’re having soup?”, Amelia turns to you as you enter the kitchen.

“No, that’s just something old people say when dinner’s ready”, you joke. Your dad does not find it amusing.

-----------------------

The Hard Deck is bustling. Overflowing with aviators, sailors, and everyone in between. The setting sun casts a warm glow through the open windows, throwing every person in their best lighting. A carrier made port today, hence the warm welcome to those who haven’t been on land in months. If there was one place you’d go to get away from anything Navy related it would sure as shit not be the Hard Deck. But to you and others it’s a home away from home. Penny made sure of that.

The majority of your squadron showed up late to the party, opting to change into their civilian clothes rather than coming straight from work in your flight suits. Somehow you stick out like a sore thumb in a place like this.

Bob picked Fanboy up first, leaving you to awkwardly squish in between them on the way over. You gave Bob an awkward smile, knocking your knee against his as Fanboy did up his own seatbelt.

Bob is more often than not Fanboy’s designated driver nowadays. Payback ends up leaving earlier than everyone else if he even comes out, he has a wife and kids after all. The rest of you… not so much.

Bob even relays the message Fanboy told him that he was either going to “get laid or fucked up” tonight. And you for one can’t wait to see how that works itself out.

Somehow there are always a gaggle of girls who just know when a deployment ends. And they’re always first in line to get into the Hard Deck. Fanboy being out of his uniform does not bode well in his favor tonight. Those just getting back from deployments are eager to let off some steam, and these women are just about willing to help anyone in a uniform.

Bob opens the door for you, and you give him a smile just a touch beyond polite as he tips his head. You catch Penny’s eye and give her a wave as you make your way through the crowd.

It’s all hustle and bustle before you finally find yourself at the pool table where Phoenix is showing Rachel how to play. You’re 99% sure she already knows how, and you give Nat a knowing smirk anyway as they stand up from their shot.

“Shit”, Fanboy reappears handing you a beer, “If I knew it was gonna be this busy I wouldn’t have suggested it.” He takes a swig of his own bottle as you eye the place. It’s shoulder to shoulder as people pack the bar, waiting for their drinks.

“All I know is that Penny and Jimmy better be swimming in tips by the end of the night”, you murmur into your bottle.

Phoenix moves over, handing the cues to you and Bob before heading back to get more drinks with Rachel. And that’s when you notice Bob’s cowboy boots peeking out from under his jeans. You try to subtly look up the expanse of his tall figure without him catching you. He’s busy re-racking the balls to notice, but that doesn’t mean other people haven’t.

Shaking him from your thoughts, you start the game. You circle around each other, throwing smart comments his way every once in a while. He tries to hide his mischievous smile, but you catch it as he bends for his turn. Usually Fanboy would be over here supervising whatever meticulous shot Bob’s attempting, but he’s disappeared somewhere around the room. Presumably to achieve one of his goals for the night.

Your teammates slowly appand you greet them as you take your final shot, beating Bob. Again. You give him a sympathetic look and shrug. He just shakes his head at you. Not in disbelief from you winning, more of a way to tell you it’s no use.

“Sorry, Bob. But you did a lot better this time!”, you laugh.

“Where’s your fight Bob?”, Hangman interrupts, “Let me show you how it’s supposed to be done.” He grabs the cue out of his hand, and Bob makes his way over to stand next to you.

“You put up a good fight”, you console him with a shoulder pat. He laughs to cover the buzz he feels from the contact, but you let your hand slide away before you have the urge to let it linger on the muscle.

A quiet figure walks up beside you, and you know who it is before he even speaks. The Hawaiian shirt hanging from his shoulders is so loud you don’t even need to look over.

It’s been better with the team. Rooster’s kept his mouth shut long enough he hasn’t had the chance of shoving his foot up there. Or you shoving your foot so far up his ass it comes out the other end.

Bob nudges your shoulder with his own, pointing to the corner of the room. Fanboy is attempting and failing to keep a girl’s attention. Her eyes keep drifting over his shoulder to someone else in a khaki uniform. You chuckle as Bob leans down so you can hear him over the din of the bar. His breath warm on your cheek.

“How long do you think he’s gonna hold her hostage over there?”

“I don’t know”, you smile, “but I’d say he’s going home shitfaced tonight.” Bob chuckles as you reach for your empty bottle.

“I’m getting another beer”, you tell him before leaving. You catch sight of Rachel waving Rooster over to her and Phoenix while Hangman is explaining his shot to Bob.

“Another round, Mantis?”, Penny asks as you approach.

“Just one. Oh- and a cup of peanuts please.”

“You got it”, she gives you a smile as you wait. You watch as Jimmy shovels ice into a glass and you’re almost tempted to ask for a cup. It is too damn hot in here.

“Mitchell, is that you?” Your stomach drops, the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Your teeth clench so hard you’re sure one of them has cracked. Your ears start to ring as the world keeps spinning around you. You haven’t heard that voice since-

“I knew it was.” Fuck.

-----------------------

“And that is how it’s done”, Hangman comments before the eight ball drops. “Did you see that, Bob?” He nods and feigns interest, as if he was watching the whole time. Fanboy dejectedly walks up to Bob’s side, huffing out a breath of frustration.

“That bad, huh?”, Bob asks him.

“I kept telling her I was in the Navy, but she didn’t seem to believe me.”

“Say she did believe you, what was your plan? You couldn’t have taken her back to your place, I drove you here.” Fanboy smirks.

“We coulda gone back to hers, or ya know- there are doors with locks around here.” Bob scrunches his face in disgust at the insinuation.

“What, the bathroom?” He simply shrugs, and returns to chugging his drink. The noise B Bob makes gathesr everyone else’s attention.

“Wouldn’t be the first time these bathrooms have seen some action”, Hangman joins in.

“That’s disgusting”, Rooster comments as he frowns, a beer bottle hanging from his fingers.

“Nah, you’re just too chicken shit to admit you did the deed in the ladies room.”

“Really Hangman?”, Phoenix adds in as she misses her shot, “You’re bragging about having sex where strangers shit?”

Bob is thoroughly enjoying the conversation, and knows you would find it just as amusing. You’ve actually been gone longer than it takes to get a beer, especially with Penny at the helm. He looks over his shoulder, eyes wandering the bar until he spots a glimpse of you behind a flight suit clad back. Everyone’s still arguing when he asks.

“Hey, who’s Mantis talking to?” A few of them stop and turn at the disruption. It’s obvious you’re uncomfortable as the man reaches to give you a hug. You don’t try to stop it, but you don’t reciprocate. Instead you wait until he’s done touching you before trying to create more distance.

You try to sidestep him, revealing the face of the stranger. He’s not ugly, but he has an air of pretentiousness that dissuades Bob from believing anything genuine is coming from his mouth.

“Is that Knoxville?”, Hangman asks with the pool cue in hand.

“Can’t be, last I heard he was with the Atlantic fleet”, Coyote adds.

“Who the hell is Knoxville?”, Rooster asks with a stern look. The man couldn’t look more concerned if he tried. If Bob knew any better he’d think he was ready to run over there himself. Bob’s just about to, but it looks like you’ve gained your footing as the surprise has worn off.

“Oh shit, that is Knoxville”, Coyote moves to get a better look.

“Again, who the hell is Knoxville?”, Bob asks this time, getting impatient.

“Just some jackass who thinks he’s too big for his britches.” Coyote replies as he eyes the scene along with everyone else.

“What are we all looking at?”, Phoenix appears behind the wall of men. Intrigue twisting into a mix of disgust and shock. “Oh my god.”

“You know Knoxville, too?”, Bob asks as you start to make your way over, jackass in tow.

“Knoxville? No. That’s Lieutenant Douchebag.”

-----------------------

He appeared out of nowhere. And then he hugged you like he was owed your touch. And now here you are, dragging yourself back to your team with your tail between your legs. This is embarrassing, no it’s actually humiliating. And now everybody else is going to think the same.

Without looking, you hand Bob his cup of peanuts which he takes silently. You don’t think you can look at him right now. Even if everyone is watching you, expecting an explanation, you’re not in the mood to give them one.

“You gonna introduce me Princess?”, Tyler leans down to your ear, loud enough for everyone else to hear anyway. You want to twist your head away, ignore him for the rest of your life, but you stand your ground. His breath makes you shudder, and not in a good way.

“Knoxville!”, Coyote barks out before you can respond.

“Coyote! How’s it going man?”, Tyler claps him on the back and Coyote gives it right back. If not a touch harder. Hangman greets him as well, with a flat smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’d almost be interested to ask how they know each other if you weren’t itching to get the hell out of here.

Across the pool table, Nat meets your eyes. An invisible conversation taking place as you try your best to ignore what’s happening right in front of you.

She stares more intently, subtly shifting her head to the side. Are you ok?

You steel your features and quietly raise your brow. What do you think?

“So how do you know Mantis here?”, Hangman finally asks him. You look up, paining a smile to appear. Covering any emotion that tries to surface. Before you can say anything, he’s already talking over you. Typical.

“Mantis, huh?”, he turns to you. He couldn’t be any more condescending if he were sitting on a throne with you at his feet. “She used to go by Princess when we were dating.”

And it’s out.

You can feel Bob’s eyes flick to the side of your face. You don’t look at him. You can’t. You will break and crumble if you do.

“Yeah well, it’s Mantis now”, you don’t care if you sound snippy anymore. You never even liked the nickname. You didn’t “go by Princess”. That was his nickname for you. One you loathed with your entire being. It stemmed from an incessant reminder that you were “Navy royalty” as he so said. You felt more like Cinderella before she had a fairy godmother to make everything better.

“Aw come on, it’s all for old times sake, Princess”, you’re sure he thinks he’s being funny. He doesn’t know you well enough to know how to get under your skin. He doesn’t want to. Because you still might prove useful to him.

“How long are you in town?”, Rooster interrupts. He’s moved over to Phoenix’s side, and she’s stone-faced at the man. Like usual, Tyler hasn’t even noticed she’s there. She was never someone he could use and manipulate so he wrote her off.

“At least for a couple weeks.” Of course. Whenever he reappears he has to try to unravel all you’ve wound up since he left. Maybe you could get Penny to ban him from the bar. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name….” Rooster remains glued to his spot, arms crossed across his chest.

“Rooster”, he grumbles. He’s mad, but as far as you know he has no reason to be. Tyler catches sight of Phoenix and her face twitches. Surely a defense to not roll her eyes.

“Nat! How long’s it been?”

“Not long enough apparently”, she speaks through painfully obvious gritted teeth. The fake smile does nothing to cover it.

“Wait, how do you two know each other?”, Coyote asks.

“Oh we all went to the Academy together, but it’s been a while. Not Princess though”, he turns back to you, a smug grin wiping over his teeth. Shut up, you will him.

“We ran into each other, what was it? Five years ago?”. Damn it. All you can do is pray that nobody remembers Nat’s party. The stupid question you answered. The game Hangman started just to make you squirm.

The shifting eyes and slowly growing smile on Hangman’s face prove your prayers go unanswered. It must click in everyone else’s minds. You can’t breathe.

The air is suffocating. They already know too much about you. This extremely intimate and personal part of your life is not something you were planning on disclosing to anyone.

“Five years you said?”, Hangman asks, looking at you and not at the man the question is directed to.

“Yeah, one of those hoity toity balls. Perfect place for royalty”, he laughs at you. You scrunch your face up at him, hiding how tight you’re clenching your teeth.

“So what have you been up to?”, Phoenix asks, redirecting his attention. Thank god for Natasha Trace. He forgets about you, never letting an opportunity to talk about himself get away. He drones on about getting transferred, getting promoted, yada yada yada. Whatever he thinks makes himself look good, even if he takes some liberties.

“Hey”, Bob steps in with a whisper, “Do you wanna leave?” You look at his feet, brown cowboy boots stare back. Straightening yourself, you give him a silent nod. Without another word, you catch Phoenix’s eye and she does her best to distract Tyler as you go.

She’ll have to do damage control by herself. Rooster watches as you leave, not saying anything but you’re sure he must be so disappointed that this was the kind of man you associated yourself with. There’s a small part of you that’s embarrassed he knows. And a part of you that’s disappointed in yourself, too.

He’s not at liberty to that part of your life. But now it’s out in the open, and for someone as stupid as him, he’s not a complete idiot. He’s already connected the dots.

-----------------------

You haven’t said a word. Bob’s not sure if you’re going to. Your jaw’s been clenched since you showed up with him, and the only shift was when you were grinding your teeth as he spoke.

He’s about to turn the corner to your street when you speak up.

“Can we keep driving”, your voice cracks from disuse. Or just from how tight you’ve been holding yourself.

“Of course”, he agrees and reroutes. Where to, he’s not quite sure yet. You’re still quiet as he makes his way out of the suburbs, passing house after house until he finds a relatively empty beach. Only a few people remain, staggering back to their cars to head home. The sun is dipping below the horizon as he parks.

You stare forward, admiring the view. Huffing out a breath, he watches as you squeeze your fingers with one hand, rather harshly, almost until the blood stops flowing.

He checks the cup holder in his door, reaching down and fumbling with the loose change until he finds what he’s looking for.

With his free hand, he separates your own, giving them a gentle squeeze. And once they’re loose he drops the copper coin in your palm. But he doesn’t let go, not yet.

You exhale, the closest thing to a laugh he’ll get out of you. And then you look at him, biting the inside of your lip. Hesitating.

“Just an invitation”, he shrugs, “Feel free to decline.” That gets you to smile the tiniest bit. Progress.

You don’t let go of his hand, instead placing the penny in your pocket and opting to trace over his fingers. Your eyes drop from his, watching your own movements.

“Tyler- or Knoxville I guess, was my first boyfriend.” That much was obvious to Bob. But he doesn’t interrupt as you gather the courage for whatever else is coming his way.

“We met back at the Academy, I really didn’t know how to act in a relationship, and it was obvious later that he only started to become interested once he knew my dad was higher up, and that my god father was even higher than him.” You sigh, again. Getting worked up over every memory going through your mind.

“He used me- for a lot of things, but I still stayed with him longer than I should have. He graduated the year before Phoenix, and then he broke up with me right before he left. Asking if we could still be friends, and whatever bullshit he used as an excuse. And that’s not even the worst part.” A humorless laugh escapes your lips. You scrunch your eyes before letting go of Bob’s hands, instead running them down your face. Hiding yourself from him.

“It was five years ago, when I ran into him at a gala”, you suck in a deep breath before continuing. Bob already knows where this is going, and he’s not sure he wants to hear it. But he listens intently to your words despite the gnawing ache in his chest.

“Ugh”, you huff, “I was lonely, and more than a little drunk. I regretted it when I came to my senses the next morning. It’s just-”, you stop and clench your teeth, hands balling into fists on your lap. You sound more frustrated with yourself than hurt.

Bob reaches to relax your fist with his hand, giving you something else to put your focus into. Releasing a breath, you hide from him beneath your lashes.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. He sounds like a real-”

“Douchebag?”, you venture to guess.

“Yeah.” He stops- thinking back on what you just told him. Furrowing his brow, he asks, “Was he also drunk when you uh…”, he chooses his words wisely, “Saw him last?”

“I don’t- I don’t remember”, you shake your head, “I try not to think about it. Wasn’t a very fun night for me.” You try to laugh it off. He doesn’t like where his mind is going, but he has to know.

“It already sounds like he took advantage of you, but did he-”

“No!”, you’re quick to cut him off, “No, nothing like that. I promise. It was just never… good for me?” You phrase it as if it’s a question. Like you don’t believe yourself.

“I don’t know, he always made it about his needs and I never- he never cared about mine. It never even felt like a relationship. He only cared or seemed interested when my clothes were off. I don’t even think he knew my birthday or what my favorite color was.” You wince, trying to pull your hand away from his to cover yourself up again. “This is so embarrassing.” His heart breaks for you. Right after you left your mom's, the world found some way to put you with a man who didn’t even care to get to know you. What a fucking loser.

“What’s so embarrassing about that?”, he wonders. Pulling your hand back to your lap, his other reaches to trace your jaw. “He’s the one who should be embarrassed, never taking you into consideration. That’s not what a real man does.”

-----------------------

Your brain falters. Almost resets from its original coding as Bob swipes his thumb across your jaw. Even as he mindlessly comforts you, his eyes never look away from yours. They never drift past the part of you he’s trying to reach.

Because that’s the thing. Even when discussing the intimate topic, evading the real words, he’s not trying to reach any other part of you except for you as a whole. Not just a body part he can use for his own gratification.

And in just being his wonderfully genuine self, you find yourself emotional but also incredibly turned on.

It might just be the bare minimum, but it feels like more. It feels like Bob.

“You ok?”, he asks a little quieter this time. You manage to blink yourself out of your daze, recentering yourself to his calloused hand’s gentle touch.

“Yeah”, you manage to breathe over a whisper, “What about you?” You dare to ask.

“What about me?”, he returns, not understanding your question.

“Do you-”, you swallow, “Take other people's needs into consideration?” He blinks, quickly. A twitch of a smile ghosts across his face, before he nods. He understands what you’re asking.

“Your needs are mine”, his voice, now husky, whispers back. You could tremble at the sound. Your heart threatens to beat out of your ribcage.

“In that case, I’m gonna need you to kiss me, Bob.” That lopsided smile makes an appearance before he slowly leans in, brushing his lips against yours. It’s gentle, soft. Not enough. He backs away, not daring to push you any further.

You let go of his hand, reaching for the back of his head to guide him back to you. Your foreheads touch, and his eyes flick between yours and down to your lips. A silent question you answer by attaching your lips back to his. He returns it with fervor.

Turning your head, you deepen the kiss, running your hand through his shorter hair. He gives you exactly what you give him, not trying to go any further than you’re willing.

You dare to swipe your tongue over his lips and he welcomes it with a quiet hmmph.

His hand slides to the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t ask for more, just massages where his fingers go. Or at least that’s what it feels like as your brows wrinkle in pure pleasure.

His touch has you aching for more, and as you try to scoot down the bench, your seatbelt stops you. Breaking away for a split second, you move to undo the barrier. Bob does the same, albeit much quicker than you’re able to with your shaky fingers.

The feeling of Bob’s lips moving down your tilted jaw certainly don’t help.

Your hand falters, and he stops.

“Is this ok?”, he asks under his breath.

“Yeah, more than”, you exhale. His mouth returns, trailing his lips from your jaw to the top of your neck. And you’re still too far away. His nose nudges against your jawline, moving to where he can get better access to what he wants. His glasses scrape against your cheek as he opens his mouth.

The seat belt clicks and you’re on the move. Hands fumbling to grip the back of his neck as he continues to kiss your skin. Your eyes flutter and close, your hand finds his knee, gripping on for dear life.

His lips find their way back to yours, knees knocking into each other as you desperately try to get closer to him. You can feel yourself getting hotter by the second, butterflies making their descent.

You break to catch your breath, his fanning over your face and pushing loose strands of hair outwards. Braving to open your eyes, all you see are the fogging lenses of his glasses.

You don’t have time to admire the sight before his lips drag down your previously untouched skin, the other side of your neck he didn’t explore before. You hum in enjoyment, spurring on his tongue to trace over every inch of skin he’s kissed.

“Bobby”, you mumble, “So- so good.” Your hand drifts higher, dragging over the rough denim of his thigh. You’re trying and failing not to imagine what’s underneath, whining at the thought.

His large hand moves to splay over your hip. But what nearly does you in is his fingers landing right where your shirt rides up from your jeans. The touch sends a shiver through you, goosebumps forming on your skin, hair sticking up on your arms.

He’s kissing you again, wet skin on your neck cooling against the air as it dries. Your knees bump his again, and you swear to god the next time will be the last.

You don’t even think really, just go on instinct as they knock into each other for another goddamn time. Lifting your leg, you swing it over his lap, where you now find yourself sitting. It’s more of an awkward hunch so your head doesn’t hit the roof.

His hands aren’t on you anymore, they must have fallen off during the move. His head hits the headrest, eyes wide under those damn glasses. Oh shit, he doesn’t want this.

You both just sit there, chests falling and rising. You’re just as surprised as he is by your own position.

“I can move”, you quickly try to undo what you’ve already done. His hands shoot out to your hips, anchoring you to him.

“Please don’t”, he huffs and swallows. Hands twitching where they rest. Your hand reaches forward, moving through his hair as you settle into your position. For a split second, just as your fingers move, your brain so lovingly reminds you of where you’ve seen this familiar scene before.

Your dream- before it turned into a nightmare.

A flash of panic tries to run its course through your nervous system but then- a trace of his finger down your cheek, delicately pushing your hair behind your ear. He’s here. This is real.

“Where’d you go?”, he whispers. You don’t say anything. Instead, you push forward, needing to feel him again. To know this is a dream you aren’t waking up from.

His lips are just as warm and soft as they were two seconds ago, but there’s something different. Something deeper. A need in you that he’s more than happy to indulge.

And then. your hips graze right over his as you try to get closer. A deep sound comes from his throat, making your mouth vibrate. Interesting.

You test it again, and this time it’s a little louder, his grip on your hip just a tiny bit tighter. Not hurting in any way, just a sense of pressure that lets you know he feels you. You test again, feeling him harden under his jeans.

“Shit”, he hisses as you take your turn to kiss his sharp jawline. Just the slightest whisper of scruff tickling your lips. “Sweetheart yer killin’ me here-” His accent creeps out, and you smile against his skin.

Your hand slides down the back of his shirt, just barely enough to feel what you have yet to see. His hips buck against yours in a twitch as you barely tug on his earlobe with your teeth. His back is warm beneath your touch and you’re aching to feel more of him.

You can feel yourself start to sweat, windows just starting to fog up the longer you stay hooked to each other.

A harsh bright light sears through your eyelids and you immediately unattach yourself from Bob’s neck, not unlike a leech. His hands remain in your hair and on your waist, but he goes rigid as you stop.

“Car”, you tap his shoulder.

“Shit”, he says as he pulls you under him, flat against the bench seat. You try not to yelp at the motion, but your legs are now wrapped around his hips which pin you to the fading leather. He rests his weight on his elbows, minding not to press anymore against you.

The headlights are bright enough to blind anyone who comes within 50 feet, but all you can see is the direction they turn in. And they’re getting closer.

“What if it’s someone we know?”, you whisper into the echo of your breathing. He looks down at you, and you see it. Fear.

Shifting his weight onto his hands, Bob lifts his head just enough to see through the passenger window. He sighs. Throat bobbing when he swallows. Where your mouth was just exploring.

Jesus, how stupid are you? Why did you think it was ok to have a makeout session in a car like a teenager?

Well, you never actually did that as a teenager. But this makes you feel like one who’s out way past curfew with a boy her parents disapprove of.

“I don’t think we know them”, he whispers, ducking his head out of view.

You’re able to take a breath at that. Bob relaxes, head dropping to your shoulder to catch his own.

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know, probably scoping out a makeout spot”, you hit him lightly on the shoulder and he shakes above you. You both stop and listen, just waiting to see if they get any closer.

“I’m sorry”, you have the urge to tell him after a minute.

“What’re you sorry for?”, he lifts his head.

“I got a little carried away.”

“We were having fun weren’t we?”, he asks through a laugh and you nod at him. “Just kinda forgot where we were.” Your smile falls.

“We have to be more careful.”

“I know”, he searches your eyes, “To be fair I had no ulterior motives when I parked here.” You know he didn’t. Technically you were the one to make the first move, which is something you never did with douchebag. He initiated everything, but with Bob it’s just different. You want him in a way you’ve never wanted someone before. And sometimes it makes it hard to hold back. Because you don’t just want his body. You want to talk to him, spend time with him. You want him as a whole.

You didn’t even catch yourself staring.

“Ok, I think they’re leaving.” He looks back at you and stops. “What?”, he asks with a twinge of a smile. And if you didn’t already feel like a teenager right now, the grin on his face makes you smitten like one. That and the fact that you can still feel how hard he is through his jeans.

“Nothing”, you smile as your hand cards through his hair, “Thanks for taking me out here.”

“I’d say anytime, but I think next time we should find some place a little more private.”

“No, but seriously”, you stop him, “Thank you.” He searches your eyes and comes back with something you can’t place. Maybe he understands that it’s more than just taking you out here. That you’re thanking him for more than you can ever repay. But you start with pushing his glasses back up his nose because he’s too busy looking at you to notice they’ve been slowly sliding down.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. Just lowers himself and presses his lips against yours one last time.

His head pops up, much like a groundhog’s would, before he slides off your body, leaving you cold in his wake. You watch as he shifts gears and- Jesus. When did his hands get so veiny? You remain in your laid-back position as he starts the truck up and peels out of the parking lot. His hand falls to your calf and you unabashedly check out the veins that trace up his forearms. God damn it Bob, it makes it hard to cool down when you know those hands were all over you just a few minutes ago.

Only when you round the corner do you sit back up, feeling a little safer to show your face. That was cutting it close. But at the same time you can’t find yourself caring. Things felt normal for a second. You were back in your Bob bubble. And even when something manages to pop it, he keeps you close enough so the fall doesn’t hurt.

His truck slows down in front of your house, and you turn to say goodbye. His face is still flushed, despite the fact that he rolled the windows down on the way over.

“What is it then?”, he asks out of nowhere.

“What’s what?”, you ask confused.

“Your favorite color?”, it’s a broad question, one that’s never left you feeling quite this elated to answer before. Because this time your answer is staring right back at you.

“Blue”, you respond.

-----------------------

Monday back at work is more or less the same as the past week. Everyone of you is putting in your flight hours as you run over maneuvers before getting in the air.

No matter what kind of breeze is blowing in with the San Diego tides, it does nothing to cool you as you make your way back to the tarmac.

You were nervous walking in this morning. Phoenix must have threatened them with some less than kind words, or else you’re sure Hangman would have said something already. He might have given you a brief glance, but nothing else. He didn’t linger.

You asked her what happened after you left and she just shrugged.

“I feel kinda bad, but I pointed the Lieutenant in the direction of someone who was looking for a uniform to have some fun with. I had to drive Fanboy home after, and he almost threw up in my car, but we didn’t see Lieutenant Douchebag again.” So thanks to Nat, no one bothers you about it.

But then there’s Rooster. You’re not sure what happened with him after you left with Bob Friday night, but he’s having a hard time looking away. It’s not pointed at you per say. It feels almost like he keeps zoning out, but right at you. And when you feel his eyes on your face, he looks away when you turn.

You shake it off when you feel him staring as you settle yourself in your jet, in the classroom as you flip through the pages of your manual, and at your lunch table when Bob’s knee knocks into yours.

He doesn’t even look away from Fanboy when he does it. Just checking in. You knock him right back.

You did end up falling asleep on Bob while National Treasure played in the background Saturday afternoon. After what happened the previous night you didn’t get much sleep. Between Tyler, your little makeout sesh in Bob’s truck, and then the gnawing at the back of your head reminding you about your nightmare, you had plenty of material to keep you awake.

It was a lazy Saturday. What you both needed. Sleeping, actually sleeping, with Bob wasn’t something new to you, but a Saturday nap with you on his chest was something to behold. His slender figure might be unassuming, but it was possibly the best sleep you’ve had in the middle of the day. Actually, it might have been the best sleep you’ve ever had. Period.

And he had you home before too late. Or before someone asked why you were with Bob all day long. You did tell your dad you were out shopping with a couple friends. When he asked what you got, you pulled out a couple pieces you’re sure you’ve worn before but he believed he was seeing for the first time.

You tried not to let your cheeks heat up when he asked what else you got up to. Memories of Bob kissing you lazily, glasses forgotten on the coffee table, and his hands tracing up and down your back come to mind.

“Not much else”, you had told him. He believed it, and moved on. Because why would he have any reason not to?

It’s not that you don’t feel guilty, because you do. You’re just not sure he would understand. You’re not lying to him because you’re ashamed or embarrassed, it’s because you want to keep this one good thing you have. It’s not like when you were young and hiding something because it hurt, you’re hiding it because it’s good. It doesn’t weigh you down, it lifts you up and it’s not anybody’s business but yours and Bob’s.

So by Wednesday when in any other instance you’d have huffed and puffed about all the pushups you’ve had to do, you get down to business. Hands sweaty on the tarmac as Hondo counts you and Rooster off. Fritz had gotten the better of him, Payback and Fanboy you.

Staring ahead, you watch as Phoenix and Bob get ready to head out. She stops before you, crouching as you go up and down. Giving you a great view of her groin.

“Be careful when you go back in there”, she warns you, “Mav and Cyclone are both watching and listening.”

“Thank you Nat’s crotch”, you sputter between breaths. Her and Bob walk off, laughter trailing after them, but you’re still wondering why Cyclone is bothering to watch. Surely he’s got better things to do than supervising your squadron.

It’s getting harder and harder not to kiss Bob hello or goodbye when he picks you up and drops you off. Your car is still being taken care of because of the extent of the damage, and even if it’s tough to not have your own car, you’re not heartbroken that he’s still driving you around. You almost invited him in that afternoon since your dad was staying late. But you thought better of it.

-----------------------

You walk up on Bob and Phoenix finishing with their pushups when you head up with Coyote. Glancing a last look at the tarmac, you watch as Cyclone approaches Hondo. Arms folded across his chest, sunglasses perched on his nose.

He’s been in and out of the classroom since yesterday. Exchanging quiet words with Mav, and occasionally Warlock. Mouth flat, eyes flicking over his shoulder every once in a while. Your dad hasn’t said anything. Not that you’d had any chance to ask him. He’s been staying later and later lately. Eyes tired when he walks in the door, a smile trying to cover it up. It never works.

Coyote’s jet roars to life, soaring in front of you and pulling you out of whatever conspiracy you might have been threading.

-----------------------

Descending your ladder, you watch as Coyote drops to the tarmac next to his jet to start his pushups. Serves him right for thinking he’d get the jump on you.

You’re wiping the sweat from your forehead as you notice Hondo walk over to Coyote, motioning for him to stand up.

“Hey, what’s going on?”. Coyote's furrowed brow mirrors your own as you rest your helmet on your hip.

“Mav wants everyone to report back to the classroom”, Hondo explains with a brooding expression.

“What?”, you laugh, “I beat him fair and square!”

“Don’t worry Mantis, next time when I win we’ll even it out so neither of us will have to do any”, Coyote jokes.

“Like I’d let you get the chance”, you mutter. He playfully scowls at you while Hondo remains with his hands behind his back.

“I don’t think there’ll be anymore pushups anytime soon”, Hondo interrupts as he ushers the two of you back to the building. You share a confused look with Coyote as you head inside.

Everyone’s back in their seats as you give Bob a questioning glance. He shrugs his shoulders, saying I know as much as you do. Right as you and Coyote sit down, everyone shifts to sit straighter in their seats as Cyclone stands at the podium, leaving Mav behind him.

“As you all know”, he starts, “for the past two weeks you’ve been tasked with practicing basic maneuvers, evasion, and endurance.” You shift in your seat, the sweat on the back of your neck dripping below your collar.

“What you don’t know is that this has been preliminary training for something much bigger. Starting tomorrow, you will be training for six weeks to take part in a mission you will learn more about in the following days.” Your lungs tighten, hands turning clammy at the new information.

“We can’t be putting energy into anything other than the tasks at hand. Which is why we will be putting an end to any bets involving physical activity of any kind”, his eyes flit over his shoulder at Mav. Your dad’s jaw clenches as he stares out the window. He can’t stand to look any of you in the eye.

And then it hits you.

The mission he told you about a few weeks ago. The mission Cyclone was keeping you in mind for.

“This isn’t going to be easy, which is why this squadron was selected. You have the best chance of successfully completing this mission and coming home. So keep your head down”, his eyes flick to you, “Put in the work, focus on the mission, and you won’t have anything to worry about.” You meet his gaze and then follow back to Mav who’s already looking at you. There’s no playfulness in the way he stares. All you can see is remorse. A man who’s sorry for what you’re about to go through.

-----------------------

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#top gun maverick #bob floyd fanfiction #lewis pullman #top gun fanfiction #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x reader #mavdad #bob x reader #robert bob floyd x female reader

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onlygirlaliveinnyc · 10 days ago

Text

battle of britpop [18+] ➶ ➴

pairing: 90s!damon albarn x fem!reader x 90s!liam gallagher genre: smut !!, angst if you squint, hate sex if you squint word count: 9702 (so sorry) warnings: brutallllll edging and overstimulation. most of the fic. spit. lotsa spit. hair-pulling, degradation, choking, face-fucking, cockwarming, unprotected sex, oral—f + m receiving, cumplay maybe ?, crying !!!, begging, just ruinedcore, minors dnii !! summary: damon brings you. liam sees. they hate each other—but they hate the idea of anyone else touching you more. a/n: based of this ! req and literally every other thought i have had about liam and damon.... got extra crazy with this im sorry i dont know why it was like my brain shut off while writing and there was an extra 5k words on the page sorrysorryalert alert ! never written a threesome fic so bare with me !

the room stank of cigarettes, sweat, and ego. velvet couches, cheap wine in heavy glasses, polaroids yellowing at the corners. a warehouse turned scene-spot somewhere deep in camden—half full of people who thought they mattered, and a few who actually did.

you walked in with damon’s hand resting low on your back, rings cold where they pressed against skin, the sheer of your dress no barrier at all. he leaned in as you crossed the threshold, voice a brush of velvet over your ear. “they’ll be watching.”

“let them,” you breathed, already smiling.

and they did. especially him.

liam gallagher saw you the second you stepped inside. slouched on the couch like it owed him rent, legs spread, pint half-gone. that lazy smirk already playing at the corners of his mouth. his eyes dragged over you slow. syrupy. something flickering just beneath it—surprise, interest, then something darker. they met damon’s across the room. and held. just long enough—long enough for the air to shift.

you let damon guide you toward the record wall, tucked half out of sight. he poured something dark and gold into a heavy glass, kissed your cheek as he handed it over. his palm lingered against your hip like punctuation—like a claim.

but you felt the gaze again before you even looked. sharp as heat. sticky as sin.

liam, across the room. still watching. unsubtle, unblinking.

he nursed his drink with one hand, other arm slung along the back of the sofa. too relaxed to be casual. too loud for the silence between songs.

you looked away. and then looked back. he was still staring. you knew he would be.

he moved like he was born to ruin something. halfway through his second drink, slinking through the crowd without looking at it. like they’d part for him anyway.

and they did.

“bit posh for this place, ain’t she?” the voice came before the rest. low, northern, smug.

damon didn’t even blink. “don’t you have somewhere to be?”

liam gave a grin like he’d just found his favourite game. “thought i’d say hello. be rude not to.”

“you’ve said it. now fuck off.”

but his eyes didn’t leave you. they dipped—slow, deliberate—then rose again. “didn’t know blur were doin’ plus ones now,” he drawled. “what, she sing too?”

you smiled. sweet. wicked. “only when it’s fun.”

that earned you a twitch of his grin. like he’d just decided you were his next favourite problem.

damon’s hand tensed at your waist. the kind of grip that said mine, even without a word.

liam noticed. of course he did. and he looked pleased.

he leaned in, just slightly—just enough to fog the air between you with breath and bourbon. “just think it’s funny, that’s all,” he murmured. “all that posh-boy poetry, and you’ve still got a girl who looks like she wants someone real to show her a good time.”

your laugh came before you could swallow it. small. dangerous. damon turned slightly. said nothing. but you saw it in his posture—the shift, the pull.

liam caught your eye again. tilted his head. “if you get bored,” he said, voice thick with sugar and spit, “come find me. i’ll be ‘round.”

then he was gone. just smoke in the room.

—

you were left standing there, half-cradling your glass, caught between the burn of your drink and the slower, sweeter simmer of something else entirely.

heat bloomed low in your belly. you blamed the liquor at first. but you knew better.

damon let out a breath through his nose—tight, annoyed—then gently tugged your wrist, guiding you toward the back of the flat. somewhere quieter, dimmer. away from the records and the stares. away from him.

his hand stayed on the small of your back like a brand.

“he’s a fucking prick,” he muttered.

the hallway was narrow, lit by a single red bulb, walls covered in posters peeling at the edges. your spine hit cool plaster. damon boxed you in without meaning to—hands braced on either side of your head, breath hot and sharp.

lager. smoke. jealousy.

his eyes found yours, flint behind the blue. “you think i don’t know what he’s doing?” he said, voice low but edged. “think i don’t see the way he looks at you?”

you tilted your chin up, fighting a grin. “he wasn’t exactly subtle.”

damon’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t afford to.

he leaned in, nose brushing yours. “yeah, well,” he breathed, “neither am i.”

and then he kissed you. not careful. not delicate. a little frantic, a little bruising.

his mouth found yours like it had something to prove—like it needed to undo the memory of liam’s voice in your ear. his tongue swept deep, his teeth scraped. you whimpered into it before you could stop yourself.

one of his hands tangled in your hair, the other gripped your waist like it might anchor him. or claim you. or both.

your drink was long forgotten, half-spilled on the floor, your body arching toward his like instinct.

you let him have it—let yourself be kissed like a secret, a sin, a warning.

but before you could lose yourself in the heat of it, before you could fall headfirst into damon and the way he made you forget—

you felt it. a prickle. the burn of a stare, dragging slow and deliberate over your skin.

you broke the kiss first. eyes fluttering open, head turning just slightly.

through the haze of smoke and half-shadow, across the living room, nestled into a sunken armchair that looked ready to collapse—liam.

he hadn’t gone far.

legs spread. pint in one hand. a knowing smirk on his lips. and the other?

palming himself through his jeans.

your breath hitched.

damon didn’t notice. too caught in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your collarbone now, fingers bunching the hem of your dress.

but liam noticed. of course he did.

his stare burned into you, lazy and electric. he didn’t stop.

his palm rolled slow over the thick bulge at his fly, movements purposeful—performative. like a man alone in a dark room. like he didn’t care who saw. like he wanted to be seen.

your mouth parted, breath shallow. he held your gaze.

and then—just once—he let his head fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut. not from boredom. from pleasure.

he moaned. not loud. not obscene. but enough. just loud enough for you to hear it above the thump of the bass and the muted pulse of damon’s mouth on your throat.

your knees went a little weak.

you looked back at damon quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed. but his hand had slipped to your thigh, his mouth warm and biting now.

liam was still touching himself when you looked again.

you bit your lip hard enough to sting.

his eyes snapped open at the motion. he was smirking again.

he mouthed something across the room. you couldn’t hear it. but you didn’t need to.

“mine.”

and then he squeezed his cock, slow and deliberate, before sliding his hand away—back to his pint like nothing had happened.

your thighs clenched of their own accord.

damon pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth again. “you alright?”

you nodded. swallowed. smiled—just a little too wide.

“fine.”

but your eyes strayed, just once more.

liam was gone again.

—

you lost damon’s mouth when someone passed too close—bumping him sideways, drink sloshing down his shirt. he cursed, stepping back to swipe a cloth off the table.

“fuckin’ pricks,” he muttered, blotting at the stain. “can’t even throw a proper party anymore.”

you leaned your head back against the wall, breathing shallow, thighs pressed too tight. trying not to think about the way liam looked at you. trying not to ache for it.

but of course—he came anyway.

liam didn’t wait.

he stood, pint forgotten, hips already shifting behind his fly like he’d been thinking about this all night. maybe longer. maybe since the second he saw damon’s hand on your waist.

he walked through the party like he owned the air—shoulders loose, mouth crooked, swagger spilling off him in waves. like it wasn’t damon’s girl he was after. like he didn’t care.

“you alright there?” his voice came syrup-slow, warm and thick and mean. “lookin’ a bit… bothered.”

damon turned before you could speak. already on edge. already bristling.

“fuck off, gallagher.”

but liam didn’t even blink at him. his eyes never left you.

“that what you want, love?” he asked, too close now. “someone else speakin’ for you? or someone who knows what you really need?”

his fingers ghosted your wrist. soft, teasing.

damon slapped his hand away like it burned. “don’t fucking touch her.”

liam’s grin went sharp. “didn’t know she was yours,” he said, like he meant it. “she didn’t say.”

and you— you didn’t say a word. your breath caught. your eyes fell. and you stayed right where you were.

damon turned toward you, gaze narrowing. he saw it. all of it. the blush high on your cheekbones. the way your knees pressed in, tight. the way you weren’t pulling away.

he spun you back toward him, hands rough at your hips, mouth against your throat—hot and claiming. “you’re mine,” he said, voice all grit and growl.

you barely nodded before he kissed you—fast, fierce, like he could burn liam out of your mouth if he kissed hard enough. teeth and tongue and something just shy of fury.

and liam watched.

you felt it—his eyes on you. the weight of them. the heat. and you felt the second he snapped.

because suddenly damon’s hands were gone— and liam was there instead.

pressing close. hotter. louder. rougher.

“get off her—” damon barked, stepping forward.

“make me.”

and then liam kissed you. filthy. deep. full of teeth. like he was starving for it. like he needed to taste you first.

his hands on your jaw, your waist, one dragging down to grab your ass and yank you closer—right against the hard press in his jeans. you whimpered into it. damon pulled your arm— but you didn’t move. not yet.

not when liam whispered against your lips: “let me have you. just once.”

you could’ve said no. you should’ve. but your body was already leaning in. you wanted it. wanted them both. wanted to be the fire they fought over.

you looked between them— damon flushed and fuming. liam cocky and aching.

and you said, voice barely above a breath: “both.”

—

up the stairs you went—dragged and guided, wrists caught in callused hands. liam’s grip was sloppier. greedy. all heat and whisky and the tremble of too much want. damon’s was iron. steady. like his fingers might leave prints, like if he held tight enough, he could still pretend you were only his.

you weren’t sure who reached for you first.

didn’t matter.they were both pulling. both taking.

liam laughed under his breath—low and mean, like he’d already won. damon swore under his—over and over, a litany of fucks hissed like a fuse, like he was holding himself back with every one.

the hallway was dim, low-lit and long. music still throbbed from the floorboards below, like some distant pulse you were already falling out of rhythm with. and when the bedroom door shut behind you, it clicked like a lock, like a secret being sealed.

liam was the first to talk—of course he was.

“didn’t peg you for the type,” he said, circling like smoke, like a wolf with a taste for perfume. “lettin’ two blokes drag you upstairs. filthy little thing under all that sweetness, yeah?”

damon shoved him back by the shoulder, a snarl caught in his throat. “shut the fuck up.”

liam didn’t even stumble. just grinned. “jealous, mate? thought she was yours.”

your back hit the wall. you hadn’t even felt yourself moving. but there you were—pinned in place by heat and hunger and the way they looked at you.

two pairs of eyes, both burning. liam’s lit with mischief, amusement, some twisted thrill. damon’s darker. stormier. a glint of something that felt more like possession than play.

“take your clothes off,” damon said, voice low, already wrecked.

“yeah,” liam added, peeling off his jacket and tossing it aside. “let us see what the fuck we’ve been fighting over.”

your heart beat so loud you swore they could hear it. you didn’t move—not at first. just stood there, blinking slow, lungs too full of smoke and want.

until damon stepped forward, fingers finding the top button of your dress. he popped it open slow, deliberate—like he meant for you to feel every second of it. liam came in next, tugging the hem of the fabric higher, knuckles grazing your thighs.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered, like he couldn’t help it. “like a fuckin’ dream.”

“she’s not yours yet,” damon snapped, voice tight.

“not yet,” liam echoed, cocky. hungry. “but she’s not sayin’ no either, is she?”

you weren’t. you couldn’t. you stood there trembling—eyes wide, skin flushed, breath shallow. you could feel the shift, the balance tipping. the second the tension broke and neither of them could pretend it wasn’t about claiming you anymore. this wasn’t about flirting. this wasn’t about fun. this was war, and you were the battleground.

—

damon kissed you first—of course he did. lips hot and possessive, hand at the back of your neck like he needed to anchor you, to remind you who’d brought you here. who saw you first. his mouth moved against yours with a practiced kind of urgency, like he’d done this a hundred times, but tonight was different. tonight, liam was watching.

and liam didn’t wait long to cut in.

“fuckin’ hell,” he growled, stepping in close. his hand curled tight around your waist, tugging you from the wall and straight into him—into the thick line of him through denim, already hard. already pulsing. he crowded your back, rutting up slow and filthy while damon swallowed your moan.

“feel that?” liam muttered into your neck, words smeared against your skin. “fuckin’ twitchin’ for you, and i haven’t even had a taste yet.”

you whimpered. damon’s kiss broke just enough for him to speak against your lips.

“you like this?” he asked, voice lower than sin, thumb dragging along the edge of your jaw. “like bein’ split between us?”

liam laughed under his breath, breath warm against your shoulder. “she’s soaked,” he said, like it was fact. like he could feel it through the heat of her skin. “fuckin’ drippin’ for it.”

“bed,” damon ordered, already breathless.

they moved you together—guiding, greedy. liam’s mouth at your neck, damon’s hands skating down your ribs, over the curve of your waist. you stumbled a little, half-blind with it, and damon caught you by the hips as he sat on the edge of the mattress, jeans still clinging to his thighs. he pulled you into his lap like he’d done it a thousand times.

liam didn’t bother waiting. he came up behind you and unhooked your bra with ease, tossing it aside. “this off too, yeah?” he breathed, already kissing down your spine. you nodded, barely able to speak.

his hands were rough—one on your shoulder, the other sliding low. he hooked a finger into the band of your underwear and pulled. he dragged them down slow, taking his time, eyes locked on the way the fabric stuck to your soaked thighs. you kicked them off and stood trembling in nothing, caught between their stares, stripped bare and burning.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam groaned. “knew it.”

damon leaned forward, mouth trailing heat across your chest. “you love bein’ watched, don’t you, sweetheart?”

you nodded, dizzy, panting. liam’s teeth grazed your skin, kisses trailing lazy heat down your back.

damon’s hand dipped between your legs, fingers curling inside you without warning. you choked on a gasp and collapsed against his chest.

liam stared, jaw slack. “fuckin’ unreal.”

you were trembling now, suspended between their hands, their mouths. every breath tasted like fire.

“you gonna let us pass you around?” damon asked, voice thick. “gonna take what we give you?”

liam growled, low and possessive. “fuck that. i want her now.”

“wait your fuckin’ turn,” damon snapped, still pumping his fingers inside you—but you were already moving, already climbing off his lap, mindless and hungry and shaking.

you turned to liam. lips parted, thighs slick, legs unsteady.

liam caught you mid-step, one hand wrapping around your throat—loose, not choking, just claiming. his eyes burned down into yours, dark and bottomless.

“on your knees,” he rasped.

—

you dropped without question.

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he fumbled with his fly, dragged his jeans down far enough, and pulled himself free—already thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. his hand moved slow over himself, just once, just enough to watch you watch him—eyes wide, lashes damp, lips parted.

“fuckin’ unreal,” he muttered. “on your knees like you were made for it.”

he brushed the head of his cock against your mouth, smearing precome like gloss across your lips. you opened up—obedient, eager—tongue out, ready.

he slid in slow. just the tip at first. enough to stretch your mouth, to watch your jaw go soft around him.

“jesus fuck,” he breathed. “this fuckin’ mouth—”

you hollowed your cheeks, sucked him in deeper. his hand curled tight in your hair, grounding. holding.

behind you, damon knelt on the floor, his fingers ghosting your spine. he was silent for a second—just watching, drinking it in like a slow drag of smoke. then, calm and low: “slower.”

liam huffed. “she likes it rough.”

you moaned around him, breath caught, throat tight.

“see?” liam laughed, voice already fraying.

his hips rolled—testing. shallow thrusts at first. careful. but not for long. each push went deeper, until your nose was pressed to his skin, your throat stretched full, tight, aching. you gagged. swallowed. gagged again. and stayed there.

“fuckin’ no gag reflex,” liam gasped. “little angel. takin’ it so sweet.”

damon’s hand slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. his other hand dipped between your thighs—bare now, slick and swollen. you whimpered. liam groaned.

“she’s fuckin’ melting,” he said, voice thick. “look at her knees. fuckin’ slick.”

he pulled out just far enough to slap his cock against your cheek—wet and sharp. once. twice. again. you gasped with each sting, spit stringing from your lips.

“open.”

you did. he fed it back to you, rougher this time—both hands on your head, fucking in. your mascara smudged. your eyes watered. your throat clenched tight.

“take it,” he snarled. “take what you fuckin’ begged for.”

you choked, coughed, moaned—each breath a broken little prayer. damon’s fingers rubbed lazy circles over your clit, teasing soft and mean.

“she’s fuckin’ soaked,” he murmured. “not even inside her yet and she’s already gone.”

liam grunted, hips stuttering. “gonna ruin this mouth,” he growled. “gonna use her ‘til she can’t speak.”

you sobbed around him, desperate. your lungs ached. your throat pulsed. you were trembling on your knees, caught between ache and awe.

“breathe,” damon said softly, tugging your shoulder.

liam pulled out with a wet pop. you gasped. spit trailed down your chin, your chest, shining under the low light. your throat burned. your eyes blurred.

but still, you leaned forward, stroking him with one hand, licking the tip, kissing it like you missed him.

“fuckin’ perfect,” liam whispered. “look at her. fuckin’ look.”

“on the bed,” damon said, darker now.

liam helped you up—hands on your waist, your tits, everywhere. you swayed, dizzy and glowing.

damon settled behind you on the mattress, palms sliding up your thighs, spreading you open slow. liam climbed on top, his cock resting heavy against your stomach.

“wanna fuck her throat again,” liam muttered. “make her cry on it.”

“you will,” damon said, slipping two fingers inside you, slow and steady. “but not yet. not ‘til i’ve had her too.”

—

liam didn’t wait. didn’t need to.

he just hooked a thumb beneath your chin, tilted your head up, and said, breathless, “mouth, now. c’mon, sweetheart.”

you opened without question.

he eased back in—slow this time, deliberate, savoring the slide. your throat was already sore, drool slick at the corners of your mouth, but he groaned like it was the first time all over again.

“good girl,” he panted. “fuckin’ filthy.”

behind you, damon had dropped to his knees between your thighs. his hands found your hips—firm, steady—as he spread you open like he owned the right. the air hit your cunt sharp and cool, and then you felt the warm weight of his cock sliding through your folds. slow. thick. deliberate.

already wet enough he didn’t need to tease.

“hold still,” he muttered.

you moaned around liam’s cock. a muffled, strangled sound.

damon hissed, low. “she’s dripping. this just from your cock in her mouth?”

liam laughed, voice rough. “’course it is. look at her. made for this. she loves it, don’t you, babe?”

you tried to nod, but he was too deep.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought,” he growled, fisting your hair tighter.

then damon pushed in. slow, stretching, splitting you wide. you gasped, back arching, and liam held your head steady, hips twitching forward to bury himself deeper down your throat.

“jesus,” damon groaned, breath catching. “tight as fuck.”

“tight everywhere,” liam muttered, voice frayed. “mouth’s fuckin’ heaven.”

and then they started moving.

damon rolled his hips into you with deep, unhurried thrusts, filling you up again and again—while liam fucked your mouth with sharper, shorter snaps, his cock gliding slick through spit and heat. they moved like they’d done it before. like they’d planned this. like they knew exactly how to ruin you together.

you were just caught in the middle, helpless and aching, stretched wide between them—nothing but a body for them to fuck.

“look at this,” liam rasped. “fucked-out little toy. not even blinking.”

damon dragged a hand up your back, palm warm on your spine. “she’s perfect. takin’ it like she was made for us.”

you moaned, voice crushed and wet around liam’s cock. your throat fluttered each time he pushed in, your cunt clenched every time damon bottomed out. you couldn’t think. couldn’t breathe. didn’t want to.

liam slipped out with a wet gasp, slapped his cock against your cheek—once, twice, again—leaving you messy and open, drool slicking your chin, tongue still hanging out.

“open wider,” he ordered. “there. fuck, that’s it.”

he slid back in, deeper. you gagged and swallowed, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes.

behind you, damon grunted. “she’s clenching. fuck. think she’s gonna come.”

“don’t let her,” liam snapped. “she doesn’t get to come ‘til we do.”

“we won’t,” damon promised, pace quickening. “not ‘til she’s ruined.”

you whimpered, trembling, desperate to come, to breathe, to fall apart—but they weren’t done with you.

liam’s hips slapped against your mouth, cock bruising your throat, hands locked in your hair. damon fucked you harder, one hand spreading your ass to get deeper, his breath hot and ragged.

“you feel how soaked she is?” damon panted. “she loves this. bein’ used. bein’ filled.”

“she’ll get filled,” liam growled. “not yet, though. not ‘til she’s fuckin’ beggin’.”

your body burned. your cunt throbbed. your jaw ached. and still, you took it.

—

you barely had time to breathe before he shoved back in, deeper than before—sharp and punishing. you choked, tears spilling hot and silent down your cheeks, mascara smeared and forgotten. it burned, it throbbed, it stretched your jaw until it ached—but still you moaned. still you begged, muffled and desperate, the sound guttural and soaked in spit.

behind you, damon bent low over your back. his hand wrapped around your throat from behind—not squeezing, not yet. just resting there, heavy and warm, palm curved over the flutter of your pulse.

“you like bein’ fucked like this?” he muttered, voice a snarl in your ear. “two cocks stretchin’ you open, mouth full, cunt drippin’—this what you came for, sweetheart?”

you whimpered, tried to nod, but liam’s cock was too deep. your body answered for you—hips rolling, pussy clenching down around nothing, desperate to be filled again. you pushed back against damon’s abs, tried to drag more friction out of the air, and it made him groan—low and wrecked.

“she’s fuckin’ close,” damon gritted out, breath hot against your neck. “feel her shakin’. she’s gonna—fuck.”

“not yet,” liam said, voice sharp, hand tightening in your hair. “hold it, sweetheart. you don’t come ‘til we say.”

your whole body trembled—wrecked, strung out, ruined. they were good at this. too good. dragging you right to the edge only to leave you there, twitching. their cocks, their hands, their voices, all of it too much and not enough. you were gone—somewhere between need and obedience, dizzy with it.

“you hear that?” damon hissed, snapping his hips forward just to make you flinch. “don’t come. be a good girl. hold it for us.”

liam fucked faster, rougher. his cock slid down your throat with each thrust, slick and brutal, and your jaw hung wide just to take it. you couldn’t breathe—but you didn’t want to. you didn’t need to.

then—his hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing into your cheek, and he dragged himself out. spit clung to his cock, thick and glistening, and he slapped it against your face—once, twice, with a little groan each time.

“miss me?” he rasped.

you gasped for air, lips red, eyes glassy.

“open.”

you did. tongue out. obedient. filthy.

“there’s a good girl.”

he slid back in, deeper than before, and your knees buckled again.

behind you, damon’s hand clenched hard at your hip. “fuck—fuck, i’m gonna—”

liam’s eyes narrowed. “don’t.”

“she’s squeezin’—fuck, liam—”

“pull out,” he growled. “we’re switchin’.”

damon cursed like it pained him. slipped out slow, wet, panting. you whimpered, mouth still full, the loss of him sharp and aching—but then hands were all over you. rough and warm and frantic. gripping, flipping, dragging you onto your back.

your head hit the mattress. your thighs fell open. and liam was there—hair a mess, sweat dripping from his neck, shirt pushed up past his stomach as he shoved his cock into you in one long, brutal thrust.

you cried out. back arching, nails raking the sheets.

“that’s it,” he panted, already fucking you. “been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night. watchin’ you bounce on his cock—made me fuckin’ ache.”

he set a rhythm without mercy. deep and fast, the sound of skin on skin filthy and constant. your body rocked with every thrust, breasts bouncing, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.

damon settled beside you, cock flushed and angry, still slick with you. he brushed a thumb along your cheek, kissed the corner of your mouth.

“you still hungry, darling?”

you blinked up at him—glass-eyed, fucked out—and opened your lips.

he guided himself in, slow and smooth. let you suck him messy, tongue greedy, lips swollen. “that’s it,” he breathed. “my sweet little whore. always so good with your mouth full.”

liam slammed into you harder, fingers bruising your hips. “she’s tighter now,” he gritted. “she likes havin’ both of us. made for it.”

you moaned around damon’s cock, voice warbled, and they just kept using you.

—

liam was pounding into you now, sharp and fast, dragging filthy sounds from your throat even around damon’s cock. it was too much—too full, too wet, too fucking good.

“this cunt’s fuckin’ soaked,” liam growled. “like it missed me.”

“she’s tight as hell,” damon muttered, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “how’s that throat, love?”

you couldn’t speak. not properly. just moaned, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

liam’s hand found your throat, gripping as he fucked harder.

“don’t you fuckin’ come yet,” he hissed. “not ‘til we say.”

you were right there. stomach tight, cunt squeezing him over and over. your thighs trembled.

and still they didn’t let you come.

damon pulled out again, slapped his cock against your lips—“beg,” he said.

you did. voice barely there.

“say it louder.”

“please,” you choked. “need it. please—”

liam was close too. his thrusts rougher now, sloppy, sweat dripping onto your chest. he gritted his teeth. “fuck—gonna ruin you.”

you begged for it. begged with your body, your hands, your mouth.

and still they held back.

still they made you wait.

your thighs were shaking.

sweat cooling where it gathered behind your knees, on your collarbone, where damon had bitten down hard enough to leave a mark. your body was wrecked—used and soaked and trembling—and still they wouldn’t let you come.

liam had pulled out just when your moans hit that desperate pitch. “nah,” he panted, grinning, breathless. “not yet.”

you sobbed, hips rolling helplessly against nothing, your clit aching. it felt like punishment—delicious, drawn-out punishment—and neither of them had any plans to stop.

“told you not to come,” damon murmured, brushing his knuckles over your throat, your chest, down to the soaked heat between your legs. “and you were about to, weren’t you, sweetheart?”

“n-no,” you lied, barely audible.

liam snorted, crouching at the foot of the bed. “don’t lie, love. we know this cunt like the back of our hands now. fuckin’ pulses when she’s close.”

“yeah?” damon said softly, tilting your chin so you’d look at him. “then maybe she needs to learn how to behave.”

you whimpered—open-mouthed, desperate.

liam slid two fingers inside, slow and cruel. they curled just right, just enough, and you arched again—thinking maybe, maybe this time they'd let you. maybe they'd—

but then he pulled out, smeared the slick across your inner thigh, kissed it.

"not yet."

“please,” you gasped.

damon just leaned in, lips ghosting your temple. “you’ll come when we say. not before.”

they worked you open again and again—hands and mouths and hips grinding into you, cock in your mouth, in your cunt, but never letting you fall. never tipping you over the edge.

liam fucked your mouth while damon stretched you out on three fingers, palm pressed to your stomach to feel how deep he was. then they’d switch—liam between your thighs again, slapping his cock against your cunt, dragging it through your folds until you cried.

and every time your breath hitched—that tiny tell—you were stopped. left empty. aching.

—

“don’t cry,” liam murmured, soft and sticky, brushing a tear down your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “you love this. bein’ our little toy. lettin’ us play with you.”

you nodded, dizzy with it—soaked and ruined, begging without words. you couldn’t lie. not like this. not when you were stretched and trembling, cunt clenching around nothing, mouth too slack to speak.

damon leaned back on his heels, eyes dark as coal, cock twitching where it lay heavy against his thigh. he dragged his gaze over your body like he was trying to memorize every shake and spill of you. “you’re filthy,” he said, but there was heat behind it. reverence. “fuck if you’re not perfect.”

liam didn’t wait. didn’t ask. he pulled you into his lap and sank you down onto his cock in one smooth drag, and you cried out—more from relief than pain, though it was both, both, always both.

“don’t move,” he growled into your mouth. “you sit there. just like that. don’t fuckin’ move unless we say.”

he was so deep it made your vision spark—cock nudging that place inside you that made you feel cracked open, barely human. you shook, hands braced on his chest, but you didn’t move. couldn’t. wouldn’t. you were pliant, obedient, wrecked.

they didn’t fuck you. not yet.

they didn’t let you come, didn’t let you do anything but feel it—liam pulsing inside you, damon’s eyes eating you whole. time dripped like syrup. seconds stretched like years. you floated somewhere between need and nothing.

when you begged again, voice paper-thin—“please, please let me, need it, please”—they shared a look. unspoken. cruel.

then damon leaned in, slow, like he was offering something sacred.

“alright,” he said, voice low and lilting. “you wanna come?”

you nodded. frantic. pleading. your thighs twitched around liam’s hips.

“you’re gonna earn it.”

liam laid you flat again. your back hit the mattress and your legs were lifted, bent, folded—ankles over shoulders. he held them there like handles, then slammed back inside you with one savage thrust. the force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“gonna make her come so hard she sees stars,” he panted.

“no,” damon corrected, palming himself slowly, eyes locked on the way your body bowed. “gonna make her cry for it first.”

and they did.

they edged you until your moans turned to sobs—until even the word please sounded broken. your voice cracked like glass, your hips writhing, cunt squeezing around liam’s cock like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the room.

liam’s pace grew mean—shallow thrusts, maddening, barely there. enough to tease, to make you twitch and grind and sob out another helpless whimper.

he studied you. watched every flicker of agony in your eyes like it thrilled him.

“how many times’ve we stopped you now?” he asked, almost dreamy. his thumb dragged across your cheek, smearing tears and spit. “three? four?”

“five,” damon said from the headboard, voice lazy. his hand was wrapped around his cock again, stroking slow. he looked at you like you were a painting. something expensive. something ruined. “poor little thing can’t think straight.”

your thighs trembled. your whole body did. tears spilled freely now, lip wobbling, your breath a stuttered mess.

“she’s close again,” liam muttered. his voice was hoarse. his hips stuttered, cock twitching inside you.

“ruin it,” damon said, cold. “make her wait.”

“no—please—” you gasped, voice gone raw. “i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll—”

liam pulled out.

slow. cruel. deliberate.

your cunt clenched around nothing, fluttering empty, a cry ripping out of you like it had claws. he slapped his cock against your thigh—wet, heavy, hot. you were slick everywhere, thighs shiny, sheets ruined. your body thrummed with denial.

you didn’t even know you were begging again until damon reached down and grabbed your chin—tilted your head up, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“you wanna come that bad, sweetheart?” he cooed. “gonna lose your mind if we don’t let you?”

you nodded, wild. frantic.

—

he smirked. “then crawl.”

you blinked, breath caught halfway between a sob and a moan.

“on all fours,” he clarified, voice low and slick with threat. “between us. show us how much you want it.”

you moved without thinking. knees aching, palms sinking into the rumpled sheets, body flushed all over with sweat and spit and need. everything between your thighs throbbed. everything inside you ached.

liam laughed behind you—dark and delighted. his hands were on you immediately, spreading you open, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass.

“fuckin’ mess,” he muttered, breath ghosting over your skin. “never seen a cunt this wet before. it’s obscene.”

in front of you, damon stroked himself lazy and slow, eyes half-lidded as he watched you crawl. “she’s got no idea who she wants more.”

“don’t matter,” liam said, leaning in, mouth brushing your lower back. “she’s gettin’ both.”

and you did.

they made you take turns.

damon in your mouth, thick and rough, hand knotted in your hair as he pulled you forward, feeding his cock past your lips with slow, possessive rolls of his hips.

liam fucking into you again from behind—harder this time, deeper. brutal thrusts that made you jolt forward, made your mouth choke on damon’s cock, made the sheets crease beneath your knees.

and every time you started to shake—every time that white-hot pulse built low in your belly—they stopped.

again.

and again.

“liam—please, i can’t—”

“you can,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “and you will.”

damon slapped the side of your face with his cock—gentle, almost playful. “open up.”

you did.

you always did.

mouth slack, tongue out, spit slicking your chin. he slid back in and didn’t stop—fucked your throat slow and deep, his cock dragging against the sore walls of your mouth, fingers tight at the back of your skull.

“such a pretty little cocksleeve,” he murmured. “so eager to please. we could do this all night, couldn’t we?”

liam groaned behind you, pace quickening. “she’s squeezin’ me,” he panted, voice ragged. “fuck, she’s gonna—”

“not yet,” damon barked. “make her wait. make her feel it.”

you sobbed around damon’s cock. it hurt. it burned. you were soaked and shaking and full and empty and used. your whole body screamed for release, but they kept dragging you back—over and over. denial thick as blood in your veins.

liam reached around, two fingers circling your clit—sloppy and fast, just enough to make your hips buck.

“you come without permission,” he warned, voice tight, “we start over.”

and god, you were close.

so fucking close.

you trembled violently, your jaw slack as damon fucked your throat, as liam filled you like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out. your vision blurred. your hands slipped on the sheets. your breath caught.

you wanted to come so badly it felt like your skin might tear.

“she’s crying again,” liam said, gleeful, voice dark with triumph. “fuckin’—look at her. you ever seen anyone this desperate?”

damon pulled out with a wet pop, letting your head fall forward. you gasped, spit pooling down your chin, mouth open and useless.

your body sagged—aching, overstimulated, unraveling.

“please,” you whispered. barely a sound. “please, i need—”

“not yet,” liam snapped.

“just a bit longer,” damon added.

your thighs twitched. your stomach clenched. your cunt fluttered helplessly around liam’s cock, still buried inside you like it belonged there.

—

and then it hit you out of nowhere.

you had tried so hard to obey—to breathe, to take them, to hold yourself back—but then liam’s fingers brushed just right, and damon thrust deep into your throat, and suddenly it was happening. the orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“fuck—i—i’m—” you choked out a sob as your hips jolted forward, thighs trembling, cunt clenching tight around liam’s cock. your vision whited out. your whole body seized, back arched, moaning helplessly around damon’s cock. you hadn’t even meant to. it was just too much—the teasing, the pressure, the filth of it all, their voices and their hands and their need.

liam stilled behind you, breath going sharp. “she came,” he muttered, incredulous. “she fuckin’ came.”

you slumped forward, thighs twitching, cheek pressed to damon’s thigh. you were still shaking. still dazed.

damon eased himself out of your mouth—slow, wet—then grabbed your jaw and tilted your face up to look at him. “did we say you could?”

you blinked up at him, ruined. slack-jawed. drool and come slick on your chin.

“i—i’m sorry—i didn’t—”

“no, sweetheart,” damon cut in, voice low. “you did.”

liam chuckled darkly, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “fuckin’ greedy.”

“didn’t even ask,” damon said, still holding your face. “didn’t even ask.”

“gonna have to teach you a lesson now, aren’t we?”

“no, please—”

“oh, now you wanna beg?” liam snorted. “bit late for that.”

and then he pulled out. you whimpered at the loss, body still fluttering from the aftershocks. your knees gave out beneath you, and you collapsed back onto the mattress.

—

damon hauled you up by the arm, flipped you over like you weighed nothing, pinning your wrists above your head. your back hit the mattress, body boneless and blinking, already spent—but they weren’t done. not even close.

liam grabbed your knees, spread you open wide, stared down at the mess between your thighs like it was something holy. “look at that,” he muttered, voice gone soft and wrecked. “fuckin’ soaked.”

“she’s gonna be sorer than she’s ever been,” damon rasped, settling between your legs again. “but it’s what she wanted. didn’t you, sweetheart?”

you shook your head, tears in your lashes, the words barely there. “i—I can’t—”

“yes you can,” liam murmured, already shifting forward. “and you will.”

damon stroked himself once, lined up, and slammed back in. you screamed. arched. your wrists jerked in his grip, but it didn’t matter—your cunt was already pulsing, raw and slick, stretched wide for him again.

liam knelt beside your head for just a second—then shifted, bracing one knee over your shoulder and the other beside your ribs, cock heavy against your cheek. “open,” he ordered.

you did.

and he slid in, slow and mean, one hand tangled in your hair, the other braced on the headboard as he started to fuck your mouth again—this time with no softness at all.

now you were helpless. pinned. every hole filled, no room to move or breathe. damon pounded into your cunt like he meant to ruin it, hips snapping, his teeth clenched. and liam used your throat like it was his god-given right, fucking deep, holding you still by your hair as your lips stretched wide around him.

they didn’t stop. not when your legs started to shake. not when your throat burned raw. not even when your cunt fluttered, desperate and full.

“she’s fuckin’ addicted,” liam groaned, thrusting harder, deeper. “look at her—soaked again already. takin’ it like a cockdrunk little whore.”

damon’s jaw clenched. he grunted, sweat sliding down his spine, watching the way your body bowed up for him, how your hips still tried to meet every thrust like you couldn’t help it. “you hear that?” he panted. “she’s squelching. fuckin’ dripping all over me.”

you whimpered around liam’s cock, throat too full to speak, eyes burning with tears. spit smeared across your cheeks, frothing at the corners of your mouth. you gagged again, choked softly—and liam just moaned.

“aw, baby,” he crooned, voice gone almost sweet. “you cryin’? sobbin’ ‘cause you’re that fuckin’ full?”

he swiped your tears away with his thumb—then pressed it to your jaw, forcing you wider. “you love it. filthy little fuckin’ girl.”

damon’s hands gripped tighter at your hips. your arms went limp above your head. all you could do was take it. take it and take it—his brutal rhythm, the bruising grip, the hot breath on your skin.

liam pulled out for just a second—let you breathe—then slapped his cock across your cheek, once, twice, before sliding it back into your mouth.

“fuckin’ born for this,” he muttered. “your mouth was made to be used.”

damon groaned. his hips stuttered. “gonna fill her up—fuck, she’s milkin’ me—”

liam laughed, breathless. you moaned helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, spit trailing down your chest. your whole body shook—your thighs locked up.

you were so close again it hurt.

“please,” you tried to say, voice broken around liam’s cock. it barely came out at all.

“you beggin’?” damon bit out.

“thinks she deserves it,” liam sneered, his hips still rolling, his cock rutting against your throat like he owned it.

then they both went still. just for a second.

damon leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a threat.

“not yet.”

—

they dragged you off the bed and dropped you to your knees like they were done pretending you weren’t a toy. one hand each, tangled in your hair—guiding, holding, owning. “look at you,” damon sneered, thumb swiping the spit from your lips, smearing it across your cheek like it was warpaint. “can’t keep your fuckin’ mouth off our cocks for five minutes.” “needy little slut,” liam muttered, already unzipping with one hand, cock hard again, heavy in the low light. “go on then. be useful.”

you blinked up at them, mouth already parted like you were starved. you didn’t even wait for permission—you just reached for both of them at once, stroking them side by side like it was all you knew. one hand wrapped around damon, the other for liam, your jaw already going slack as you leaned forward and took damon into your mouth, lips stretching wide.

liam let out a breathy laugh, not jealous—just amused. “always his cock first, huh? fuckin’ groupie.” “she’ll get to you,” damon said, voice low, hand brushing hair from your face like you were something delicate even as you gagged around him. “look at her. workin’ us both like a good little toy.”

you moaned around him, spit starting to slip down your chin, wrist twisting just right around liam’s cock like you’d memorised what made him twitch. they were both watching you like they were starving and you were the only thing left to eat.

and god, you were soaked. your hips shifted, almost on instinct, grinding against the rough carpet beneath you in search of even the smallest relief. it wasn’t enough—never enough—but the pressure was something, and your moan deepened, throat fluttering around damon.

you thought maybe they wouldn’t notice. they noticed.

liam jerked your head back hard enough to make your spine arch, spit trailing from your mouth to damon’s cock. “what the fuck d’you think you’re doin’, huh?” you blinked up at him, dazed. “just—needed—” “needed?” he snapped. “who the fuck said you get to need anything?”

damon’s voice cut sharp, a clean slice. “was that you humpin’ the fuckin’ carpet like a bitch in heat?” you froze.

they stood over you, hard and flushed and furious, and you were still on your knees, dripping and ruined, lips red and shiny with spit. “got two cocks in your hands, one in your mouth,” liam growled, “and you’re still greedy? fuckin’ unbelievable.”

you tried to say something, anything, but damon pressed his thumb hard against your lips, muffling the sound before it could leave. “nah,” he said. “no more of that. not ‘til we say.”

liam leaned in close, his voice rough and thick with heat. “you wanna come that bad?” he said, smiling against your cheek. “then beg. tell us why the fuck you deserve it.”

—

they didn’t even let you finish your plea.

you were on your back in seconds, dizzy from the manhandling, thighs spread wide and trembling, breath hitching in your chest like a sob. but liam didn’t fuck you—not yet. he just sank into you slow, so slow, thick and deep and hot—and still. didn’t move. just held you there, full to the brim, cunt twitching around him from the stretch and the ache and the sheer denial of it.

“shh,” he cooed, already breathless. “you want it so bad, don’t you? thought about this for fuckin’ hours. days.”

you nodded, desperate, nails clawing at his arms.

damon crouched beside you, palm stroking your jaw. “then be good. hold him. just hold him.”

you tried. god, you tried. but your hips twitched, bucking up just a little.

liam growled low in your ear. “what’d i fuckin’ say?” his hand flew to your throat, fingers curled around your pulse—not squeezing, just there. grounding. warning.

“stay still,” he said again. “take me. that’s all you get.”

your walls fluttered around him, slick and hungry, clenching on instinct.

damon chuckled darkly, brushing your damp hair from your cheeks. “she’s barely hangin’ on. look at her.”

your lips trembled. your cunt pulsed. you were so full and so empty at once, stuck in that unbearable in-between.

“please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “just—need to come.”

“you need to?” damon echoed, faux sympathy laced with heat. “oh, babe. this isn’t about what you need.”

liam leaned down, kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and biting.

“you’ll come,” he murmured. “when we say.”

“maybe.”

“maybe not.”

and still—they didn’t move.

you were stuck there, trembling and soaked, cockwarming liam while damon stroked lazy circles over your swollen clit. barely enough to keep you right there—on the cusp, on the edge, begging with your body even when your mouth went quiet. they could’ve done it for hours. you would’ve let them.

your whole body thrummed with tension—hips shaking, thighs aching, cunt clenching desperately around liam, who stayed deep inside. not moving. not giving. just holding you open, stretched and sloppy and so fucking full.

and worse—damon was still teasing. his fingers ghosted over your clit, maddening light. the barest brush, the slowest swirl. never enough.

“hold still,” liam gritted again, low and hot in your ear. his grip on your hips was bruising. anchoring. like he knew you’d try to squirm again. “told you—s’not for you to take.”

you whimpered, trembling underneath them, so full you felt like you might split open. your walls fluttered, pulsing with need.

“but—please—”

damon hummed, gaze locked on your wrecked face. “oh, she’s close again. feel that?”

his fingertips circled your clit slow, cruel. like he was winding you up just to let you unravel.

you writhed—instinct, really—just trying to rock your hips, to chase a fraction more friction, to meet liam’s cock where it rested. anything.

“don’t you dare,” liam growled. “you move again and we stop.”

“fuck, please,” you gasped, eyes shining. “can’t—can’t help it—”

damon leaned in, mouth by your jaw, fingers never letting up on your clit. “then don’t help it. suffer for it.”

and you did. suffer, that is—body strung tight like wire, breaths hitching in your throat. liam’s cock pulsed inside you with every shallow squeeze your cunt gave. and god, he felt it.

“you’re clenchin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he muttered, jaw tight. “like you’re tryin’ to milk me without movin’. cheeky little thing.”

damon snorted softly. “think she’s gonna cry.”

you weren’t sure if you already were.

“you want to come, sweetheart?” damon asked, almost sweetly, rubbing a slow circle just above where you needed him. “you want us to let you?”

you nodded frantically.

but they didn’t say yes.

they didn’t move.

liam shifted just enough to knock the head of his cock against that aching spot inside, and you sobbed, legs trembling violently now.

“fuck!” you cried. “please—i’ll do anything—”

“you’ll do nothing,” liam cut in, voice hoarse. “we’ll do. you’ll take.”

and then damon slid down between your legs, replaced fingers with tongue, licked at your clit while liam stayed lodged deep—cock twitching, balls snug up against your cunt like he was just waiting.

you arched. moaned. seized.

and then damon pulled back, mouth wet, breath hot.

“not yet,” he said.

you were falling apart and no one was catching you.

they hauled you into damon’s lap like you weighed nothing, his back pressed to the headboard, cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. he palmed your hips, thumbs digging in, your cunt still twitching from liam’s tongue.

you whimpered when you felt him line up—thick and hot, head slipping through your folds. your thighs trembled as you straddled him, hands braced on his chest.

“go on then,” liam murmured from the end of the bed, voice lower now—gutted. “show me how you ride him.”

you were too wrecked to answer, only nodding as you sank down slow. damon groaned, head falling back, grip bruising your hips.

“fuckin’ hell,” he hissed. “still so tight, even after all that.”

you rocked your hips, slow at first. it was thick, so thick, and your muscles ached from restraint. from being used. you cried out when he ground up into you, cock dragging that spot that made you see stars.

liam sat just out of reach, legs spread, fist wrapped tight around his cock. he watched you like a starved man—eyes dark, hungry, drinking in the bounce of your tits and the way your mouth fell open.

“look at you,” he breathed, voice broken. “takin’ him so good. so fuckin’ good.”

you met his gaze, even as your thighs trembled from the effort.

“want you to touch me,” you pleaded, eyes glassy.

“you’ve got him,” liam murmured, thumb teasing over his leaking tip. “earn me.”

you moaned at that—keening as damon snapped his hips up rougher now, making you ride harder, faster.

“she’s fuckin’ perfect,” damon growled, hand slipping between you to rub your clit. “look at her, liam. fuckin’ made for it.”

liam groaned, fisting himself faster. “tell her. tell her what she is.”

“cock drunk little slut,” damon snarled, voice ragged. “just a fucktoy. stuffed full, used, begging for more.”

you cried out, clenching around him.

liam stroked himself harder, breathing shaky.

“bet she’ll come just from that,” he muttered. “from ridin’ you while i watch.”

your body jolted with each thrust—damon dragging you down onto him, your cunt wet and sloppy, clit swollen. liam spat in his palm, spread it over his cock with a hiss, eyes locked on the way damon disappeared into you again and again.

“fuck,” he muttered. “can’t wait to split her open next round.”

damon gritted his teeth, thrusts snapping up cruel. “you hear that? you’re not even done yet.”

you nodded, tears streaking your cheeks, moaning like it was the only word you remembered.

“thank you,” you gasped. “thank you—thank you—”

liam moaned. “you love it. love bein’ passed around.”

“so filthy,” damon panted. “but she’s ours.”

you sobbed, cunt clenching around him—right there on the edge again.

damon’s grip turned bruising, his chest sticky with sweat as he slammed into you from beneath. your cries sharpened with every thrust, hands scrambling across his shoulders for something to hold.

“gonna fill you up,” he gritted, teeth clenched. “fuckin’ ruin you for anyone else.”

you nodded, desperate. babbling something half-coherent, gasping with every drag of his cock inside you.

liam stayed at the foot of the bed, fist tight around himself, breath ragged and uneven.

“go on,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “fill her up, albarn. let her leak for me.”

you whined—half a sob, half a moan—as damon shoved in deep, hips jerking, cock twitching. his head tipped back against the wall as he spilled inside you, thick and hot and endless.

you shuddered around him, already clenching from the heat of it, cunt fluttering like your body didn’t know what to do with it all.

damon exhaled slow, dragging you down into his lap, pressing his lips to your temple as his hand stroked down your back.

“fuck,” he breathed. “that’s it. took it so well.”

but liam was already moving. already climbing back onto the bed, already dragging you off damon’s lap with hands greedy and impatient.

“my fuckin’ turn,” he muttered, pulling you to all fours.

you gasped, the shift making damon’s cum spill from you in a slow, messy drip.

liam saw it—let out a low, wrecked groan, one hand spreading your ass to watch it leak. “jesus. look at that. fuckin’ full of him.”

you started to say something, but his cock pressed to your entrance—already hard again, already dripping—and the words turned to noise.

“he warmed you up for me,” liam panted, pushing in slow. “that’s sweet of him, innit?”

you moaned, high and cracked, back arching.

“still so fuckin’ tight,” he gritted, bottoming out with a snap of his hips. “like your cunt’s fuckin’ starving.”

he started fucking you immediately—deep and messy, the slick from damon making everything louder, wetter. the slap of skin and the filth of it echoed through the room like thunder.

you sobbed into the sheets, clawing for purchase, body melting under the weight of it all.

“mine now,” liam growled, hand fisting in your hair. “gonna fuck you till you forget his name.”

“c’mon, love,” damon murmured, voice low and coaxing. “give us one more. you’ve got it in you.”

liam groaned behind you, cock twitching inside your soaked cunt. “she’s close. can feel it.”

and you were. soaked and stuffed full, stretched and trembling, your voice unraveling into nothing but choked gasps and ruined little cries. your body felt like a wire pulled too tight, every nerve frayed and raw.

liam thrust harder, meaner, his nails biting into your hips. damon’s fingers never stopped—circling your clit with sharp, deliberate sweetness.

“let go,” liam breathed, voice torn and hoarse. “come for us, baby. now.”

and you did.

like a spark to dry leaves—sudden, scorching, a full-body detonation. your wail broke ragged in the room, your cunt clenching down hard around liam’s cock as he groaned, loud and guttural, hips stuttering against you.

“fuck—fuckin’—take it, take all of it—”

he came deep, hard, burying himself to the hilt, grinding against you as he spilled inside. his whole body shuddered, slumped heavy over your back, breath catching.

—

and then damon was pulling you close again, tugging you back into the pillows, arms wrapping around your shaking body.

you were limp, breathless, boneless. flushed and wrecked and fucked-out beyond words, your lashes fluttering where your cheek rested against his chest.

“that’s it,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “you did so good. took all of it.”

liam stayed behind you, panting, cock still slick inside you as he pulled out with a wet drag. he watched the way your thighs trembled, watched cum spill down onto the sheets. he swiped his thumb through it absently, slow and possessive.

“look at the fuckin’ state of her,” he muttered, not quite teasing. “ruined.”

“we should send her back down like this,” damon said lazily, thumb brushing your jaw. “see how long she lasts out there.”

liam’s gaze sharpened. “fuck off.”

damon chuckled, but there was heat behind it. “what? let ‘em see what she’s good for.”

liam sat up, slow, and dragged the sheets up over your bare skin. tucked them in like a shield. “she’s not goin’ anywhere.”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t, really. you just blinked up at the ceiling, floating on the edge of sleep, every nerve still pulsing.

they were quiet for a beat. the room thick with something taut and silent.

then—damon shifted, pressed a kiss to your temple.

liam wiped between your thighs with a warm cloth he didn’t ask for.

they didn’t talk to each other. just to you. soft little murmurs.

“you’re alright, love.”

“you did so fuckin’ well.”

“my good girl.”

“ours.”

their touches overlapped—careful, clumsy. damon combing his fingers through your sweat-damp hair, liam tracing circles into your thigh like he didn’t realize he was doing it. both of them acting like the other didn’t exist, except for the way they kept trying to outdo one another. gentler. quieter. closer.

you fell asleep tucked between them—liam’s arm slung heavy around your waist, damon’s breath warm against your shoulder.

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chloelucia13 · 1 month ago

Text

Personally: Chapter 6

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Series Summary: You and Bucky have decided to give this relationship a real try, and Bucky won’t let anything get in the way of finally giving you the love you deserve. A sequel to Nothing Personal

Chapter Summary: After escaping from hydra’s grasp once more, you and Bucky are left to discuss an array of pressing matters, one of which happens to be tagging along with you two.

Series warnings: lotsa fluff, some angst, smut, language, violence, mentions of cheating

Chapter warnings: some angst, some fluff, smut 18+!!!!!!! (p in v, oral, praise, unprotected sex, sappy and horny at the same time??), drama, discussions of cheating, language, mentions of violence, descriptions of injuries

A/N: We’re getting some good ole communication and SMUT today, boys! And, just a heads up, this will be the FINAL chapter in this sequelI Coming out next will be the third installment of this series, which will be set during the Thunderbolts! hope you all enjoy, and as always, my inbox, taglists, and messages are open!

As soon as the large SUV you all hijacked was on public roads and Bucky’s driving had slowed to a normal speed, your left hand clutched onto his right one and hadn’t left it.

“We’re gonna have to pull over in about a mile and walk until we can find some sort of abandoned shelter,” Bucky explained, eyes warily flickering over the car’s now-shattered GPS screen as if he feared that it would flicker back on despite the irreparable damage he’d done to it.

He’d barely spoken since you all had left the facility, save for brief discussions of the next steps, like he’d just mentioned. It made your stomach turn, seeing him so rigid, eyes completely blank and jaw wound so tight you could feel the ache yourself. And with Cassandra in the back seat, sticking with you two for the foreseeable future, didn’t ease your anxieties in the slightest.

You trusted Bucky. You trusted Cassandra. You just didn’t trust how everyone would act after this.

Bucky pulled off into a dirt road and parked a few hundred feet down the way, tucking the car into deep shrubbery and woods that would disguise the car for at least a little. Everyone clambered out and Bucky led the way up the road before turning left into an open field invisible to the streets, heading straight.

Twenty minutes turned into two hours, a mile turned into seven, and the silence still lingered like a heavy blanket as the wind blew and the sun glowed brightly in the sky.

Bucky assumed that you all were somewhere in rural Ohio, and with it being late-October, the chill was to be expected. However, you were the least suited for that weather in your frilly dress with a lame excuse for sleeves, compared to Bucky and Cassandra who were dressed in dress shirts and dress pants.

You shivered, pulling your arms close to your chest and smoothing your hands over your goosebumps.

Bucky glanced over at you through his peripheral, a deep frown settling on his face. Quickly, he shucked off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, letting his hands settle over it until your hands gripped onto the lapels as you smiled up at him.

His hands then reached into the back pocket of his pants and pulled out the phone, checking to make sure it had enough of a signal before dialing Sam’s number which he (obviously) had committed to memory.

Sam’s greeting barely came through before Bucky cut him off. “We don’t have time to talk. We’re stuck somewhere in rural Ohio, we were taken last night at the gala by Hydra,” he gruffly spoke.

“Last night? You guys have been gone for two days,” Sam spoke, the strange mix of apprehension and relief translating through the speaker. “Nevermind. I’m gonna send this number to Maria so she could block it from any Hydra receptors and we’ll call you back to figure out a plan.”

Bucky just nodded and hung up the call, checking the call length and letting out a silent sigh of relief as it read only 29 seconds.

“It’s been two days?” you whispered.

His eyes looked over to yours, taking note of the despair and pure exhaustion. “I guess they knocked us out for longer than I thought,” he explained gently, reaching out slightly to touch your elbow.

It was only about half a mile later that a boarded up house came into view, a sight you never thought you’d be comforted by. You picked up the pace, nearly sprinting the last few hundred feet to get to the dilapidated building as soon as possible.

Bucky ordered you and Cassandra to stand back as he kicked the door down, exposing the innards of the house to the three of you.

By the outside, you assumed that it was small, probably containing no more than the necessities. But the inside was truly bare, holding no more than the four walls keeping it standing and a few pieces of furniture that held so much dust and god-knows what else. There wasn’t even a need to search the inside for anyone inside as you could see every square inch of the inside.

With a sigh, you all walked inside. Cassandra made quick work of finding any food that was hidden away in the shitty excuse for a kitchen, while you brushed the dust off of one of the small couches and sat down, nearly melting into the rigid cushions that felt like clouds against your sore muscles.

“I’m gonna head about a mile out and wait for Maria’s call,” Bucky informed you two, nervously shifting from one foot to another as he awaited a response. At your nod, he bolted out of the house like it was on fire.

You bit down on your lower lip and tugged his jacket on, hugging yourself to keep warm.

“Are you hungry?” Cassandra voiced, appearing in your line of sight with a box of saltines.

You gave her a small smile before grimacing at the box. “I think I’m alright for now. Wanna wait until I absolutely need it,” you explained.

She sat down on the floor and picked at the box, both of you staying silent. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

You tilted your head, your interest piqued. “What is it?”

She let out a shaky breath, lifting her gaze to yours. “When, um... When we hooked up-” She winced at her wordage. “-During that, he was calling me by your name.”

The pit that grew in your stomach made you nauseous, and your hand shot up to cover your mouth. “Oh my god, I am so sorry.”

“No! No, no, no! I didn’t say that to make you feel bad, I’m sorry. I just... I guess I wanted to tell you that you don’t have to worry about him coming back to me or whatever. He really loves you. He did then, too, even if he was a fucking idiot.”

“You think so?”

She let out a chuckle. “Absolutely. I mean, god, have you seen how he looks at you? It’s-it’s... It’s like how the moon would look at the sun. That you’re the center of his universe, that you make him shine.”

You barely had any time to process what she said before Bucky came through the door and closed it behind him. “Sam said we’ll need to stay here overnight and that Cassandra will get picked up in the morning. Y/N, you and I will have to go to a safe house tomorrow because they’re worried that Hydra is going to be looking for us,” he explained, voice militant and clipped. “You two should probably get some sleep. I’ll stand guard.”

“Bucky, you need sleep, too,” you told him, a look of worry marring your features.

He shook his head, his frown growing ever deeper. “No. It’s not safe yet.”

With a clenched jaw, you reluctantly nodded, rising from your seat on the couch and stepping past him.

He didn’t even give you a glance.

Instead, he began wedging the back a rickety kitchen chair under the doorknob for the front door before sitting down and clutching his gun in both hands.

Cassandra settled into the open area next to you, giving you a moment before she spoke in a hushed voice. “Do you want to take the couch?”

You turned to face her and gave her a grateful, though weak, smile and a nod. “Thank you.”

She gave you a nod, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder before slipping away into the small bedroom and closing the door behind her.

With tentative steps, you made your way back to the couch, eyes focusing on Bucky’s form as you slowly settled into the floppy cushions.

“Bucky?” you whispered, though with the hollowness of the house your voice nearly echoed.

He didn’t lift his gaze off the floor as he nodded in response.

“Do you think he meant it?”

“Meant what?”

You shifted nervously, sucking in a stuttering breath. “That what happened in there was... me. My powers. That they gave me powers.”

That intrigued him enough to finally look at you. “I’m not sure. Banner’ll run some tests when we get back.” With a sense of finality, he lowered his gaze once more and clenched his jaw.

You, however, weren't even close to being done. “And if I do have powers? What do we do then?” You sat up. “What if I’ve got a target on my back now because I’m one of their weapons? What if they start hunting me down like they did with you-”

“Don’t say that!” he snapped, rising from his seat and pointing an accusatory finger at you, his other hand clutching the gun with a white-knuckled grip. You cowered underneath his scrutinizing gaze, breath stuck in your throat. “Don’t fucking say that. That’s not true.”

“Buck-”

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk about this back at the compound.”

***

Time seemingly flew by as your eyelids grew heavier and heavier and before you knew it, Bucky was nudging your side with his boot and letting you know that your transportation to the safe house had arrived. Groggily, you grunted, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Cassandra?” you questioned, glancing back at the bedroom door that sat open, revealing the empty room behind it.

“She left already, didn’t want to wake you. She knew you needed the sleep,” he explained, staring off into the distance and avoiding your gaze.

Clearly, he didn’t feel like having the discussion that played out before you, so instead, you nodded and rose from your resting place on the cold floor. You brushed the dust off of your dress and followed behind him, out of the house and into the usually-inconspicuous car that now stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the field.

The ride to the safe house was long and silent, and the distance between you in the back seat and Bucky in the passenger seat felt it stretched further and further with every moment that passed. Ohio turned into West Virginia, and West Virginia turned into Delaware without a word uttered or a sidelong gaze reciprocated.

The house sat nestled deep in the red sea of aspens and maples, illuminating the beauty of autumn when all the color brought to your mind was the blood that was caked under your fingernails. You both crawled out of the car, sore and tired bodies creaking as you stumbled your way into the small cabin that would be your home for the following days.

Immediately, Bucky made a beeline for the shower while you raided the kitchen cupboards for sustenance. The dissociation began to fade and you couldn't ignore the gnawing pain in your empty stomach. You couldn’t recall the last time you hadn’t eaten in three days, or if you’d experienced that at all.

Water and bread filled your stomach quickly, and though you longed to stuff your face until the hunger was satiated, you knew it would make you very sick very quick. Instead, you and Bucky swapped places as soon as he exited the bathroom, allowing him to stuff his face while you cleaned the blood and grime from your body.

Once you exited the bathroom, you and Bucky retreated into the single bedroom together, changing into the clean clothes that they had placed on the bed. Finally, your needs were satiated, and the tension filled the room once more.

Bucky leaned against the wall and stared at his hands, brows furrowed and his lips pursed.

“Did I do something wrong?” you whispered, settling down onto the edge of the bed and staring up at him.

“Of course not. Why do you think that?” he responded like it was a knee-jerk reaction, shaking his head slightly.

Your lower lip began to quiver and you bit down on it. “Then why are you pushing me away again?” Your fingers curled into fists, shaking with fear and fury. “I just killed a man. I-I was given powers by fucking Hydra! I need you for once, and you are pushing me away!”

Guilt panged harshly in his chest, hitting so hard that it made his stomach churn. “No, no, baby.” He rushed over and sat down next to you, his hand settling on your back. “I’m sorry.”

You fell forward, forehead settling on his shoulder as you let out a sob, hands rising up to ball his dress shirt up in your fists. “Please don’t push me away. Please, I can’t do this again. I can’t take it.”

Both of his arms snaked around you and he pulled you close to him, his head bowing to bury his face in your hair. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just...” He sucked in a shaky breath, blinking away the tears that flooded his own eyes. “Every time you get close to me, you get hurt. I don’t want it to happen again. I couldn’t live with myself if it happened again. I can barely live with myself now.”

“But I don’t want to do this without you. I-I thought we were doing okay. I thought...”

As his eyes squeezed shut, his mind launched back to that night, how his heart thudded so rapidly in his chest when he saw you in your stunning dress that he thought he might faint. He remembered the warmth that radiated inside of him from the alcohol and from you. He tangibly felt the relief that flooded through his veins when he finally realized what that feeling was, when he finally knew what he could tell you.

“I meant it,” he cut in, fingers skimming along your exposed shoulders and collarbones. “What I said that night. I meant it, and I still do.”

“That-”

“That I love you. That I love you so much it scares me, but I’m even more scared of letting you go.” He lifted his head from your hair to gaze into your eyes. “And I’d give up everything just to show you how much I love you.”

You nodded, sniffling slightly as his words settled deep into your bones. “I love you, too. Always.” Your breath hitched as your eyes searched his, the ivory soap he cleaned his skin with permeating your nostrils and making your eyelids flutter.

Bucky sunk into his spot on the bed, his hands settling firmly on your hips and guiding your body onto his lap. “Say it again,” he all but begged, mouth half-agape as he stared up at you, the light behind your head illuminating through your hair like a halo.

Your fingers settled against his cheekbones, skirting softly along the expanse of tanned skin. “I love you, Bucky.”

The shudder of his breath at your words fanned across your skin, and you ducked your head down to plant a delicate kiss to his lips. Instantly, he clutched you against him and smashed his lips against yours, a sigh of relief puffing from his mouth into yours.

The exhaustion that weighed heavy on your bodies was put on the back burner as you haphazardly shucked off each other’s clothes, scraps of fabric slipping off your skin parting your lips for only moments before they searched for the other’s touch again.

He cradled your body in his arms as he turned and laid you onto the sheets, his gaze never leaving yours as his traveled lower and lower until they reached the waistband of your makeshift pajama pants. His fingertips tucked under the material, relishing in the glide of the soft skin of your hips under his calloused hands before they tugged your pants and underwear off in one go.

A small shudder racked your body as the cool air of the room hit your damp inner thighs, but he soothed his hands over your legs to rub away the goosebumps. He grinned at you and you smiled back, sitting up slightly to prop yourself up on your elbows while he rose from his spot at the edge of the bed to hover over you. His right hand rose to cup your cheek while his left made the trek from your outer thigh to your inner thigh, noticing the skin growing wetter and wetter as he inched closer to your center.

He pressed a kiss to your temple as his fingers finally made contact with your leaking slit, unable to resist the grin that tugged at his lips from the soft whimper that punched out of your lungs. Gently, his fingers glided around, collecting your slick, before his middle finger plunged into the depths of your entrance. You cried out, eyes squeezed shut as your hands searched for purchase against Bucky’s chest.

“Does that feel good?” he whispered, finally lifting his lips from your skin so he could examine your features. You nodded frantically, eyes fluttering open and locking your gaze with his. He hummed. “Talk to me, baby.”

“Feels so g-good,” you huffed, brows knitting together as he slipped in another finger at your words, a sort of reward for following his directions. You careened, whimpers tumbling from your lips as they were the only form of communication you could muster in that moment.

He nodded along to your whines, waiting until your eyes rolled back and closed for him to press his lips against yours, swallowing your moans like they were his sustenance.

The dam broke the moment his thumb settled directly onto your clit, sobbing into his mouth as your elbows collapsed underneath you, sprawling out on the comforter as you writhed. He just continued kissing you, mirroring the movements of your head with his so that your lips wouldn’t part.

As you settled and the final dregs of your orgasm made your lips part from his so you could gasp for air, Bucky pressed his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he breathed, awestruck.

You let out an airy chuckle, moving your hands to grip onto his biceps. “I love you, too,” you reciprocated, eyes opening to meet his waiting gaze.

He grinned, reluctantly pulling his arms away from your grasp so he could work his boxers down his legs and onto the floor. You sat up on the bed, fingers reaching up and skimming along the expanse of his chest before digging your nails into his flesh. He shuddered, tongue darting out to wet his lips as you scooted up onto your knees to be eye-level with him. All ten fingers skirted down and deftly gripped his cock.

“Go sit against the headboard,” you hummed, twisting his cock in your grip once before releasing him to do what you instructed. He just nodded, gulping hard as he moved around you to get on the bed and settle his back against the headboard. Inklings of power rushed to your head, and you sucked in a breath to pull back the lightheadedness it brought. Bending down so your hands reached the bed, you crawled on all fours over to him, eyes tracking the way his Adam’s apple and erect member bobbed in unison.

You crawled into his lap, legs outwardly framing his as your hands reached up to balance yourself against the headboard. Bucky’s hands settled chastely on your hips, gripping tightly into the soft and giving flesh. You ducked down, nudging the tip of your nose against his before sitting up straight. With both hands, you reached back and unhooked the clasp of your bra. Bucky scrambled to pull the offending fabric off your chest and down the expanse of your arms before peeling it from your body entirely and tossing it to the side. His hands found purchase on the small of your back as he leaned forward, burying his face between your breasts and breathing in the heady aroma of your sweat and cheap soap.

You cried out as he caught the skin enrobing your sternum between his teeth, entwining your arms around his neck and gripping tightly onto his locks. You both pulled the other impossibly closer, clinging and grasping and clawing.

Your dripping slit made contact with his length, trapping it between your folds and grinding down against it desperately. Simultaneous whimpers fell into the humid air, and Bucky craned his neck to catch your pert nipple in his mouth.

“Bucky,” you sobbed, shivering at the overload of sensations.

He nodded, panting against your skin before suckling your bud once more. In his unrelenting grip, he lifted your frame up until his tip caught against your entrance. It was as if your brain turned to mush, static filling your senses as you absentmindedly chased after his tip until it breached into you.

Cries filled the room as the back of your thighs met the front of his, sinking down on his cock in a matter of moments. His hips stuttered like he was trying to bury himself even deeper into your warmth. Gulping for air, he threw his head back against the headboard. “F-fuck, baby,” he coughed, massaging your doughy flesh in his firm grip.

You just nodded, nails digging into the expanse of skin on his shoulders and chest. “Gimme it,” you whispered, shimmying your hips. You rose up on your knees until just the head remained in your pussy, already making you ache for more. “Please. I need it.”

His gaze lowered and his eyes finally met yours. The stars in his eyes twinkled as they searched your flushed face, scooting his legs up so his feet were planted solidly on the tough mattress. His arms snaked around your waist, clinging as he pulled you against his chest. “What do you need?”

You whimpered. “Need you. Please.”

He cocked his head, indicating that he needed more than those few sparse words.

“Bucky, please.” You pressed your forehead against his, lost in the feeling of his warmth and the depths of his irises that grew darker with every moment. “Please fuck me. I need you to fuck me.”

He nodded, his nose inadvertently bumping with yours. The next moment, his hips pistoned up, a single fluid thrust that immediately pressed himself hard against your g-spot as his pubic bone kissed your clit. Your legs shook immediately, but he didn’t relent, pushing himself into the deepest depths of you, parts of you that only he knew how to reach.

Tears bubbled at your waterline, the pleasure absolutely overwhelming you as you struggled to breathe, to blink, to think. You tore your nails down his chest as your head collapsed into his shoulder.

Opposing his brutal thrust, his hands gently skirted up your spine, the vibranium settling on the expanse of your back while his other hand gripped onto the nape of your neck, holding you close. “This what you wanted, pretty girl?” he grunted, slyly grinning at the way your entire body shivered around him.

You nodded fervently, words failing as you as only sobs burst through your chest.

“You’re doing so good. Taking me so perfectly, baby. Like you were made for me,” he cooed, fingers tangling in your hair.

“Made for you,” you agreed, going lax in his grip. “I can take it.”

“Yeah? You can take it?” Quickly, his thrusts ceased as he buried himself to the hilt in your tight and wet warmth. You squealed out, wriggling for more, but he held you tight in place against his chest.

Your hands scrambled for purchase in his hair. “Please, baby. I can take it.”

He hummed, rotating his hips once or twice. “Okay, sweetheart. Then take it.”

The speed at which his body humped up against you was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. Your eyes rolled back into your skull as all your body could do was shake and welcome the perfect intrusion of his cock into your aching cunt. He lifted and lowered your body in his grip to precisely meet his thrusts, all while making it seem to effortless on his part.

“I love you,” he huffed, brows pinched together. He gently tugged your hair to pull your face out of his shoulder, grinning when he was able to see the way your eyes fluttered before weakly meeting his. “I love you so much, baby.”

“Love you too,” you sobbed, leaning into his touch. “God, I love you.”

He felt the way your wall pulsed more frequently against his length, watched your breaths falter and stutter every few moments. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nodded, falling forward to crash your lips against his. he licked into your mouth, feeling your moans reverberate out of your mouth and into his lungs. “Please,” you murmured into his open mouth.

“Do it. Let go. Cum for me.”

Your fingers left his hair as your arms wrapped around his neck, clutching tight to him and sealing your lips against his. he thrusted once, twice, three more times into you before the dam broke. You cried out, eyes squeezing closed as pure energy pulsed through your being and shattered you.

Flickers and bursts exploded behind your eyelids, light and dark flashes and pops and cracks ignited you, pulsing all the way down to the tips of your fingers and toes.

The world grew dark as the waves subsided, collapsing against Bucky’s chest.

Bucky just stared at you in awe, a beacon of raw power. Just moments earlier, at your peak, he watched each of the lightbulbs in the room burn bright before sizzling and bursting, sending showers of sparks and glass through the room, engulfing you in a electric halo.

His sunshine, burning hot and bright as can be.

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part vii)

FREEFALL FUNCTION—Descent governed by forces outside one's control.

summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.

a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.

Joel was making a list.

A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.

He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.

First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.

Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.

He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.

Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.

And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.

Right. That was the list.

And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.

The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.

The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,

He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.

Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.

It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.

Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.

Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.

Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.

And then he spotted them.

Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.

Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.

Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.

Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”

Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.

Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”

His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”

Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”

Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”

And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.

He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”

Joel's jaw ticked.

She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”

Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.

He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.

His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.

He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.

Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”

She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.

“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.

Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.

There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.

For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?

No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.

His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.

She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?

She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.

Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.

And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.

Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”

“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”

Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.

And that? That made something in Joel snap.

“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”

“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.

Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”

She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”

“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”

Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.

And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.

Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?

Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.

She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—

"I think that’s how trust works."

The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.

It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.

That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.

And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.

Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.

Ignoring him completely.

Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.

A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.

Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.

Then, nothing. She was gone.

“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.

The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.

That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.

Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.

Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.

The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.

Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.

He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.

Then the light found her.

Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—

The clicker.

It was on her.

Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.

And she was holding it off. Barely.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.

Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.

But he didn’t have a clean shot.

The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.

"Hold it there!" he yelled.

Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.

Joel fired.

The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.

The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.

The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.

For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.

His hands were shaking.

Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.

“The hell happened?”

“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.

Joel was already moving.

“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.

Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.

Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.

Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”

But the moment his hands found her skin—

She screamed.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.

She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.

"No—no, please, please—stop!"

Joel flinched.

Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.

At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.

It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.

Because she wasn’t just afraid.

She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”

She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.

His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.

"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.

Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.

And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.

So he did the only thing he could.

He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.

“It’s me,” he urged.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.

And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.

Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—

“Joel?”

Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.

He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.

He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.

“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”

His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.

Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.

At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.

Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.

His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.

The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.

This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—

His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

He was losing her.

His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.

He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.

Again, and again, and again.

His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—

And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.

A splinter.

A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.

Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”

His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.

“You're fine. You're okay.”

It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.

His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.

He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.

His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.

He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.

"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."

She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.

After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.

Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.

He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.

He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.

"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"

Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.

And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.

That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.

Tommy wasn’t buying it.

And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.

Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.

Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.

The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.

He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.

He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.

But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.

Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”

“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?

“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”

His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”

Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.

He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.

Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.

So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.

He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.

Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.

She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”

Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.

“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”

"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”

Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?

His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.

"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.

Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.

He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”

Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.

Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.

Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.

It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.

They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.

Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.

"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.

Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.

He sighed and let her go.

Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"

Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."

Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.

By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.

Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."

Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.

Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”

“You been there?”

A pause. And then, a small nod.

Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”

Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”

Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."

Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.

Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”

Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.

He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”

“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”

Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”

“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.

Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.

Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?

Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.

Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?

Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?

His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.

Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.

Maya. God, Maya.

His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.

If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?

Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?

Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.

His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.

The answer should’ve been easy.

It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.

How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.

Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.

Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”

Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.

And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.

By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.

They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.

But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.

Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.

He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.

He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.

Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.

He glanced over at Leela.

She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.

“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.

She only let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.

She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.

Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.

“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”

“Now, darlin’—”

“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”

Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.

Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.

The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.

He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.

He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.

He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.

Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.

A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—

This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.

Joel stopped.

His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.

The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.

Something about it didn't sit right.

Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.

Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.

The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.

The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.

“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.

Two bodies.

Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.

Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.

The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.

He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.

Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.

“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.

Something was off.

This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.

Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.

There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.

It wasn’t a checkpoint.

It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.

His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.

And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.

Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.

Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.

Then he saw the rifle.

He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.

He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.

Cherries.

Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.

But he’d seen this before.

A different rifle. A different home.

A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.

The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.

His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.

His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.

Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.

She had been kept here.

Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.

The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.

The belt.

His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.

Someone had fought like hell.

Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.

His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.

The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.

The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.

The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.

That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.

On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.

Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.

It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.

The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.

His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.

The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.

Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.

He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.

Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.

He could see it then.

He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.

The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.

When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.

Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.

No.

Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.

He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.

The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.

He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.

Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.

So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.

The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.

His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.

But the rifle was still in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.

But instead, he kept walking.

Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.

Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.

And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Jesus.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.

He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.

But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.

His gaze cut past them—to her.

Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.

And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.

Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.

Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.

Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.

Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.

Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.

His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.

His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.

And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.

Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.

His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.

He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.

It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.

Joel plucked it without thinking.

And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.

Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.

She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.

Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.

And then—her smile widened.

Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.

She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.

“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.

Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.

Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”

Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.

But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.

He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.

Let it be buried.

Let it stay gone.

The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.

Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”

Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.

Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.

She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.

“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”

Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.

Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”

He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.

But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.

Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.

With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.

Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”

He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.

Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”

Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”

Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.

Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.

He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.

All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.

He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.

Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.

So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.

His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.

A lump formed in his throat.

Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.

Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”

He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.

Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.

He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.

Then—the cabin.

It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.

Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.

A warmth settled on his back.

Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.

When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.

Now it was just them.

“Hey,” he tried first.

“Hi,” she returned.

She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.

Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”

He barely got to finish that last sentence.

Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.

It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.

She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.

She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.

And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.

Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.

Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.

And Joel broke.

His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.

She was here. She’d always come back.

Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.

The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.

And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.

She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.

“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.

Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.

Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.

Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”

Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.

“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.

Leela didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”

He knew why she was saying this bullshit.

She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.

“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.

“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.

He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”

But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.

“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”

Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?

“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”

His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.

This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.

Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.

She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.

“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”

Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”

Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”

He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.

They were his.

Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.

But then, after a moment—she spoke again.

“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.

She meant this. She fucking meant it.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.

Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.

No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.

It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.

This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.

“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”

Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.

“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?

Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.

And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—

It was a thunderclap in his black sky.

His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.

She only waited, knowing the unspoken.

Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.

He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.

He’d been a father twice over.

And now—now he was being handed the chance again.

But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.

Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.

This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.

Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.

He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.

He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.

“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.

She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.

Joel breathed out sharply.

This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.

Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.

He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.

Leela was different.

Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.

No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.

Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.

And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.

Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.

His head dipped before he could stop it.

The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.

Leela stiffened—just for a second.

Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.

A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.

Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.

For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.

His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.

Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.

He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.

His chest clenched. Jesus.

She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.

Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.

Leela’s breath hitched.

Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.

And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.

His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.

His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.

God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.

Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.

Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.

The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.

Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.

His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.

And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.

He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—

But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—

Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.

So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.

Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.

Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”

Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”

It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.

His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.

“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

And that—that was it.

That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.

This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.

This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.

Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.

And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

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losthavenmine · 6 months ago

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Wolf Man (2025)

Generally speaking, there are three types of werewolf story

Monster slasher; minimal story, lotsa gore, switch-your-brain-off fun

Tragic wolf man; good person gets cursed into a shitty situation that's bad news for everyone involved, character-focused, lotsa angst, all the feelings

Twilight

If you're looking for either 1 or 3, then you're probably not gonna love Wolf Man (plenty of those stories out there to find though). If you wanna feel feelings for characters who do not deserve what is happening to them (like I do, thank you Leigh Whannell for keeping us angst fiends fed!) then Wolf Man is for you 👍

It could have punched a little harder, sure, but for me this was a damn good werewolf movie that took a different approach, was visually gorgeous, beautifully acted, and gets all the praise for its practical effects 😍

Yeah, I loved it and can't wait to see it again when it becomes available on streaming platforms ❤️

#wolf man #wolf man 2025 #Leigh Whannell #christopher abbott #julia garner #horror

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manicpixiefelix · 1 year ago

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he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) // epilogue

{ head, heart, hand. masterpost }

Summary: Oliver is haunted by what he's done to get his happy ending in Felix's arms. His guilt is only made worse when he meets the first member of your family to actually remind him of you. Unfortunately, he does not find it to get better from there.

{ context; please read he wanted to be in love (but you got in the way) first }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons. YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD IN THIS ONE, but you do get to haunt the narrative. congratulations?

Warnings: discussions of death/overdose, lots of guilt, manipulative oliver, felix being upset, vaguely unhealthy oliver/felix, lotsa angst, oliver quick reckoning with the sunk-cost fallacy.

A/N: 6828 words. first, i don't usually do part 2s when i say something is a oneshot, so this is a rare occurrence. secondly im sorry this is almost 7k there's something wrong with my brain i think. thirdly bro, bro, listen to me; ANGST. HURT NO COMFORT. HURT NO COMFORT. it's soft in the middle THE SOFTNESS IS A LIE. ITS GONNA HURT ALL THE WAY DOWN (apart from nana i love her nd i hope you will too)

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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One hour and fifty three minutes.

Rounded up, because all things considered, he should round it up, that's two hours.

Two hours. Like the blink of an eye in the scope of a whole life. But a very long time when you sit and count it out.

One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand, two hundred seconds. He's always counting two hours, seeing exactly how long it feels like, how he can fill that amount of time. Seconds pass like a steady heartbeat.

He can do a lot in two hours.

Oliver tries to occupy himself nowadays more than ever, and really tries not to be alone, but it's hard. Farleigh left for Oxford. Venetia, before she decided to backpack across Europe and find herself, wouldn't let anyone touch her anymore.

Oliver doesn't like leaving Felix alone, but sometimes he has to be. You're laying cold in a family crypt somewhere next to a grandfather you never knew, and while Elspeth and Sir James don't comment on it, they both scowled when your parents sprung the announcement on everyone at the funeral.

Felix spends a lot of time alone at the edge of the maze. He's making a fairy garden where you had waited. Sometimes he'll drive into town without telling anyone, and come back with quaint, second-hand miniatures to add. It's beautiful, shining with greens and golds when the setting sun hits it just right.

So Oliver finds time to occupy himself, when he's alone and all he can think about is you sitting by the maze. You laying by the maze. You alive when he'd run from the maze. And the two hours that followed.

Sometimes he leans out of his window and shouts to the gardeners so far away they look like ants; even at this distance, his voice carries, and he sees them turn, search for him, ask if he's okay. He is, and he apologises, and he think about how far his voice carries.

On occasion, out of the blue, he'll lift Felix up when he hugs him, able to get his feet off the ground as Felix wriggles and clutches him out of surprise. Of course Felix lifts him with ease in return, spins him around, but that's not the point. Oliver is stronger than he looks; he wonders if he could lift you, could carry you far, if he could have dragged you if it had come to it.

Some nights he wakes up in a fright, your rapid heart rate beneath his fingers and he swears he could hear you whispering for help amid your shallow breathing. Please. Pleading. Begging. You were alive when he'd left you. He presses two finger to Felix's pulse point beside him, and tries to calm his breathing, to focus on Felix's slow, steady heartbeat.

And some days he sneaks into the computer room and curses how long webpages take to load when he looks up statistics on overdoses. Symptoms. Niche forums where he can learn what it felt like from survivors. People luckier than you. Their words, their stories, the recollections of those horrifying sensations stick with him, even as he diligently erases any trace of his browsing history.

And he thinks about how fucking long two hours is.

"Nan's coming over later," Felix tells Oliver idly one Sunday afternoon, "we're having tea of you'd like to join us." They're laying out in the grass, Oliver in the grass finding shapes in the clouds, Felix on his side, chewing on the stick of a lollypop he'd finished an hour ago and gently tracing abstract patterns on Oliver's chest.

"I thought you said your granny haunted Saltburn," when Oliver looks at Felix, he still can't help the way his heartrate picks up. Felix Catton touching him in the most gentle, caring way; he'd never stop feeling lucky for getting here, and never forget what he did to earn it.

Felix's gaze moves with his fingertips, up Oliver's warm, bare chest, twisting two fingers in the delicate chain around his throat. He looks pensive; but shakes his head after a beat.

"Different nan," he says distractedly, plastic straw trapped between his teeth. He tugs the chain experimentally, like he's forgotten it's attached to Oliver at all. He's in his head again; Felix is always in his head nowadays, but there's still often echoes of who he was, echoes of what Oliver has fallen for in the first place.

And he's finding himself falling more and more for this version of Felix too. So he tell himself that it was all worth it.

"Love," all these pet names - Love, Darling, Sweetheart - because if he slips up, tries to call him Fi, Oliver knows he'll only get ice in return, "is everything okay?" Oliver carefully reaches up to cover Felix's large, warm hand by his throat with his own. Felix meets his gaze, and gives a faint smile, an attempt to reassure him when he says he's fine. It doesn't work, but Oliver lets it go, and lets Felix tug him in by his chain for a kiss.

"Tea sounds lovely," Oliver murmurs against his lips.

There's something about this visit has Felix alive and buzzing the he way he hasn't in a very long time. Still he's quiet, but his eyes are bright as he follows behind the staff members setting up tea and biscuits in the garden. He goes through all the DVDs the family has and picks out a stack he thinks would be suitable, making sure they're all perfectly stacked by the DVD player. Oliver floats along behind him, and simply allows himself to admire Felix's energy.

Still, Felix finally takes a moment to breathe right as it becomes noon, and decides to have a bath to freshen up before his guest's arrival; two hours before she'd be here, Felix reminds him.

Two hours.

Oliver feels drawn to his own room. He doesn't allow himself to be alone in Saltburn often anymore, doesn't like the thoughts that crop up when he does. Perhaps it's a kind of punishment, a painful reminder, penance for what he's done.

There's a scrap of paper that he keeps tucked in a book in his nightstand, his own handwriting stuffed amongst a collection of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories, words he'd clung to and scribbled out the minute he'd gotten the chance so he'd never forget them exactly.

From the coroner's report, according to Duncan and Sir James. Time of Death; around 2am. Cause; narcotics overdose, and there were signs of alcohol poisoning.

On the back, he'd written '12:07'.

"Mum and dad both say it was a tragic accident," Felix's voice in the dead of night, the night they'd gotten the full report, riddled with guilt and unspilled tears, betrays his disbelief regarding the sentiment. Felix doesn't talk about how his last words to you were shouted with anger. Felix doesn't talk about how your last words to him were a desperate plea for him through tears. Felix doesn't think that it was an accident; only Oliver knows that he's almost right, just not in the way he thinks. Or dreads. But he has to bite his tongue on the truth, and let the man he loves live with this unjust guilt.

The water starts loudly draining for the tub, and Oliver isn't sure how long he's been sitting on the edge of his bed with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut, but he scrambles to stuff the page back into the book, and toss it back into it's drawer. He can smile again, and admire whatever outfit Felix chooses for the rest of the day, and pretend like he doesn't feel your rapid heartbeat or hear your shallow breathing every time he touches that paper, like he had the night he left you.

With the hour drawing ever closer to two, Felix keeps checking his watch. The minute he deems it to be time, he gives up all pretence of small talk - which had been another thing severely lacking as of late - and snatches Oliver's hand, pulling him through the house. They even outstripped Duncan and the footmen by the door when there comes a firm knock. Its the only time Oliver has ever seen any of the Cattons open the doors for themselves.

And it's not Felix's grandmother.

"Hi, nan," Felix sounds so genuinely happy as he hugs the older woman at the door with a warm smile and your eyes.

Oliver feels like he's frozen, like he's seeing a ghost. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Duncan actually standing aside, giving Felix and your grandmother a quietly fond smile.

"I swear you get taller every time I see you, oh, my lovely boy," she says with a warm laugh that sounds so damn familiar, "or maybe I've been shrinking, you get to my age and people tend to do that," and Felix laughs, actually fucking laughs. Oliver realises it's been a long time since he'd heard Felix give a proper laugh like that. As the hug ends, Felix let's her tuck her arm in his as she continues, "just you wait, one day you'll only be six-foot tall." Another laugh, and Oliver can see how genuine and broad he's smiling, how his eyes shine when their gazes meet. She's surprisingly sprightly for her age, it seems. Oliver recognises your grandmother from your funeral, but hadn't made the connection at the time, so he's surprised when Felix goes to introduce him and her eyes sparkle with recognised.

"Nan, I don't know if you've been properly introduced, but this is -"

"Your Darling, Oliver," and it's said with such warmth; her hug feels almost like home, "you strange, little thing," she laughs, "it's called a hug; are you not a hugger? I should have asked," but she doesn't apologise, nor does she let go for a few more beats. Oliver gives into this moment, closes his eyes tightly and hugs her back.

"Our Darling Oliver," Felix echoes with such admiration, and when Oliver opens his eyes, it's the first time since you'd passed where his gaze has held only the love and pride Oliver had been craving since he'd first laid eyes on him.

Once Nana - she'd insisted Oliver call her that too - lets him go, she tucks her arm in his, and is waving Felix over to her other side, briskly asking where tea was to be held. Duncan leads the way and she fawns over him too, apparently downright overflowing with love for Saltburn and everyone and everything in it. She talks more than she doesn't, but considering who Oliver is and who Felix has become, that suits them both just fine.

It's been too long since they've had tea together, she insists, and doesn't talk about why exactly that would be. She doesn't bring you up, not while you were all making your way through the house, but once she's settled outside, she takes a moment. The way she looks at Oliver in this moment makes him queasy; the smile, that look in her eyes, the way her gaze takes all of him in. A woman, whose time is so precious to her, taking her time to make him feel seen. Felix is quiet, intrigued by the exchange.

Your phantom heart beats beneath Oliver's fingertips.

"You're Y/N's grandma," Oliver says quietly, breaking the tension. Present tense still, they all play pretend. She smiles, and finally leans back. The moment is broken; Felix pours them each a cup of tea. Nana takes a jammy dodger and looks over the gardens with a smile.

"Of course, dear," she says sincerely, taking a bite of the biscuit, but being so eager to talk that she spoke through half a mouthful, "and when they were thirteen they told me I was Felix's grandmother too, because they'd overheard Felix's mum talking about how she hoped they'd get married some day." Felix snorted a laugh at that, turning pink around the ears as he prepared everyone's tea, as if on autopilot.

"Does that -" Oliver begins awkwardly, but he tries to smile, "do you think in time, they would have ask the same of you about me?"

"Considering how they spoke about you," there's a twinkle in your Nan's eyes as she turns back to him, smile knowing, "there's absolutely no doubt in my mind, my dear." All you had ever done was love him; love him and stand in the way of the love he desperately craved.

Oliver watches his tea for a long while, spinning the ornate cup on its matching saucer, while your Nana almost immediately picked hers up and took a tentative sip. Watching out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver notes the way her face goes on a journey of emotions, from pleased, to confused, to a sudden realisation as she looks to her cup.

"I should have asked you how you liked your tea," Felix realises too late, apology in his voice as Nana puts her cup down with a forlorn, yet fond look.

"No, darling, it's nice to know you know how my grandchild liked their tea," and she holds her cup delicately, looking into it's warm, brown depths, "just the same as I always made it for both of us when they were much, much younger."

"I am so sorry to ask," Oliver hears himself blurt out, unable to help himself, "but how does all this love just skip a generation?" It comes out far worse than he intends it to; he means to ask how someone so loving as you come from parents so uncaring, yet how did either of those parents turn out the way they did when the woman in front of him was clearly bursting with just as much love as you had been. Thankfully, instead of being offended, your grandmother laughs.

"My daughter is a wonderful, intelligent, compassionate, impressive woman," she begins, but sighs with unmistakable disappointment, "but my late husband was never capable of even trying to be a father over pursuing his own interests, and it's one of the few traits she actually inherited from him," she shook her head, "and she went on to fall in love with a man who loved her but suffered from that exact same defect," after a beat, she looked up with a warm, reassuring smile, "it's why I love Y/N so fiercely, and so hard," her grin turns soft and adoring, looking between the two boys before her, "the only way my daughter has ever disappointed me is as a mother, but I will never be disappointed in Y/N as my grandchild."

Oliver knows there's tears in his eyes, and Felix has ducked his head. Immediately Nan begins apologising, realising she'd set both of them off. Despite this, Oliver tries to wave her away, insisting it's fine, before he asks about her; he's heard bits and pieces he thinks, but Y/N had always been so cagey about their family. Honestly he's surprised that your grandmother knows so much about him when he feels like he's barely heard about her.

Despite turning out to be an incredibly decorated artist, with paintings selling for more than Oliver's pretty sure his own family's house is worth, your Nana is quick to downplay her own successes, simply insisting that it took decades of hard work. Again, he sees you in her eyes.

"We've got a few up around the house," Felix adds, "most of them actually from before we even met Y/N," and your Nana gives him a shove, as if flustered and embarrassed by the idea. But Felix is beaming, happy to be showing off her accomplishments, just as he always took joy in celebrating you; "there's one in your room."

"What?" Oliver asked, and your grandmother also seemed surprised, though touched by the thought.

"It used to be their room, actually, but Ollie moved in there, so Y/N was staying with me," he explains a little awkwardly, wanting to skim around as many implications as he could. Thankfully she doesn't comment. All she asks is which one. Felix and Oliver both think about the room; Felix about the few pieces of art on the walls, Oliver about your time of death in the drawer. You were alive when he left you -

"That one of the stars, and that person smoking; I think you actually gave it to them as a gift," he frowns for a beat, "for when they turned seventeen, I think?"

Oh, Oliver knows that one. It's enchanting, blues so deep, so rich it's like you could swim in them, stars that seemed to actually glow on the canvas, and the hazy, dark outline of the window in the foreground, and part of a figure against the windowsill, lit cigarette the lone spot of fire, of red or orange, that makes everything else warmer for it.

"That one really surprised me actually," Nana admits, giving Felix a shrew smile, though he only seems confused, "did they ever tell you anything about it?"

"Said you painted it for them; pretty sure I remember them crying about it," he says fondly, reminiscing, "one of the best gifts they ever got, I'm not lying, they say it every year. It's beautiful." Then, as if recalling what she'd actually said, he looks at her curiously, "surprised you?"

Her smile widened into something both knowing, and endeared.

"I asked them to send me a photo, a postcard, their very best drawing, anything, as long as it was their favourite place in the world - do you really not recognise it?" The tea and biscuits are gone by now, the tea portion of their afternoon is coming to a close. Felix shook his head, almost looking like a lost child, as if he was aware there was something he was supposed to be understanding but couldn't quite get it, "Felix, my dear boy, they sent me a photo of you; that's their dorm room window from boarding school."

Felix looks winded, and a bit like he's about to cry.

"Oh you two were impossibly sweet," she reaches over and holds his hand tightly, looking over to Oliver earnestly, "you take care of this dear boy and his heart, you hear me?"

"Yes," Oliver all but trips over his words to agree, "of course, nan." And she gives him a pleased grin.

They move indoors after this, Felix quiet but lending his arm to Nana, which she takes, while she explained that usually you and Felix would visit a few times a year when they were on break, but she thought it would be best to come to Saltburn this time, given the circumstances.

"You should come see the place when you get the chance," she insisted, patting Oliver's hand.

"It's mostly where Y/N was raised before they ended up staying at Saltburn," Felix supplied with a grin, piquing Oliver interest.

"Y/N's childhood home? Oh I have to see that," he grins, and your grandmother grins brightly for a long moment.

"I'm sure Y/N would love that, they can give you the grand tour -" but her face falters, falls, as if she'd just remembered. Sombre silence, the spell is broken. "I'd love to have you around, dear," she corrects, much softer this time.

Felix lets her pick a movie, while Oliver settles himself awkwardly on the sofa. He wants to reach out to Felix, to touch his cheek, feel his boyish smile and know that it's real. But Felix isn't really even looking at him. There's something childlike about his enthusiasm here, about how he sits on his knees on the floor, watching with rapt attention as your grandmother pores over them. He practically glows as she praises his choices. When she picks one, she hands it over and he scrambles on all fours across the short floor space to the DVD player, fumbling with the case like he can't put it in fast enough. There's a softness in your grandmother's eyes as she watches the boy who has seemingly forgotten the man he is; when she looks at Oliver, its like he sees her asking how easy is he to adore, what a beautiful young man.

"You don't mind watching a movie do you, Oliver, dear?" She asks, though it's clearly an afterthought. He's already shaking his head, assuring her it's fine. Felix is already scrambling back, remote in hand. Oliver tries to make space for him on the sofa between himself and your Nana, but he seems content to sit on the floor in front of her, leaning back against the sofa with her knees gently pressed against either of his shoulders. Handing her the remote, Felix twists to give Oliver an expectant smile.

"Come here, mate," he insists, patting his lap, his legs kicked out in front of him. At Oliver's obvious confusion, Felix blinks for a few moments. It's like he's waking from a dream. His face falls, he goes to apologise, strained smile on his face, "sorry, I know that's weird, you don't have to -"

Slowly, Oliver moves from the sofa, sitting beside Felix on the floor. Your grandmother's knee is pressed gently to his back, but he's not quite sure if he's capable of relaxing enough in this moment to mind. She's playing with Felix's hair, having already started the movie.

"This is what you and Y/N would do," Oliver said softly, and rested his head on Felix's shoulder. Felix takes his hand, and laces their fingers together.

"Do you like it when people play with your hair, Oliver?" Your grandmother asks idly.

"Um, sometimes," he answers, still feeling rather awkward. He hears her chuckle warmly.

"It's okay if you don't want me to; Felix likes it so much he lets me braid it when it's long like this."

"Oh, I know Felix loves it," Oliver hears himself agree, "if he were a cat he'd be the kind to purr any time someone scratched between his little cat ears." And while both he and your grandmother share a fond laugh, he can hear Felix's smile in his words. He gives Oliver's hand a squeeze.

"I can't even argue; I wish I could purr right now."

Oliver wants to bottle this moment forever, keep it locked tight in his chest.

But the movie is a long one. One hour and fifty six minutes. Two hours rounded up. A whole two hours. Enough time to fall asleep with his head in Felix's lap the way they both said you used to. He wakes with your heartbeat in his ears, rapid, alive, left for dead.

"You okay buddy?" Felix looks at him with genuine love and concern; it's been such a long time since he'd seen that look, even with everything that had been happening, "I'm here, you're okay," he assured. Over by the television, putting the remote back, your grandmother glances over at the interaction with a warmth that makes Oliver feel queasy in this moment.

And he'll look up from the book, from his notes from the coroner's report crammed in, obscuring the end of one story while The Tell-Tale Heart begins on the other. Felix will be getting ready for bed in the other room, but he won't sleep there. He can't sleep there. Can't sleep in that bed without you, can't move the costumes from that night that hang side by side as a reminder of the hole you'd left behind in his life. Oliver will read approximately two am in his own messy handwriting, and look at the digital clock on his bedside that had read 12:07 when he'd crashed into his room and locked the door and sunk down against it. The numbers had been shining red in the darkness. On the wall behind, that starry night sky and the hint of Felix and his cigarette; a home you'll never return to hung up in the home you'll never truly leave.

He put enough coke in that bottle to kill a fucking lion. He'd given you the bottle. He'd told you he loved you. He'd left you like that.

He knew you were dying.

He'd left you alive.

Two hours.

The book snaps shut. In the silence he thinks he hears your breathing. Please, Ollie, help. Paranoia is a cruel thing, he has to tell himself; paranoia and guilt.

"Can I ask you something?" Felix joins him just as he's putting the book back in it's drawer. Oliver, heart beat racing - never as fast as the memory of yours, oh now it's all he can think about again - nods quickly. Felix sits on the end of the bed, clearly preoccupied, fussing with the buttons of his pyjama shirt. The days are getting cooler now; Oliver misses his bare skin against his, but he still feels too precarious to make such an observation.

"It's about Y/N," Felix swallows, can't meet his eyes, "about that night." Oliver feels his mouth go dry; the worst fucking night of his life. The night he doesn't know if he'll ever figure out if he regrets all he'd done.

He nods again.

"Were you the last person they spoke to?" It's like Felix is forcing himself to not shy away from this moment, giving Oliver the attention he thinks he deserves for such an important question. Then, after swallowing hard, he can't help but drop his gaze, "why," he can barely get it out, there's already a lump in his throat, "didn't they come into the maze too?" Oliver can't even give him that.

You'd been such a mess on your way to the maze, even with Oliver supporting you. Crying, furious, apologetic; you were everything at once. Even when you couldn't bring yourself to go in, everything about you had been sliding from one emotion to the next. But then it had stopped.

"I can wait for Fi here." It's the most sure that he'd seen you all night. It's when he knew. It had to be you, even if he loved you too. He'd never forget how clear your smile was, how sincere you'd urged him into the maze to follow the tail of what he thought was right. The sight of you, waiting, obedient and loyal for your master to return; "I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

Oliver knew before he'd even entered the maze that Felix's return to you would be too late.

In the present, Felix waits too, diligent, expectant. Oliver thinks about lying. Oliver thinks about how the truth will break his heart. Oliver thinks about how close Felix will hold him in his guilt riddled grief.

"I don't think they wanted to interrupt -" Oliver tries to start, but Felix immediately swears, hangs his head.

"Can't fucking believe I did that," he spits, "I was angry, and off my fucking face, sure, but that was fucking low, even for me," he admitted, pitching himself back on the bed, whole face scrunched up with guilt, barking out an upset fuck far louder than the others, prompting to Oliver to tentatively ask what he means. Felix took a moment, as if forcing himself to calm down, before he admits, voice low like he was sharing a secret, "I never even took Eddie into the maze," he sighed. After a beat, he conceded, "no, okay I did, but we didn't do anything - we made out a bit, but -"

"You didn't fuck you ex-boyfriend in the maze," Oliver connected the dots quickly, "but you did fuck your best friend's ex-not-girlfriend who you kind of stole from them, out of spite after kicking them out of your the bed you've been sharing all Summer?"

"Fucking hell, Ollie!" Felix sounds especially wounded when he lays it all out like that.

"Sorry," immediately, Oliver apologises, knot in his stomach when he hears Felix's pained tone. He wonders if this was what it was like for you all through the night of his birthday. Fuck, he can't think about that.

"No, but you're right," Felix admits, eyes finally opening, looking all hurt and vulnerable. Oliver lays himself down next to Felix, going the other way, both of them looking up at the ceiling. Oliver's hands rest on his chest, trying again, softer this time.

"So was a special place to them?" He gets no response other than a guilty nose from Felix, "you think that's why they wanted to wait by the entrance?"

"They wanted to wait for me," Felix says weakly, clearly in his head about that night once more, "didn't want to interrupt even as I was fucking defiling our-" but he catches himself turning bitter again, mouth snapping closed, "after everything I said that night," he mumbles, "fucking hell," he chokes out. The pain in his voice is audible. This is the sweet spot, Oliver thinks.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver whispers amid Felix's faint sobs.

"What?"

"You asked me what their last words were," Oliver told him as softly as he could manage; Felix sits up, eyes wide, distraught, so full of guilt and love and - "only thing they were properly coherent about; waiting for you," Oliver props himself up, reaches out to wipe a tear from Felix's cheek.

"You're not- Ollie, please tell me you're not kidding," Felix practically begs.

"I can wait for Fi here," Oliver reiterates, making sure to meet Felix's gaze as he holds his face, "'s the last thing they said- they said; I'll be here, I promise; I'll wait."

God he can see it in Felix's eyes; it's like the man's entire world crashes down around him. But he clings just as Oliver had hoped he would. As Felix holds him tightly, Oliver can't look at the glaring, red numbers of the clock on his bedside, the constant reminder of the two hours where he could have done something. Two hours and those wouldn't have been your last words.

He looks at the painting. At the stars. At Felix and his cigarette and your idea of what home looks like. The stars look just like they did that night. Just as bright. Oliver closes his eyes. Guilt twists people into shapes they don't often recognise; Oliver just holds Felix, hopes they twist into something together.

Except Oliver's guilt isn't the kind that twists, it's the kind that bites. It's like moths, eating him from the inside out. The guilt leaves him with jagged edges and thoughts he'd rather not be having; there are shades of Felix Catton that he loves, but shame and revulsion bites just behind the guilt as the months pass and he realises more and more this is not what he wanted. This is not the Felix he wanted.

Felix is like an echo, like the sun without it's warmth; he can look just the same, smile, talk, charm just the same if it was required of him, but there was something clearly missing from every interaction. Guests to Saltburn would pull his parents aside and ask if everything was alright. He is, but he is not the same as he once was.

Every day Oliver looks in the mirror and sees something grotesque behind his eyes that no-one else seems to notice. Felix Catton was meant to be the prize, the one who tossed aside everything but the best, the one who made the world fight for his attention, and feel heartbroken when he merely looked the other way. After all this, Felix Catton was not someone Oliver expected to be bored by.

Oliver Quick had lied for, lied to, betrayed the trust of, worked to gain the trust back of, loved, made fall in love with him, and literally murdered the love of his life who he also loved and was themselves also in love with Oliver while still considering Felix the love of their life, just to get a chance to spend his life by Felix fucking Catton's side. He wasn't allowed to not want this.

Felix smiles at him, says he loves him, fucks him, but it's not the dream Oliver once had. Something is always missing. No. Oliver deliberately took that thing away. But he can never admit that, nor can he ever regret that; too far gone. Oliver doesn't want to talk about the past, Felix can't being himself to talk about the future. Trapped together in the present, living lives that no longer feel like enough. Their routine becomes suffocating. Even Venetia, the few times she's stopped back at Saltburn, can barely manage a disdainful look, as if merely inconvenienced by Oliver's presence.

The growing apathy of the estate and it's occupants is exhausting. The cost of this lifestyle has long since surpassed it's value. He's even bored of being haunted. Two hours feels like fucking nothing when the days drag on the way they have been. Behind his eyelids he doesn't see you begging for help, you hiss for him to run, to get out.

He should have listened.

"Ollie, can I show you something I found?" Felix sounds bright today, and though Oliver wants to roll his eyes at the idea of anything in this house being new or novel enough to show off, he smiles back instead.

"'course Felix, what is it?"

Except Felix isn't smiling at him. Felix is looking far more serious and determined, sitting on the edge of their shared bed. Oliver immediately frowns.

"Have you been hiding something from me, Ollie?" It's a trap; a forced confession. Oliver shakes his head, plays dumb. Felix takes a deep breath, the kind that shifts his whole body, his expression remaining firm, "before I show you this thing, I want you to be honest with me; you promised you wouldn't lie to me anymore, you remember?" Oliver tries to lighten the mood, leaning against the window with a warm smile.

"Of course, my lovely Felix, no more lying," he assures, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the way Felix remains quiet.

"What's seven-past-twelve mean?" Felix is watching him closely; too closely. Scrutinising his every move. It's like Oliver's been doused in ice water, even his tongue frozen in his mouth, "and what's it got to do with what happened on the night of your birthday?"

Felix doesn't even look at the night table as he opens it; his gaze is solely on Oliver. It's clear he'd done this before, pulling out the book, flicking through it's pages, and pulling the delicate, incriminating piece of paper out from where it had been safe for so many months.

"Felix, I-"

"What does twelve-oh-seven mean?"

Oliver is the deer again, trapped in Felix's accusatory gaze. For just a moment, Felix's voice drops, pleading with him for some other explanation, that Oliver wasn't somehow caught up in what happened, more closely, more malevolently than he'd ever said -

"Tell me," there's tears in his eyes, the furious kind, the ones where he's desperate to love and hope against all odds, "Oliver," he pleads through gritted teeth, "tell me you didn't know."

"Know what?" Oliver's voice is a hoarse whisper; he knows he is caught, all he has left now is borrowed time and a desperately silver tongue he doesn't know if he can rely on anymore. But Oliver's tragically weak denial is enough for Felix to all but jump to the right conclusion.

In a rush, Felix has Oliver by the collar of his shirt, pressed to the window -

"You knew they were dying and you fucking left them there."

This is the tipping point, the end of whatever good this had been. Felix could hurt him, Felix had hurt countless people on your behalf, he'd seen it himself. But Felix had always been the bleeding heart; you were the one who had to be kept on a leash. Felix could hurt him, could probably maim him for what Oliver was about to say, but he never shared your stomach for true Machiavellianism.

"Of course I knew," Oliver managed coldly, despite Felix attempting to crush all the air from him, "the amount of coke I gave them in that champagne could have killed a rhino-" it needed to be unforgiveable, the confession, so Felix would let him leave, would never want to see him again. He hadn't expected the force of Felix's rage to have the glass behind him give out.

Oliver falls from the second story window into the hedge garden below. Felix's shouting is tearing through the whole house it seemed, making his way downstairs, while Oliver tries to regain his breath and figure out if anything's broken. He's pretty sure it's not, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt as Felix drags him by his feet from the hedges, demanding at the top of his lungs that Oliver get the fuck out of Saltburn.

Every single person who'd been in the house comes outside to view the commotion, to see Oliver struggling to his feet, to get away from Oliver. Elspeth looks helplessly between the two boys, wondering what happened -

"Tell her what you did," Felix demanded, once more getting into Oliver's space, jabbing at his chest, "tell her what the fuck you just told me -" and Oliver's strength isn't insignificant, but Felix is in a fury, flooded with rage and adrenaline, and he grabs the back of Oliver's shirt like he's scuffing a cat, shoving him towards his mother like an offering. Oliver struggles because he feels like he has to, feels wild, feels feral, but it's the most of anything he's gotten from Felix in so long. His mouth stays shut, won't give him the satisfaction of a confession.

"He killed them," Felix doesn't even let Oliver have his power play before he grows bored. He shoves Oliver just a little, grip unyielding despite Oliver's best efforts, like he means nothing to him. Elspeth and Sir James are confused, looking between them both, but Felix isn't done with stringing Oliver up for all of Saltburn to see, "Y/N; he intentionally dosed their drink and left them to die outside the maze."

The Catton parents immediately look crestfallen; it's the first time in months Oliver's felt genuine guilt again. Oliver stops fighting. Felix lets him go. Elspeth asks him if this is true; that heartbroken hope is going to make him sick.

"Just send me away already," he drops his head.

"Oliver," Elspeth's voice is firmer this time; when he looks up, she's stepping towards him, tears in her eyes despite how hard she's clearly trying to hold herself together, "is Felix telling the truth?" Is this it? Is this the final gate to his freedom from Saltburn.

"Yes."

Elspeth slaps him so hard her ring draws blood. Oliver hadn't thought that was even possible, but his head is ringing from the collision.

"Get. Out." She hisses with absolute malice as he's hunched over, clutching his face. Felix is by his mother's side in a heartbeat, arm around her, looking at Oliver with contempt. Behind them, Sir James is ordering Duncan and the other staff members to get Oliver off of the property as quickly as possible, but the look in Elspeth's eyes is burning, "this is my family, you monster."

At first, it almost feels worth it to leave Saltburn. To leave the Cattons and their bullshit and their games behind. He thinks he knows them well enough to trust that they don't want the kind of scandal a murder on their hands would be, and for the most part, he's right.

It's not the Cattons who haunt him after Saltburn, though they may be pulling the strings. It's you. It's you sitting on Felix's bed in his dorm room reading every single detail of Michael Gavey's file with threats on your tongue. It's the casual way you talked about being able to access his academic files to change his grades if he wanted. It's you, tipsy at Saltburn, admitting that you got Eddie transferred without his consent to a university on the other side of the country after he cheated on Felix with Venetia.

There's no place for Oliver to return to at Oxford... He's not entirely surprised about that, however, there's also apparently no record of him ever attending. Any calls or enquiries he makes are shut down with the kind of immediacy that seemed reserved for shows about government conspiracies. When applications open for other universities, it seems websites shut down the minute he fills out his damn name. Nowhere in the world seems willing to consider him.

Having him audited seems like overkill. When it happens the next year, despite no employer willing to even consider him for an interview, the existential dread of his situation sets in.

Felix never had the stomach to finish the job; he'd let you haunt Oliver forever.

#felix catton x reader x oliver quick #saltburn x reader #felix catton x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton imagine #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #oliver quick x reader #oliver quick x you #oliver quick x y/n #oliver quick imagine #head heart hand fic #manic writer

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