#so i got him to stand up and immediately clicked to ask again

[deadpoetskin]

DADDY, YOU DUMMY — II

SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship.

And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader, Original Female Character TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers

🜼 :: had to cut it short again 'cause it was getting too long but at least this time there's mentions of the reader. i think by next chapter she'll finally have a scene

🜼 :: lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part three

At some point during the early hours, Tim had resorted to Google.

what do you feed a four-year-old for breakfast 

how to talk to a kid who thinks you’re their dad 

time travel psychological trauma in toddlers

The results weren’t helpful. A few parenting blogs, some clickbait titles, one academic article about multiverse theory, and a Buzzfeed quiz titled Which Justice League Member Should Babysit Your Kid? (He got J’onn.)

He clicked none of them.

So now he sat there, elbows on his knees, his cold coffee abandoned on the nightstand, staring into the quiet stretch of morning as if it might offer answers.

The rustle of sheets pulled Tim out of his thoughts.

He turned just in time to see Gia stir, shifting beneath the covers. Her tiny brows scrunched first, nose wrinkling like something in her dream hadn’t gone her way. Then her fingers tightened briefly around the Red Robin plush before her eyes fluttered open.

Sleep-heavy and glassy, they blinked once.

Then again.

Her gaze scanned the unfamiliar room. The heavy curtains, the warm Gotham morning light peeking through cracks in the blinds, the shelves lined with books and tech Tim hadn’t moved in years. She looked up—and her eyes landed on him.

“Daddy?” she mumbled, voice rough and soft from crying and sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m here.”

He stood and moved to the edge of the bed and sat beside her, careful not to crowd her. Tim instinctively leaned forward just as she threw herself at him, arms flinging around his neck.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

She considered this, lips pursing. “Only if it’s not green.”

He blinked. “Green?”

“Uncle Dickie made me ‘healthy pancakes’ once and they were green and yucky.”

Tim almost laughed. Almost.

“No green pancakes,” he promised.

“Okay.” She nodded, decisive. Then, after a pause—“Do you have work with Grampa already? Can you stay for breakfast?”

“…Yeah. Of course, I can.”

Gia had never let go of him.

She clung like ivy, one arm still around his neck even as Tim carefully stood up and carried her down the hallway. Her Red Robin plush dangled from her hand, bumping softly against his shoulder as they moved.

The manor was quiet in the early morning hush. Pale sunlight slipped through the tall windows, catching dust motes and the edges of picture frames on the walls.

Tim padded barefoot into the kitchen, and to no one’s surprise, Alfred was already there.

A full spread had been laid out. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, toast—classic comfort fare. There was even a mug waiting for Tim on the counter, the exact way he liked it. No one had to ask.

Gia perked up the moment the smell hit her nose. Her head lifted from Tim’s shoulder.

“Is that pancakes?” she asked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

Alfred turned just slightly, a faint warm smile. “Indeed it is, Miss Gia.”

“Yay,” she whispered, like it was a secret only she got to enjoy.

Tim eased her into a chair at the table, where a small plate already waited—cut-up pancakes in tidy triangles, syrup in a ramekin on the side. A glass of milk stood next to it.

She beamed. “Grandpa Alfred, you remembered!”

Tim blinked. Alfred, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Of course I did.”

Gia immediately dug in, humming around a mouthful.

Tim didn’t sit right away. He lingered by the counter, fingers wrapped tight around his coffee mug, watching her like the universe might yank her away at any second.

She was so at home. So certain.

“Daddy, sit with me,” she said suddenly, patting the seat beside her with a syrup-sticky hand.

He moved like gravity had called him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

Tim had just taken a sip of his new coffee—finally warm—when he heard it:

Bare feet on hardwood. Light, casual, familiar.

A moment later, Dick stepped into the kitchen.

Hair still damp from a shower, his shirt barely on, he looked every bit like someone who’d woken up early but hadn’t quite decided to start the day yet.

And then he saw them.

Tim, hunched slightly over his coffee, still sleep-rumpled. Gia, swinging her legs and eating pancake triangles with both hands. And Alfred, calmly refilling the syrup dish like this was the most normal morning in the world.

“…Whoa,” Dick said, voice low. “Okay. It’s real.”

Gia looked up, her eyes lighting up instantly. “Uncle Dickie!”

“Hey, peanut,” he said, recovering quickly as he moved to ruffle her hair. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, mouth full. “Had dreams about waffles.”

“Those are the best dreams,” he agreed seriously, then glanced at Tim. “You holding up?”

Tim didn’t answer immediately.

He looked exhausted. Eyes shadowed, hair a mess, posture just slightly caved in—as if the weight of this tiny, syrup-sticky girl had collapsed every wall he’d spent years building.

“I’m still...processing,” Tim muttered.

Dick sat across from them and grabbed a piece of toast from a platter. “Processing’s good. Just means your brain hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.”

Tim raised a brow. “That was dangerously close to being profound.”

Dick grinned. “I contain multitudes.”

Gia reached across the table suddenly, poking Dick’s sleeve with her fork. “Uncle Dickie?”

“Yeah, munchkin?”

“Can you show me cartwheels later? Mommy says you do the best ones.”

Tim stilled. Dick hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“You bet,” he said brightly. “Only if I get a high five first.”

Gia offered one without hesitation, syrup and all.

Dick slapped it with a mock wince. “Sticky. I love it.”

She giggled, proud of herself.

Tim watched them, something unreadable in his eyes.

His fingers curled slowly around the handle of his coffee mug. She was smiling now, already bouncing in her seat, reaching for a piece of fruit with the same fork she’d used to poke her uncle.

She looked so comfortable. Like she belonged here. Like she’d always belonged.

And Tim couldn’t stop wondering what else she knew

Gia, as it turned out, had quite the memory for a toddler.

She chattered between bites, lips sticky with syrup and cheeks round with food, recounting moments with the ease of someone who had lived them a dozen times over.

By then, the others had already joined them—drawn in by the scent of coffee and warm food, or more likely, by sheer curiosity.

Jason came first, holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. He took one look at Gia and deadpanned, “So the tiny intruder’s still here. Cool.” He poured himself coffee like this was completely normal.

Bruce sat silent at the head of the table, still nursing a half-drunk cup of coffee, his expression unreadable—but his eyes never strayed far from the child.

Cass, notably, had shown no shock at all. She’d walked into the dining room, looked once at the small girl confidently seated, nodded like that made perfect sense, and joined her at the table. She didn’t speak. But Gia beamed at her like she’d been waiting for her to show up. She leaned into Cass’s side with the kind of ease that didn’t need permission—like she already knew she’d be welcome there.

None of them interrupted. They just listened as Gia spoke

She talked like they’d all been there—like every story she shared belonged to them too. About a greenhouse with Uncle Dickie and Aunt Star where they got stuck in the gift shop because of a thunderstorm. About Uncle Jason teaching her to sneak cookies without letting Grandpa Alfred know and failing cause Alfred always knows. 

The stories didn’t stop.

“Mommy said I could wear the sparkly boots to the concert even though Daddy said they were too shiny but then she said ‘let her shine, Tim’ so I did and I was the sparkliest one there!”

She swung her legs, stabbed strawberries with her fork, and kept her little voice bubbling on, as if none of them were blinking at her like she was some impossible dream they'd collectively conjured overnight.

Tim stirred his coffee absentmindedly, not realizing he hadn’t taken a sip during the whole time she was telling her story.

Dick looked over. “You alright, Tim?”

Tim blinked.

He didn’t respond at first. Not when his brain was still catching up.

Because these weren’t just made-up stories or wishful dreams. They were specific. Detailed. Real. Things that hadn’t happened yet—but could. Things that felt possible in a terrifying, time-looped kind of way.

Every word she said felt like a pin pushing into his chest.

He wasn’t just in her stories—he was the center of them. The axis of a life he didn’t remember living. One where he was a father. A partner. Someone whole.

He was watching her—watching the ease with which she existed, how she claimed space with all the confidence of someone raised here. Not a hint of fear. No trace of uncertainty.

Just this boundless, messy, syrup-covered confidence that she was loved and known.

It was both comforting and terrifying.

“No,” he said honestly. “Not even a little.”

Gia kept going. “And one time, Auntie Cass gave me sparkly bandaids even though I wasn’t bleeding. And Uncle Dami said I was faking but I wasn’t!”

“Do you remember anything else?” Tim asked finally, voice low. Careful. He kept his tone light, like he was trying not to spook her.

Gia nodded, mouth full. Then, after a beat, she added, “Lots of stuff. Like when you tried to make breakfast but you almost set the kitchen on fire ‘cause Mommy distracted you by kissing your nose.”

Gia licked a smear of syrup from her thumb and cheerfully reached for another strawberry.

“And then,” she continued, swinging her legs, “Mommy said we could go to the Grampa’s party in Grampa’s big building after your work but only if I wore the green dress, ‘cause the purple one had peanut butter on it—”

She popped the berry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully, oblivious to the silence that had settled over the room like mist.

Dick blinked slowly. “Grampa’s big building,” he repeated under his breath, shooting Bruce a look.

Gia didn’t notice. She swallowed and kept going. “And I said I wanted the sparkly shoes too, but Mommy said they were too loud and they’d go click-clack click-clack on the floors and Grampa would do the forehead rub thing—”

She demonstrated with both hands pressed to her tiny forehead, dragging down her face in a perfect mimic of Bruce Wayne’s frustration.

Bruce blinked. Jason outright wheezed, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Tim cleared his throat. “Grampa’s party?”

“Uh-huh! With all the people and the music and the sparkly lights! And I got to dance with Uncle Dickie, and Uncle Jay said I was better than him.”

Jason blinked. “Well, that tracks.”

“Hey—” Dick began indignantly, but Gia was already chattering again, fork waving midair.

Bruce hadn’t said a word. Not since he’d walked in and taken his seat at the head of the table—coffee cooling untouched in front of him. He’d been still, observing her the way one might observe a threat, or a miracle. With precision. With care. With silence.

Until now.

“Gia,” he said evenly.

The little girl looked up immediately, bright-eyed. “Yes, Grampa?”

Bruce didn’t flinch at the name. Didn’t correct her. He only leaned forward, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

“You said your mother brought you to my building before,” he began carefully. “What else do you remember about that night?”

Gia tilted her head, lips pursed in thought. “Umm… It was cold. Mommy made me wear tights, and I don’t like tights ‘cause they itch. But she wore her shiny earrings. The dangly ones! And her green dress with the flowers.”

The others exchanged glances—but none of them interrupted.

Bruce nodded once. “ Do you remember what your mommy looked like that night, sweetheart?”

“Oh. Yes!” Gia lit up again. “She was really pretty. Daddy hated it ‘cause he said too many people were gonna stare and he’d have to deal with it all night.”

She furrowed her brows, lips pursed as she thought hard—really hard—like the memory was tucked somewhere behind her eyes and she just had to reach the right corner to find it. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her plate, forgotten syrup smudging her skin as she swung her legs under the table in slow, distracted arcs.

Everyone stayed quiet. Watching.

The little girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I have a picture!”

Tim sat up straighter. So did everyone else.

“It’s kind of crumply,” Gia went on, setting her fork down and scooting toward the edge of her seat, stubby legs reaching for the floor. “But I keep it in my bag ‘cause Mommy says memories are treasures, and this one is my favorite.”

Her eyes scanned the room like she expected her bag to just be sitting there waiting.

“Grandpa Alfred?” she asked, already halfway down, voice small but sure. “Do you know where my bag is? It's black and small and Mommy says I’m not ‘posed to lose it ‘cause it has important stuff.”

Tim was already pushing back his chair to help, but Alfred, ever composed, stepped forward with a slight bow of the head. “Of course, Miss Gia. I’ll retrieve it for you.”

He turned without delay, his steps measured and quiet, shoes barely making a sound against the manor floor. She nodded, satisfied, and hopped fully to the ground with a small thud, bare feet pattering against the cold kitchen tile as she followed him out toward the hallway.

The rest of the family remained at the table—still, silent, watching.

The air in the room had shifted—expectant, tense—not like before when everything had been speculation. This felt like proof was about to walk back into the room.

Tim sat forward, elbows on the table now, eyes fixed on the doorway where she'd gone. His heart was beating too loud in his ears.

“That’s it?” Jason muttered, almost disbelieving. “All we had to do to get proof was ask her what her mom looked like?”

Damian scoffed softly, a sharp exhale through his nose. “Tt.”

But it was Dick who responded, quieter, more serious than usual. “She ended up crying when Tim asked her last night,” he said, eyes not leaving the empty doorway where Gia and Alfred had disappeared. “She thought her dad forgot her mom. We couldn’t have asked her then.”

They fell into silence again.

And then—footsteps.

They heard her before they saw her—Gia’s voice chiming softly, like a skipping stone over still water.

“—I told you, I didn’t lose it! Mommy says I’m very responsible now.”

Alfred’s gentle hum of agreement followed, along with the quiet rustle of something being held close.

Alfred returned, and beside him, Gia clutched a small, black bag to her chest like it was sacred.

“I found it!” she announced.

Technically, Alfred had—but no one corrected her.

She marched over to Tim first, standing in front of him with wide, expectant eyes. “Wanna see it now?”

He nodded, kneeling again to her level like he had the day before. “Yeah, sweetheart. Show me.”

She unzipped it with both hands, rummaging with syrup-sticky fingers. Tiny fingers fished past a red crayon, a lollipop, a bunch of stickers, and—finally—carefully, reverently, she pulled out a folded piece of paper.

The edges were worn, the glossy paper soft from how many times it had been handled.

“I showed it to Uncle Bart too,” she added proudly. “He said it was cute, but he’s a weirdo.”

She held the picture out.

Tim’s hand hovered. He didn’t even breathe as he took it.

Jason craned to look over his shoulder. Damian leaned closer. Dick and Cass watched like the moment might crack reality in half.

Tim unfolded the picture.

And stopped breathing entirely.

The image was unmistakable:

Tim Drake, older—maybe late thirties—hair slightly longer, wearing casual clothes and soft laugh lines around his eyes. One hand rested around the waist of a woman. She had a blinding smile, radiant even in a still image, and was kissing Tim on the cheek while their daughter stood between them, holding both their hands.

They looked happy. Tangled up in each other in that easy, familiar way that only comes with years of shared mornings and missed bedtimes and long conversations after the house is quiet.

Gia looked up and smiled brightly. “See?” she said proudly. “That’s Mommy. That’s you, Daddy. That’s me.”

Then Bruce, his voice quieter than expected. “May I?”

Gia blinked up at him, then carefully handed it over. “You have to hold it nice,” she warned. “It’s special.”

Bruce took the paper with the same care he’d use for an ancient artifact.

“Mommy’s the coolest,” Gia nodded proudly, as if that were the most obvious truth in the world.

“She’s got, like, a billion fans. She writes songs and yells at the camera people when they take pictures of me.”

Having handed off her photo like it was a royal decree, she turned and padded back toward the table. She got as far as standing in front of her chair before pausing, then turned around and lifted her arms.

Still a little stunned, Tim blinked once, then pushed out of his chair and lifted her gently back into hers. She nestled back into the seat, grabbing her half-eaten pancake like nothing life-changing had just occurred.

Gia had finished breakfast by then—her plate mostly empty, a few strawberries taken from Dick’s still clutched in one hand. She was now tucked into the corner of the room near the window, utterly engrossed in a stack of napkins she was folding and tearing with focused precision. Cass sat beside her on the floor, legs crossed and relaxed, watching her with a serene calm that somehow soothed the toddler’s endless energy into something more careful, more quiet. Every so often, Cass handed her a new napkin. Gia would accept it with a thank you.

At the table, the picture sat in the center. The boys had unconsciously huddled around it now, shoulders nearly touching as they leaned in over the image. 

Bruce stood just behind them, arms crossed, watching in silence. His brows were furrowed, eyes sharp—not skeptical, not yet—but calculating. Gathering.

Dick gave a low whistle as he leaned in for a better look. “She’s certainly pretty.”

“She looks loud,” Jason added. “And sparkly. You’ve got a type.”

Tim didn’t even argue.

Damian, however, remained glaring at the photo like it personally offended him. “That still doesn’t tell us who she actually is. Do you recognize her?”

There was a pause. Then Tim, still staring at the image, nodded slowly.

“I know her,” Tim said quietly.

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” Dick asked, blinking. “How—?”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the photo. “I mean… I know of her,” he amended, his voice low and careful. “She looks older here. A little different, but—I’m sure it’s her.”

He leaned in slightly, studying the image again, as if confirming it for himself a second time.

“We met a couple years ago—briefly—at a Wayne Entertainment event in Metropolis. It was just a passing moment. Polite conversation, nothing else. I wouldn’t have remembered it now if not for—” he hesitated, then looked toward the corner where Gia was playing. “If not for her.”

Jason blinked. “She’s a celebrity?”

Tim nodded slowly. “Singer. Songwriter. Definitely has fans. She’s kind of a rising name these days. Not a global household name yet, but she’s rising fast. And… she’s talented. I remember that.”

He didn’t add what he was thinking—that she’d seemed kind. Grounded, even in a room full of power suits and flashing cameras.

“She was different than the rest of the crowd that night,” he murmured. “And now… this.”

“She kinda does look familiar,” Dick said, frowning as he leaned in for a better look. “Kori might have mentioned her once.

“She’s one of the performers scheduled for the Martha Wayne Foundation benefit concert next weekend,” Bruce added. His voice was unreadable. “I remember reviewing the final list with Lucius.”

“Gia said her mom writes songs” Dick said slowly. “That tracks”

Jason leaned back in his chair, letting out a low whistle. “So let me get this straight—your mysterious maybe-future kid has a mom who’s a rising star that you only met once?”

Bruce spoke again, voice even. “I think by now it’s confirmed she’s from the future.”

Jason huffed. “Yeah, no kidding. Kid talks like she’s got a lifetime of memories, and none of 'em match our timeline.”

Dick exhaled. “Man, we really don’t get normal Tuesdays, do we?”

At the edge of the room, Gia giggled—still absorbed in her napkin-folding game with Cass, blissfully unaware of the small storm gathering around the table and the old photo that might just change everything.

ARCHIVE PART ONE | PART THREE

🜼 :: @tvnile @rainschnael @a-taken-url @federalprison78-4 @kopivm

divider: @enchanthings

[uhuhmaries]

Congressman Barnes | B.B.

NSFW VERY NOT SAFE AARGHHHHHHHH

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

You only went to that bar because your roommate convinced you to.

Said you needed a “celebration fuck” before your big girl job started tomorrow. Said the whole “capable working woman” thing really gets guys going. You thought she was full of shit, but you humored her.

And apparently, she was right. Because not even two martinis in, you saw him.

Dark suit, sleeves rolled up, forearms a story of veins and tension. Thick thighs spread confidently at the stool. A few silver streaks in his hair. Gloved hand cradling a tumbler of whiskey. Eyes like winter pressed into steel.

And when his gaze met yours, the rest of the room melted.

You don’t remember exactly who made the first move. But you remember what he said.

“You look like trouble. I'm James.”

“You look like you can handle it. You don't need to know my name.”

That grin—wolfish and worn, like he’d been around long enough to know exactly how this would end. And still, you went with him. Into the backseat of a car he didn’t have to drive. Into an apartment too clean for how messy the night became.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, voice low and rough, fingers curling under your top.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can do anything.”

Clothes scattered. Hands greedy. Mouths reckless.

But you jolted a little when you felt the cold metal against your thigh. You hadn’t noticed before.

His vibranium arm. He stilled immediately. “You okay?”

You looked up, chest rising fast, heart racing harder. And nodded.

“It’s... kinda hot.”

That got a chuckle out of him. One that turned into a groan as you dragged his hand lower.

That arm pinned both your wrists above your head as he fucked you slow, hips grinding deep, letting you feel every inch of him like he wanted to brand you from the inside.

“Sweet thing like you shouldn’t be walkin’ into bars alone,” he murmured as you came undone. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“Already did.”

You left without saying anything while he's in the bathroom. No number. No name. Just a sore body and a throbbing memory.

“Good,” you told yourself. “Clean break. One and done.”

Until the next morning.

Your name gets called in a room that smells like mahogany and politics. You're in your new pencil skirt, your hair twisted all professional, a planner clutched to your chest.

You glance up. And the world stops again.

There he is. James. In a fitted suit and flag pin. Standing tall and composed, face unreadable, eyes sharp as hell.

“Congressman Barnes,” your new boss says brightly, shaking his hand. “This is our new executive assistant. Just started this morning.”

Congressman Barnes. He was just James to you last night. James Barnes? It didn’t even sound real then—like a fake name someone gives when they don’t want to be found.

But now? Now it is real. And so is the weight of the moment.

James looks at you. You look at him.

And the fact that he doesn’t so much as flinch?

Almost worse than if he had.

“Just... Bucky,” he says smoothly, lips twitching with a secret. “Nice to meet you.”

Your throat goes dry. Bucky? As in the Bucky?

You’ve heard things—rumors, history, whispers about vibranium and war—but you were never into that world. Never the type to care about super-soldiers or whatever kind of myth they made him into.

But now it all clicks. The arm. You’d known there was something different about it—but vibranium?

Jesus Christ.

Still, you clear your throat and manage a smile.

“Likewise.”

You avoid him the rest of the week. You try. But you feel his eyes on you in every hallway.

Every time you bend over a file drawer. Every time you pass papers across the table.

He barely says anything. But when he does?

“Missed a button, sweetheart.” “You always this eager in the mornings?” “You still sore, or do I need to remind you how to behave?”

And the worst part? You want him to. You ache for him to.

It finally snaps a week later.

You’re gathering folders from the empty conference room late afternoon when the door clicks shut behind you.

You whip around—and he's there.

Loose tie, rolled sleeves, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

“Congressman—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Why’d you leave?”

You blink.

“That night.” He steps closer. “You ran off like it meant nothing.”

“I thought—” Your throat tightens. “I thought it was just a one-time thing.”

His gaze hardens, jaw ticking. “So you were raised without manners, then?”

Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low in your belly.

“Was I supposed to leave my number on your nightstand?” You ask quietly, pulse quick. “Would you have even used it?”

That grin again—slow, dangerous, amused.

“I would've appreciated a goodnight and a proper goodbye,” he says, voice like velvet and gravel. “Didn’t realize the modern world made it standard to fuck and vanish.”

And then he’s on you.

He crowds you against the table, hand on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. His metal fingers glide down your spine, teasing the zipper of your skirt.

“Still wet for me?” He murmurs into your throat. “All week you’ve been walking around like a fuckin’ temptation. Acting like you don’t know how good this cock made you feel.”

You whimper. “I remember.”

“Bet you do.”

The hand on your waist tightens. He flips your skirt up. No warning.

No panties. You've been expecting, indeed.

“Christ,” he groans. “Knew you were a fuckin’ tease.”

His flesh fingers dip between your legs. Find you slick. Pulsing.

You gasp, gripping the table as he sinks two fingers into you.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “Still so tight.”

He fucks you open on his hand, curling just right, until your knees buckle.

Then he pulls away.

You whine, turning your head, lips parted in protest—but he’s already undoing his belt.

“Gonna give you what you’ve been begging for every time you walk by my office,” he says, voice gone to gravel. “Gonna fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in. Let you remember who you belong to now.”

He bends you over the conference table. Drives into you in one long, deep stroke.

You cry out, clutching the wood. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you adjust. Because you don’t want to. You want him to take.

“Doesn’t really qualify as a one-night stand anymore, does it?” He growls in your ear, hips pounding into you, the cool pressure of his arm gripping your waist.

You shake your head, tears prickling.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, sir.”

He groans. “Fuckin’ love the way you say that.”

His cock hits every perfect spot, thick and hot and demanding. His hand slides under your blouse, yanking your bra down, teasing a nipple until you sob.

“Just know.... that I don’t share,” he growls. “Not with anyone. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Yours.”

He fucks into you harder, rougher.

“You come when I say.”

You nod, breath ragged. “Yes, sir—please—”

And when he finally says the word, you break apart around him—tight and shaking. He follows with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, cock buried deep as he spills inside you like it’s a claim.

Not a release. A mark.

You're both a mess. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Skin flushed. Sweat slick between your thighs.

He tugs your head back by your jaw, eyes locked on yours—like he’s daring you to run again.

“That what you’ve been aching for all week?” He growls, his body still pressed tight against yours. “Saw me once and couldn’t stop thinking about getting fucked like this?”

Your voice is hoarse when you answer, trying to steady yourself. “I work here now. I was just trying to do my job.”

It’s a weak lie and you both know it.

He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Sure.”

He zips up without breaking eye contact.

Straightens your skirt with rough, deliberate hands. Like dressing a doll he owns.

Then he presses a hard kiss to your cheek—not tender. Not sweet. Just final.

“Lunch tomorrow. Be ready.”

You blink. “You don’t even have my—”

He’s already pulled your phone from your bag. Fingers flying over the screen.

“Congressmen get access to a lot of things, sweetheart.”

You stare, stunned, breath still catching.

He pockets your phone. Brushes your neck with his thumb like he’s checking the pulse he just wrecked.

Then leans in, voice low and certain against your skin.

“And you?” “You get used to this.”

[vivalasthedas]

nothing will make you realize how broken, and how bad, the sims 4 gameplay is quicker than trying to play the sims 4 without mods.

[gf2bellamy]

love — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer accidentally reveals your secret relationship by kissing you in front of the whole team—oh, and blurting out “I love you” for the very first time, too. content warnings: secret relationship , mention of a case , spencer being very worried about the unsub and case but its mostly fluff !! a/n: haiiii !!!!! hope you didn't miss my secret relationship fanfics too much </3 also i finished writing this like 10 minutes ago but i was too excited not to post it

Things were heating up.

You were getting closer, so close, to catching the unsub. The map was sprawled across the table in front of you, dotted with red circles.You traced another location with your marker, murmuring quietly under your breath, a habit you'd most definitely picked up from your boyfriend.

Spencer was nearby, slouched in a chair, mumbling to himself in a similar fashion. His brows were furrowed. You could tell this case was hitting him harder than most. Maybe it reminded him of something, or someone. Whatever it was, it weighed on him, and that meant it weighed on you, too.

You took care of him as much as you could, though it wasn’t easy with your relationship still hidden from the team. Last night, you’d slipped into his hotel room after everyone else had turned in, finding him already buried in files. You didn’t ask if he was okay, he wouldn’t have answered honestly. Instead, you’d wordlessly sat beside him on the bed, running your fingers through his hair until his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Want to cuddle?” you’d murmured, and he hadn’t even hesitated before nodding, letting you pull him down against the pillows. He’d tucked himself under your chin, his breath warm against your collarbone, and you’d held him, fingers carding gently through his curls until his breathing evened out.

Of course, sneaking out at 6 a.m. had been its own mission. It took you twenty minutes to escape Spencer’s sleepy, koala-like grip. He kept murmuring thank-yous against your skin, kisses trailing from your collarbones to your jaw, like punctuation marks of affection. It had taken everything in you not to crawl back into bed with him.

Now, back in the briefing room, you had even more reason to catch this unsub.

"I got it." Spencer’s voice broke through the silence.

His head snapped up, and the words came pouring out of him like a dam breaking. Facts, patterns, dates, connections. The rest of the team, who had been working in silence, immediately turned their attention to him, hanging onto every word.

“Okay. Morgan and Reid—I want you with me,” Hotch announced the moment Spencer finished unraveling the unsub’s pattern.

Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, sending the coordinates to their phones in a flurry of clicks. This was one of those rare, high-stakes cases where even she had to join them in the field. “Location’s live on your devices,” she said, her usual bubbly tone subdued. Hotch gave her a curt nod of thanks before striding toward the door, Morgan right behind him.

Spencer, however, seemed miles away as he snatched his brown coat from the back of his chair. His mind was already elsewhere, locked onto the unsub. Then, just before following the others, he turned to you.

You were still standing by the board, capping the dry-erase marker and watching him with a soft, worried smile. He seemed exhausted.

“Be careful,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked, as if snapping back into himself for just a second, and mumbled, “I’ll be okay. I’ll see you later.”

His fingers caught your chin, thumb beneath your jaw, index curled gently under your bottom lip. Time stuttered. His kiss was fleeting, achingly tender, and then his lips brushed yours again as he whispered, "I love you," like it was the simplest truth in the world. And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Silence.

Absolute, suffocating silence.

A pin drop would’ve echoed like a gunshot.

“Oh. my. god.” Garcia’s shriek could’ve shattered glass.

Your fingers flew to your lips, still tingling from the ghost of his kiss. The rest of the team was frozen, Rossi’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline, JJ’s mouth was slightly open, and Emily looked like she was torn between laughing and demanding an immediate explanation.But you barely registered any of it.

Because Spencer had just said I love you. For the first time.And he’d done it in front of everyone.

Garcia was already flailing her hands, rapid-fire questions spilling out of her“Since when? How did I not know? Oh my god, the touching, the lingering looks, the—!”

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice, playing over and over in your mind like a broken record.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your face burned. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t even notice Emily waving her hand in front of your face until her voice cut through the haze. “Earth to lovergirl,” she teased, grinning.

Blinking, you turned toward the team, all of them staring at you with varying degrees of shock, amusement, and sheer anticipation.

“What?” you managed, voice still breathless.

“That’s all you have to say?” JJ asked, plopping onto the edge of the desk in disbelief. She grabbed a Cheeto from an open bag, crunching loudly. Garcia was still gaping at you, hands pressed dramatically over her mouth. Behind her colorful glasses, her eyes were massive. Rossi sipped his coffee slowly, clearly judging the entire situation.

“Huh?” you repeated dumbly.

Emily’s smirk softened just a fraction. “You okay?”

You stared at her, still dazed, before muttering, “He said ‘I love you.’”

Another beat of silence. Garcia gasped. “That was his first time saying it?” Her hands flew away from her mouth, gripping the sides of her head like she might explode.And then chaos. Again.

“Oh my god—”

“Since when—”

“Wait, wait, wait—that was the first—”

You spent what felt like hours fielding an avalanche of questions, barely able to catch your breath between them. At first, you tried to dodge them, played dumb, gave vague smiles, busied yourself with the files on the table, but it was pointless. Garcia saw straight through you, pinning you with a look that practically screamed, You’re not getting out of this, sweetheart.

So you caved. “Six months,” you said quietly. There was a loud collective gasp. Garcia clutched her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. ( She was. ) “Six?! Six whole months? And you didn’t say anything?”

You winced. “We were trying to be subtle.”

“You failed!” she cried, throwing her hands up.

Emily laughed. “Okay, next—who made the first move?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. “He did.” Another round of dramatic gasps echoed around the room. Even Rossi raised his brows, murmuring, “Didn’t peg him for the bold one.”

“He’s… not. Not usually,” you admitted with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress. “But with me… I guess he was.”

And on it went, question after question, as if they were making up for six months of missed gossip in a single sitting. It was messy, chaotic, borderline embarrassing, but it was also kind of nice. Being known. Being happy. Then came the final question.

JJ’s voice was quieter than the others, softer. “Do you love him too?”

You froze.For a moment, the whole room seemed to hold its breath. Even Garcia stopped typing. You looked at JJ, then down at your hands, then back up again. And nodded.

Garcia screeched, practically launching herself out of her chair. “I knew it!” she howled.

Emily beamed, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes, and even Rossi let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like a proud uncle.You were a little overwhelmed, okay, maybe a lot, but underneath the chaos, you also felt a sheer amount of happiness that you've never felt before.

Hotch interrupted the moment by calling Garcia. “Unsub’s in custody. We’re on our way back. Everyone’s okay.”

Your breath left you in a rush. Spencer was okay. Your heart, though, it hadn’t quite gotten the message. It was still thundering in your chest, hammering against your ribs with every second that ticked by.

The others must’ve noticed the way you kept glancing at the door, because JJ finally nudged you gently toward it. “Go wait. We’ll clean up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Garcia waved a dismissive hand. “Honey, please. You’ve got heart-eyes so intense it’s blinding. Go stand dramatically in the doorway like you’re in a movie or something. We’ve got this.”And so you did.

You found yourself hovering in the doorway of the conference room, a half-hearted folder in your hands, pretending to sort through paperwork as you stared through the glass. Watching. Waiting.

Then you heard it, the sound of the SUV pulling up outside. Every head in the room snapped up like it was choreographed. Honestly, for a team of professional FBI agents, they acted like a bunch of high schoolers most of the time.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sure enough, all of them were watching you, wide-eyed and waiting like you were the final act in a romantic drama. You rolled your eyes with a half-smile, dropped the stack of files onto the table and walked out of the conference room.

As you left, you heard Emily mutter, “Garcia, don’t follow her.”You didn’t wait to hear the response.

The moment you reached the main hallway of the precinct, the doors opened and there he was.

Spencer stepped inside, his curls slightly mussed, cheeks flushed from the cold, and as soon as his eyes found yours, he smiled. That gentle, crooked smile that always made you smile.You barely registered Derek behind him, hand gripping the cuffed unsub and throwing you a confused look when you didn’t even acknowledge him. Even Hotch glanced over in surprise as you made a beeline for Spencer.

“Hey—wait, what—?” Spencer managed, eyes widening as you grabbed his arm and all but dragged him down the corridor.

You shoved open the nearest empty office, tugged him inside, and closed the door firmly behind you, leaning back against it.

“Did you mean it?” you asked, your voice urgent, breath a little uneven.

Spencer blinked. “Mean what?”

You stared at him in stunned disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he said again, completely baffled. “What did I do? Did Morgan tell you about what happened in the field? I know I wasn’t supposed to go near the unsub without backup, but I swear, I had it under control—”He started to ramble, hands gesturing as he pouted in that way he did when he was simultaneously nervous and a little too proud of himself. “He had a weapon, but I de-escalated him. You would’ve been proud.”

“You did what?” you interrupted, your mind now juggling two emotional crises.

Spencer blinked again. “Wait—so Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“No,” you muttered, your voice flat with disbelief. You shook your head slowly, trying to process it all. The nerves, the kiss, the I love you, and the fact that Spencer genuinely hadn’t realized what he’d done.

Spencer’s expression shifted from confusion to concern in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Did I do something wrong?”

His voice was careful, gentle, and far too kind for how scrambled your brain felt. “Can you tell me what it is?” he added, tilting your chin up just enough so your eyes met his.

Your mouth opened slightly, but the words were stuck. How could he not know? How could he be looking at you like that, all wide eyes and soft brows and pouty lips, and not know?

“Spencer,” you said finally, his name sharp on your tongue.

“Yes?” he replied immediately, those puppy-dog eyes locking onto yours like he was bracing for impact.

“You kissed me.”

His brows pulled together. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he said, clearly confused.

If you weren’t so worked up, you might have laughed at his face. But your heart was hammering, and your nerves were tangled in knots.

“You did it in front of everyone,” you clarified. And then you said it , softly, barely above a whisper. “And then you said—”

“I love you.” His voice cut in before you could finish.You watched as the memory clearly snapped back into place. Realization washed over his face, followed immediately by a bright, burning blush that crept up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Mhmm,” you hummed, nodding slowly, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you studied his reaction.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes wide, flustered in a way that only made you want to kiss him senseless. “Oh,” he breathed, glancing away for a second before meeting your eyes again. 

“Yeah… oh.” you repeated. Both of you stayed silent for a second.

“I did mean it,” he stammered out.

A smile tugged at your lips, finally. After an hour and a half of bouncing knees, chewed lips, the words you’d been dying to hear had finally landed.

“I love you,” Spencer repeated, a little firmer this time, like he needed to hear it aloud again to make it real. Like maybe saying it twice would help his brain catch up to his heart.The warmth that bloomed inside you was instant. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this happy in your entire life.

Then, of course, Spencer kept talking.

“Did I say it too soon? I’m not sure. On average, men say it around three to three and a half months into a relationship, while women usually wait closer to four months,” he rambled, already blushing furiously, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “And I know we’ve been dating for six months, so technically it took me twice as long, which isn’t statistically ideal, but honestly I almost said it on our first date, which definitely wouldn’t have been optimal and—”

He was spiraling. Fast.

So you did the only thing that would shut him up. You stepped forward, gently grabbed his face in both hands, and said, soft but certain: “I love you too, Spencer.”

He stared. Just stared, like he was trying to memorize this exact moment, burn it into his brain with all its warmth and disbelief and wonder. You watched his expression shift, first stunned, then relieved, then something so bright and boyish it made your heart lurch.You’d never seen him so happy before.

Well, once. That first time you kissed him. He’d looked a little like this, dazed and blissed out. But now he looked like his whole world had just clicked into place.

“Yeah?” he breathed, voice shaky with excitement, his grin stretching so wide it practically crinkled his entire face.

“Yeah.” You laughed through the word, nodding, the emotion bubbling up in your chest and spilling into every part of you. Your smile was a mirror of his.

Spencer let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist as if he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you anymore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, grinning against his skin.

“This is real, right?” he asked into your hair, voice muffled. “I’m not dreaming? Because sometimes I do dream about you saying that and then I wake up and it’s just—”

You cut him off with a kiss to the warm skin of his throat.“It’s definitely real,” you mumbled against him.

Spencer let out a shaky breath and held you tighter. You stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, both of you grinning like idiots. It felt absurdly, wonderfully perfect. Then you muttered into his neck, “You do know you outed our relationship to everyone, right?”

Spencer’s arms stiffened around you just slightly. “Yeah. Totally. I knew that. I did it on purpose,” he lied, too quickly, voice pitched a little too high.

You giggled and pulled back, hands still resting on either side of his neck. “You’re a terrible liar, Dr. Reid.”

He didn’t even bother to defend himself, just gave you an adorable, crooked grin and leaned in to peck your lips. “Yeah, I am,” he mumbled, brushing his nose against yours.

You kissed him back, just once, then poked a finger into the center of his chest. “Also, we’re going to talk about your little superhero stunt at home.”

Spencer blinked. “Right,” he echoed, suddenly very aware of his earlier reckless attempt to talk the unsub down without backup. “Are you mad?”

“I’m not not mad,” you replied, giving him a look. “But I love you, so I’m saving the full lecture for later.”

He winced slightly, then smiled. “Fair.”

You let your fingers drift through the curls on his forehead, brushing them back gently. “Well,” you sighed, “for now, we have to go out there… into the land of chaos and gossip.”

Realization dawned slowly on Spencer’s face. His eyes widened. “Oh no. Garcia definitely filled Morgan in already.”

“And Rossi’s probably already told Hotch,” you added grimly.

“And JJ and Emily—”

“—were there when it happened,” you finished.

You both stood there in mutual silence for a moment, dread creeping in. Spencer cleared his throat. “Maybe we could… go out the window?”

You laughed, smacking his chest lightly. “Nice try, genius.”

He gave a helpless little shrug. “I had to try.”

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed the handle of the door behind you. “Ready?” you asked.

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said without hesitation.

You squeezed his hand anyway. “Come on, lover boy.”

To say that the conference room was chaos would’ve been an understatement.Garcia let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal-gasp hybrid, immediately launching into a breathless barrage of questions that involved timelines and pet names. Morgan clapped Spencer on the back so hard he nearly stumbled, muttering something about “my boy finally growing up.” JJ just smirked from the corner, quietly sipping her coffee.Hotch had walked by at one point, muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “About time,” and kept moving without missing a beat.

The jet ride was somehow worse.

You’d sat next to Spencer, hoping for a quiet, post-case decompression. Instead, you were subjected to Garcia and Morgan playing twenty questions from across the aisle. Rossi, pretending to read, chuckled behind his wine glass the entire time. At one point, you tried to rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder, and he’d blushed so hard you thought he might combust.

You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed from the attention or just overwhelmed from finally saying what he’d been keeping in for months. Probably both.

But the days that followed? Even worse.

Because the teasing never stopped. Emily sent you heart emojis during briefings. Morgan kept calling Spencer lover boy, which you regretted giving him the vocabulary for. Garcia had created a mood board on her computer and refused to delete it. Even Hotch raised an eyebrow when you asked to share a rental car with Spencer.

But through it all, Spencer stayed by your side. Every awkward joke, every embarrassing comment, every not-so-subtle glance,he never flinched. If anything, he leaned into it. He held your hand in the bullpen and he kissed your cheek at the end of the day. It was domestic chaos.

Romantic disaster. Beautiful, awkward, completely perfect hell.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Oh please, please, please something short, funny with 141 where their wife calls them on their way home from work “yea, I think I’m having contractions!” And by the time they rush home, she’s sitting in the bath tub with their new baby. And she’s all casual like ‘Hey! Look at this cool thing I’ve got!’ And it’s their baby.

(My Grandmother had this happen! Each kid under an hour. My grandfather nearly had a heart attack! He’d always hesitate to leave her alone. Suspicious she was ‘purposefully’ going into labor when he wasn’t there to help her. Lol…)

Okay, that is so funny and adorable! Hehe, omg, I love this. Dad!141 is my favorite. I love writing them as fathers or as potential fathers. And this prompt is just an excuse to do that! Thank you so much for sending it in. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): married life, pregnancy, childbirth, domestic fluff, swearing, humor

Word Count: 2.1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Price rubs at his temple, releasing a deep sigh.

It’s late. The base is nearly empty. Another late night filled with paperwork.

His phone buzzes, the cellular device vibrating on the desk. Price reaches for it, checking the screen. It’s you calling him, and his stomach flips.

“Cabbage,” he greets with a smile, answering the phone.

You’re pregnant, due date just a week or two away. Price doesn’t like leaving you home alone, but this is the last push. After tonight, he can come home early.

“John?”

His name is a question. There’s a hint of worry—of nervousness—and Price immediately picks up on it.

“Everything okay, love?” he asks, slowly standing, paperwork suddenly forgotten.

“John. I—I think—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m having contractions.”

By the time the words leave your mouth, Price is already grabbing his coat. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He swallows, pushing down his own anxiety, smothering it so he can be strong for you. “Stay on the phone with me. I’m coming home.”

On the other end of the line, you breathe heavily. Each whimper worries him.

“John,” you gasp, voice strangled as he throws himself into his car and turns it on.

 “I know. I know. I’m coming.”

Price is doing his best to stay calm, to stay alert as he drives off base and heads for home, but all he can focus is on you.

“Keep talking to me, love,” he says, attempting to sound encouraging.

“Okay,” you reply, but then go quiet.

 “Cabbage?”

When you don’t answer him, Price uses your name. Nothing. No sound at all as if the line’s gone dead.

“Shit,” he mutters, holding the phone out to check.

Call Dropped.

“Fucking shit,” he says, louder.

Price continues to dial—continues to call. Every time, he expects you to pick up, but you never do. The worry grows, becoming deafening as the seconds tick by. Traffic laws are broken, but it gets him home faster.

He’s throwing himself out of the car, dashing to the house, not caring if he forgot to put the vehicle in park. In the front entryway, he calls out to you, using your name.

There is no response.

 “Fuck,” he whispers as he dashes up the stairs, heading for the bedroom. He enters, and it’s—

Empty.

“Where are you?” he breathes, turning away to check the rest of the house.

But then Price hears your voice, soft and soothing. Frowning, he checks the bedroom again, only to head toward the bathroom.

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the tub. There’s blood and a fluid Price doesn’t recognize smearing the floor between your legs.

You glance up. Smile. “Hi,” you laugh as Price drops to his knees beside you.

There’s a baby in your arms. Its hands are tight fists, face pinched like it’s annoyed to be here.

“No wonder you didn’t answer the phone,” sighs Price, placing his hand against yours that cradles the infant’s head.

“A bit busy,” you chuckle.

Price laughs with you, taking his phone out his jacket pocket to dial the hospital.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s fine, Simon. Really.”

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “The last time I left you this close to your due date, you gave birth while I wasn’t here.”

You dismiss him with a wave of your hand. “That’s not going to happen again.”

“It might,” he growls.

“It won’t,” you insist.

As you start to walk away, Simon blocks your path. “You’ve been complaining about your lower back all morning.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I always complain about my lower back.” Simon begins to object but you continue on. “And we need milk. And eggs. And bread.”

“Fine,” mutters Simon. “Fine. I’ll go. But you call me immediately if anything happens.”

 “Okay, dad,” you reply, mocking him.

Simon drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you in to kiss the top of your head. “Pumpkin,” he replies, and you hear the smile in it.

“The sooner you go the sooner you’ll be back. You can worry and fuss over me all you want then.”

Simon pulls you in for another kiss before heading out the door. The trip to the store isn’t peaceful. In the back of his mind, Simon stews, a little voice telling him that you’re going to call him any second and tell him you’re in labor. That’s what happened with your first, and Simon came home after you’d given birth.

He was devasted. Upset. Not with you—never with you. He was upset with himself for not being there to support you through it. To hold your hand. To encourage and shower you with love.

Simon is standing in line at the meat counter when you call him.

“Don’t be angry,” you say when he answers the phone.

“Are you having contractions?”

“…Yes.”

“Goddamn it.”

Simon abandons the shopping trolley, apologizing to the workers as he rushes out the door and to the car. When he enters the house, he hears your labored cry. Dashing up the stairs, Simon enters the bathroom at the same moment you cry out, clearly pushing. You’re on your hands and knees, sweat beads your brow, hair sticking to your face.

He dives to his knees, arms outstretched and reaching beneath you as the baby’s head emerges.

“I’m here,” Simon says, keeping his voice calm and soothing.

You start crying, head tilting to lean against his shoulder.

Another push, and then the rest of the baby is out and in Simon’s hands. The infant is silent at first, then releases a cry of displeasure.

“Bloody hell,” exhales Simon, “I’m never leaving you alone again.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

I’m having contractions, reads the text.

Johnny’s mouth drops open, gaze growing distant.

You’re having contractions. You’re having contractions, and he is on the other side of the city. With traffic, he’s likely an entire hour away from you.

“Soap?” asks Gaz, waving his hand in front of Johnny’s face.

“I have to go,” says Johnny quickly, shooting up from his chair, almost knocking it over.

Gaz and Ghost both stand abruptly, clearly startled by Johnny’s sudden panic.

“Everything good?” asks Ghost.

Johnny shakes his head. “The missus is having contractions.”

“Oh,” replies Gaz, eyes growing a bit wide. “Damn. Go. You should go.”

“We’ll cover your tab,” adds Ghost.

Johnny groans. “Her due date isn’t for another bloody week.” He grabs his jacket.

“You’re going to be a father, Soap,” chuckles Ghost, punching him in the shoulder.

“Fuck. What if she has it while I’m not there?”

“Don’t these things take forever anyway?” muses Ghost. “Contractions don’t mean anything. Right?” He glances at Gaz.

Gaz shrugs. “I think you should worry if it’s close together.” Gaz holds his hands close to indicate the lack of time.

“Shit,” mutters Johnny, tapping away at his phone.

Are they close together?

It’s a few seconds and then the three little circles pop up, indicating that you’re typing back.

They’re close. A few minutes apart. I’m on the phone with the midwife.

“Oh fuck,” mutters Johnny, elongating the vowel as he tugs on his jacket.

Gaz grimaces. “It’ll be fine,” he tries to reassure as Johnny rushes past him. “Congrats!”

Johnny hardly hears him, he’s too focused on getting to the car. Every second is agony—not knowing what’s happening while he’s driving. When he pulls up to the house almost an hour later, there’s a car Johnny doesn’t recognize in the drive.

As bursts through the door, he hears calming music. Rushing forward into the living room, he finds you on the floor, wrapped up in a blanket, propped up by a nest of pillows. The midwife putters about as you gently rock back and forth, cradling an infant in your arms.

You glance up. “Look,” you laugh, lifting the infant that you’ve just birthed, presenting it like you’ve completed a fun DIY craft project.

Johnny almost faints.

“Oh, babe,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The midwife makes a sound of annoyed agreement and Johnny winces.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “She came quickly.”

“I should have been here,” he groans, sliding to the floor next to you, draping an arm over your shoulders.

You lean into him. “You’re here now,” you sigh, eyes closing as you snuggle against him.

Johnny looks to the midwife, and she smiles at him—a reassurance. You’re fine, and so is his daughter.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Ignoring it, Kyle keeps his attention on Captain Price, focusing on the briefing for the upcoming mission. The phone goes silent. Seconds later, it starts up again. Frowning, Kyle reaches into his pocket, sliding out the phone just enough to see the screen. Your name and picture appear on the screen, your smile bright and lovely.

“Need to answer that?”

Kyle’s head snaps up at the sound of Captain Price’s voice.

“Sorry, Captain. It’s the missus.”

Price inclines his head, the middle of his brow creasing slightly. “It’s she pregnant?”

“She is,” affirms Kyle.

“Then you should answer it.”

Kyle gives him, Ghost, and Soap a brief nod. “Excuse me,” he mutters, standing and heading for the door.

When the meeting room door slams shut, the phone starts up again.

Kyle answers, his words falling from his mouth quickly, sounding like one solid word instead of several. “What’s going on, love?”

“I’m having contractions.”

You sound panicked.

 “You’re—are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” you gasp. “Water broke earlier—"

Kyle’s voice rises slightly. “Your water broke and you didn’t call me?”

“I wasn’t feeling anything,” you reply, as if that makes it okay. “But now, it’s constant.” Your sigh is labored. Tired. “They’ve come on so suddenly, Kyle. I’m sorry.”

“No. No, love. Don’t apologize.” You have nothing to be sorry for. He’s just happy you called. “I’m coming home. Right now.”

“But you have that meeting. You can’t—”

“I’m coming home,” he reiterates. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Hang in there, dove. I’ll be there soon.” Kyle disconnects the call and bursts through the meeting room doors. “It’s happening,” he announces.

Soap blinks, confused. “What’s happening?”

Ghost side-eyes him. “He’s about to become a dad.”

“Fucking shit. Really?” Soap turns to Kyle, beaming. “Congrats.”

Price crosses his arms over his chest, a look of pride on his face. “Go, Sergeant.”

Kyle nods, giving a half-wave as he backs out through the toward, heading toward the parking lot. He’s practically running—rushing to turn the car on. Taking off, Kyle hardly cares if he hits anything, and he doesn’t blink when breaking nearly a dozen traffic laws.

He makes it home in half the time he usually does. Every second counts. Every moment important. If the contractions are coming quickly and close together, it means the baby is ready, and he needs to get you to the hospital.

As he enters the front door, he calls out to you. Your answer comes, but it’s distant. Upstairs. Kyle takes the stairs two at a time, walking into the bedroom to find it empty. But the bathroom light is on.

A few steps, and he pushes open the door.

You’re not standing at the sink putting on your makeup or getting ready to leave. You sit inside the shower on the tile floor, the glass door wide open, pantless, and cradling an infant in your arms.

“Shit,” he breathes, moving forward. “Shit.” Kyle crouches just outside the shower door.

You grin sheepishly, lifting the baby like it’s an accident. “She came minutes after I got off the phone with you.”

“Oh, bloody hell, love,” laughs Kyle.

There are tears in your eyes, but you’re smiling. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Don’t be, my love.” Reaching out, he grasps the back of your neck. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your forehead. “She’s beautiful.”

[xoxojisu]

FUCK, I'M IN LOVE WITH YOU.

synopsis: katsuki doesn't know how to fix. he doesn't know how to heal, or how to love. but for you, he wants to try.

notes: part one here!

he doesn’t see you the next day.

not in class. not at lunch. not even in the places you always pop up, like a constant thread woven through his life. it’s the first time in he-doesn't-even-know-how-long that you’re not just.. there.

sitting on his bed. laying on his chest. places he never asked for you to be, but liked it more than he was willing to admit. places he'd gotten really used to you just being there.

where were you? where did you go?

oh, that's right.

he pushed you away.

and boy, he feels it.

feels the empty. feels the loss.

he doesn’t eat much. doesn’t talk to anyone, which is sort of scarier than him snapping at everyone. his hands shake all day with this restless, helpless sort of guilt.

because he remembers.

remembers your smile, how it faltered.

remembers your laugh, hollow and too small.

remembers how you hugged yourself as you walked away.

remembers how heartbroken you looked, and how it looked like you were trying to shield yourself from him as you left.

and he hates himself for it.

by the time the sun dips low and the sky starts to turn orange, he’s pacing outside your dorm room, hands in his pockets, head down.

he hesitates.

not because he doesn’t want to see you, but because he’s terrified you won’t want to see him.

but he knocks anyway.

soft. three times.

no answer.

he knocks again.

“it’s me,” he says, voice low. “can you.. can we talk?”

still nothing.

then, after a long pause:

the door clicks open just a crack.

you don’t meet his eyes. don’t say anything.

just stand there in the sliver of space you’ve allowed him, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, expression unreadable.

he feels like shit all over again.

“can i come in?” he asks, like he’s not sure he deserves it.

you hesitate, then wordlessly step back and let him in.

his heart clenches. he takes slow, careful steps inside like he’s afraid of breaking more than he already has.

the silence sits thick between you.

he doesn't know what to say or what to do. katsuki's destroyed things all his life. pots and vases, people's feelings, people's dreams. he's never had to try to fix them before.

but now he does. because you're precious. because losing this, you, would be way too much to bear.

his head spins with different thoughts. he should've rehearsed what he was gonna say before he came.

he's scared. really, truly, scared. it's a rare feeling for him, and he hates it. hates how much he's shaking. hates how nauseous he feels. hates that he even put himself in this position.

“i didn’t mean it,” he blurts, voice hoarse. “any of it. not a single fuckin’ word.”

you sit on the edge of your bed, arms crossed tight around you. you don't say anything. it scares him.

he nods. “i know i was a huge dick, and i’m.. fuck, i’m sorry.”

he drops into a crouch in front of you, gaze upturned, hands twitching like he wants to reach for yours but doesn’t dare quite yet.

“i got scared,” he says. “you’re so.. you. you're always so.. bright. and i’m just.. i'm me. i didn’t know how to deal with how much i.. fuckin’ need you.”

your eyes flicker.

“so i panicked. pushed you away. said the worst thing i could think of, because maybe it wouldn’t hurt as bad if i did it like this. or maybe i just couldn't handle my own fuckin' feelings. maybe i don't know how to be.. loved, or whatever. i don't really know.”

you finally speak, voice wobbling. “it hurt.”

his heart breaks.

“i know,” he says, hand reaching up slowly and hesitantly to cup your face. you let him. “i know. and i’d take it back if i could. i’d never say anything like that again. not to you. not ever.”

you’re quiet for a long moment.

"i don't want you to have to pretend," you mutter. "if it was really how you felt, i wanna respect your wishes."

"it's not," he says immediately. no hesitation. "fuck, i need you. don't.. fuck, don't go anywhere."

you still look doubtful. there's clearly something else on your mind. he can read you like a book. he nudges you gently, silently urging you to speak your mind.

you look away.

“do you even like me?”

he pauses. then laughs. short, pained. not at you, but at himself.

“fuck, i’m in love with you.”

you blink, eyes wide.

he grips your hand. “and it scares the hell outta me, but that’s not your fault. it’s mine. and if you give me another chance, i’ll spend every damn day makin’ sure you know how much you mean to me.”

silence again. his heart is racing. he's never been this scared before.

then, quietly:

“…okay.”

his head snaps up.

you smile at him. still cracked, still cautious, but at least it's there.

he doesn't care. you smiled at him. he lets a smile slip, too. because yes, you smiled at him.

“okay,” you say again, softer this time.

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

and when you reach for him, when you bury your face in his chest and let him hold you like he never wants to let go, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

“i love you too, you asshole,” you mumble against his hoodie. "by the way."

he squeezes you tighter. presses a kiss into your hair, like a promise.

“i know. ’m gonna earn that back. gonna make it up to you. i swear.”

and this time, he means every word.

masterlist likes, rbs, + comments appreciated!

[everlastingserenitys]

I GOT FUCKED BY TOP GIFTER?!

summ. you were once top 2 on your site, but luckily for you, a mysterious man suddenly brought you back to number 1. but the last thing you expected was for that man to be your coworker you hated!

pairing. caleb x f!reader cw. cam girl!reader, rivals with benefits, perv!caleb, zayne cameo, dirty talk, teasing, p in v, desk sex, Caleb has a stupid ass username, spoiling, one night stand, kissing semi public, I dont even think they hate each other, fucking on live stream, unrealistic numbers, 4k wc (ah, fuck.) a/n. this gotta be a kink atp. HELP also fixing any mistakes later.. sorry in advance !!

“A-are you sure this is safe?” Caleb stuttered, glancing back at Zayne who just pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“It is safe. Relax. You’re the one who wanted to try something new, so I did my research and found this.”

“Are you sure I won't–”

But before he could finish his sentence another menacing look from Zayne darted past him. Caleb zipped his lips shut and hesitantly brought his shaky fingers to his mouse, dragging the cursor to the ‘sign up’ button and in a click he was in.

A display of explicit thumbnails filled his whole screen, Caleb’s eyes twisted in desire, a goop of drool dripped down his lips, and he didn’t even notice it yet.

He examined every pixel, his eyes darting from every angle he could capture. He scrolled through the page, his finger aimlessly clicking everywhere but before he could continue any further, Zayne cleared his throat from behind.

Caleb flinched, he removed his hand off his mouse and turned to Zayne who was just staring at him with his hand out in front of him. An annoyed sigh escaped his lips and he opened the drawers of his desk and pulled out a file, giving it to Zayne, but before he could grab it, Caleb pulled it back.

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, mockingly waving the paper in front of Zayne, “I’ll give you this if you give me some money, alright?”

“Money? Didn’t I give you this website?” Zayne mumbled, his eyes flickered on the file—of office work needed for next week—in Caleb’s hand and tried reaching for it, but accidentally stumbled on his foot and landed against Caleb.

But Zayne must’ve misclicked something when he used his hands for support, mistakenly smashing his large palm against the keyboard. The screen illuminated with the three dots chasing each other in a circle, and before Caleb could close it, a pre-recorded live stream of a beautiful girl was on display for him.

Caleb's hand ghosted over his mouse as he watched the video in awe. Since the streamer was faceless–well, had a mask, there wasn't much for him to depict from there, but Caleb felt like he hit the jackpot. He mumbled dirty words under his breath, scanned every crevice of his monitor, he was just so captivated by the video he didn't even notice Zayne slip the files away from his fingers.

“Zay–uh, the money? Please… I’m only going to try something, I promise I'll pay you back.” the rest of his speech left out in a mutter as his eyes stayed locked on the pretty girl on his screen.

Zayne sighed and shook his head in disbelief, “Fine, this is a one time thing though, don't ask me again.”

Caleb nodded and the door clicked shut behind him.

Oh he was so going to enjoy this.

—

Caleb knew he shouldn’t have watched practically every single one of your videos in one night. Though he did hold himself back and saved just a couple for the next day, he still wanted to see more of his faceless girl.

But after binging most of your videos he found out your schedule and thank god Zayne introduced him to this site a day before your next stream was going to happen.

Caleb draped his coat over his shoulder as he was texting Zayne about the payment, all he needed to do was spoil and support you.

There was a thing on the site where whoever has the most total donations from their streams gets to be on a leaderboard, you were just at the top 2, nearing to number one, and Caleb needed to change that immediately.

Eventually, Caleb made it to work. He got a small payment from Zayne and smiled at his phone, but was way too distracted to see where he was going and bumped into someone, his coat falling to the ground as he repeatedly apologized to the person he bumped into.

But when he peered his eyes up and noticed you standing there, staring down at him with a menacing look, Caleb rolled his eyes.

“Hey pipsqueak.” He mocked, throwing his coat over your head as he guided you to the elevator. Your hand swats his away as you both step in the elevator, clicking the button to your floor and stand in awkward silence.

“You look beat, what did you do last night?” A hint of teasingness laced your voice which only caused Caleb to glare at you in response.

The elevator doors slid open, Caleb grabbed his coat which was resting on your head, and walked out the elevator. He immediately headed over to his cubicle and rested his face in his palms, he already missed his faceless girl.

As he was resting, a tap on his shoulder jolted him from his daze, he sighed and turned his head to whoever interrupted him, but groaned in annoyance when he saw you. You were staring down at him with your arms crossed, acting like he already knew what you were going to ask–but no, he didn’t.

“What is it?” Caleb muttered, averting his gaze away from you as he suddenly put all his focus on his monitor in front of him. His fingers danced around his mouse as he scrolled through hundreds of emails.

“Do you have the file for next week?”

“Zayne got them, but i'll ask him to not give ‘em to you.” he grinned, leaning back on his chair as he peered his violet eyes at you. A scoff escaped your lips and you turned away and walked over to Zayne’s cubicle.

Caleb's eyes widened and he sprung off his chair, following you. When you reached him, Caleb immediately budded in and shook his head at Zayne who had the files resting on his desk. You gave Caleb a dirty look and pushed him aside, asking Zayne for the files.

“Why don't you do it yourself.” Caleb striked.

“Why did Zayne get your copy then?” you cross your arms and stare at him with a raised eyebrow, the look on your face was way too threatening for Caleb to disregard your words. He sighed in annoyance and pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing at Zayne then back at you.

“That's because he gave me something in return.”

“Ooh, that's why you were so beat this morning, hm? I wonder wha–”

“Watch your mouth, pips.”

“Whatever, just give me the file.”

“No.” Caleb reached for the file on Zayne’s desk and walked back to his cubicle with it. He heard your footsteps growing louder behind him and before Caleb could put it back in his drawer, a hand clasped onto it and took it away from him.

“Give it ba–” before he could finish his sentence he turned around to be met with nobody in front of him. He marched around the whole office to try to find you and when you were nowhere in sight, he started to ask the people around where you could've gone.

But after getting no answers from anybody, Caleb sighed in annoyance and headed to the bathroom. His walk there was just as worse as not finding you. Before he could place his hand on the doorknob, someone from behind hopped on him which caused Caleb to flinch dramatically.

“Finally.” He muttered, slowly snaking his hands along your arms which were wrapped around his waist and in a quick movement he flipped you over, pinning you to the wall. His face was just centimeters away from you, neither of you moved, just stared into each other's eyes.

But Caleb's eyes purposely snake down your figure, his eyes lingering on your cleavage for a second before averting his gaze even lower. There was just some familiar feeling he had when he looked at your body but he just couldn't pinpoint what it was.

“Caleb?” you whisper, your eyes stayed locked on his. Caleb shook his head and pulled away, his fingers still rested on your arm before tracing along it, your soft fabric meddled with his cold fingertips before his fingers stopped in place when he felt a bracelet seam imprinted through your sleeve.

Before he could slide his fingers under your sleeve, your eyes widened in panic and you gave the file back to him before running back to the office.

Weird.

—

Once work was over you immediately rushed back to your house, there was just an hour left before your stream and your worst nightmare happened.

You couldnt find your fucking mask.

You practically searched every crevice of your apartment, checking under the sofa, your bed, the blankets, practically everywhere. but the mask was nowhere to be found.

You sigh, clasping your palms on the edge of your desk as you stared at your monitor in disbelief. You glance around your room one more time and soon grab your coat resting on your chair and leave your apartment.

You walked over to the closest store nearby, skimming your eyes along the mask aisle and picked out the first nicest looking mask you saw. You rushed to the cashier and placed the mask on the table before reaching in your purse and grabbed your card.

You eventually paid for your things and left.

Once you got home you got your things ready and sat in your chair–with your new mask–and hover your cursor over the start stream button and eventually click it.

You sat back on your chair as you started to watch the chat roll in, a bunch of people were already asking where your old mask went but you shrugged and told everyone you couldn’t find it.

Once a decent amount of people joined, your fingers rested on the strap of your shirt and you rolled your fingers around it, “hundred dollars this is getting off” you tease, and not even a second later a man under the name ‘c.lovesapples’ sent the first hundred with a little message attached to the donation.

c.lovesapples: this is my first time on your stream i hope you enjoy :p

You chuckle at the message, but also the username, what a stupid username. But you gave your promise and slid your top off, immediately clasping your cold palm on your tit, sliding your fingers between your perked up nipple, pinching and teasing it.

A quiet whimper escaped your lips and you bit your lip to contain your noises, continuing to play with yourself when another donation brings you back to reality. You peer your head at the chat and the same man who sent the hundred dollars, sends another donation with a follow-up message.

c.lovesapples sent $200: touch yourself?

“Think it's that easy?” you grin, but still linger one of your hands down your body, ghosting your fingers along the waistband of your shorts, then a loud donation sound makes you flinch and you glance back at the screen with widened eyes.

c.lovesapples sent $1000: satisfied? i was gonna save the rest for later but i really want to see you :(

Your mouth opens in a small ‘o’ shape and you couldn’t even bring yourself to utter anything. Instead, you listen to the man's request and slide your fingers under your shorts, slowly pulling them down before you were left in just your panties on display for everybody.

You slid a finger under your panties, rubbing your clit in a slow motion, head jerking back before you sunk a finger in your soaking entrance, your fingers working in a quick movement, letting pleasure blind you from the situation going on. You eventually add another finger, your digits fucking your sensitive cunt soo well, a loud moan echoed through the room.

“F-fuck.. You really know how to get me to give in–ngh so easily?” you peered your eyes at the chat, and even though it was going way too quick you couldn't help but only notice c.lovesapples’s comment.

c.lovesapples: anything for you. now look at where you are now :)

Confused, you glance at your whole screen trying to see what he meant by ‘where you are now’ and couldn't notice anything until a gold badge next to your username sparked and you were number 1?!

“wha–hngh” you curl your finger, letting pleasure rush through you as you soon ride out your orgasm in pure shock. A loud whine escaped your lips and you slump down your chair, panting heavily as more donations and chats started to roll in.

“Thank you…” you mumble, adjusting the mask on your face as you slowly get up from your seat and lean in closer to the monitor.

When you finish the stream, out of curiosity you head over to c.lovesapples’s profile but were met with disappointment when it was a blank page, no profile picture, no bio, no name, nothing. You sigh and plop your head on your desk, trying to think of a way to thank him.

And then an idea clicked, why not he come over to your next stream?

Your fingers immediately rest on your keyboard and you start typing away, writing a slightly convincing message that you hope he would fall for. And not even five minutes passed and you already got a response from him.

c.lovesapples: really? :O

c.lovesapples: i mean, sure.. send your address and i’ll be there on wednesday ;)

You sent him a couple messages back which eventually led to you sending your address. You were surprised how quick he agreed to meeting up with you, especially since this was his first time even joining one of your streams.

You shut your computer, cleaned up, and went to bed, dreading the Wednesday that was about to come.

—

As Wednesday rolled along, Caleb was geeked the second he woke up, he got up extra early for work, and pampered himself like crazy in the morning. He just couldn't believe that his faceless girl reached out to him just like that.

And now that you were number one, that was one thing checked off of Caleb's list, now the second thing—which he just added—was to fuck you!

As Caleb walked into work he ignored everyone who greeted him and pretended to focus on his work so the time could go by quicker.

As he was drowned in emails upon emails a cling sound fell near him and Caleb glanced down at the ground when he saw a bracelet resting on the ground, he turned his chair and saw you come close to his desk.

“Dropped something, pips?” Caleb chuckled and picked up your bracelet. He swirled the material around his fingers and when he noticed the design his eyes widened.

“Caleb, give it back—ungh” before you could finish speaking, Caleb grabbed onto your wrists and dragged you to a secluded hallway, his fingers gripping tight on the bracelet before he shoved you against the wall.

A thud echoed through the hallway and you wink up at Caleb while scratching the back of your head, a look of confusion filled your eyes and you reached for the bracelet still dangling along his fingers.

But he pulled away before you could grab it, Caleb leaned in his lips inches–centimeters away from yours, your shaky breath ghosted against Caleb’s skin and he slid the bracelet along his wrist.

“So you it's you…” he breathed, sliding his fingers through your soft hair, pulling you closer. You gulp and flicker your gaze from his lips to his eyes, and before you could ask him something, Caleb crashed his lips on yours.

“Save it.” he mumbled against your mouth, slicking his tongue against your soft lips before sliding it in your mouth, meeting his tongue with yours. He worked himself against your lips, practically devoured you like he hasn't eaten for years.

Caleb pulled away, his cheeks burning up by the second, he leaned in for another kiss but you pressed your finger on his lips, pushing him back before you asked him the same question you've been trying to ask before.

Caleb chuckled and rested his forehead on your shoulder, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, the tension radiated off the two of you, leaving you to instinctively give in and hug him back.

“Why’d you waste your money on me?”

“I dont know..” he mumbled, pulling away and wrapped his fingers around your wrist. The grip was tightening and Caleb started dragging you out of the hallway, eventually leading you out of the office building.

“Cal–where are we going?” you chuckle awkwardly, turning your head as you look back at the building door then back at Caleb, who was already shoving you inside his car.

“To start your stream, just a little earlier.”

—

It wasn't even a second you stepped into the house, and Caleb already had you slammed against your desk, his needy lips found yours, devouring you like an animal. His hand reaches the bottom of your computer, clicking a button, making the computer flash on.

A bright white light illuminated the room and Caleb still had his mouth on yours, he winked open an eye and peered his gaze to the lockscreen, you noticed his violet iris glistening in the dark and Caleb soon pulled away, asking you for the password.

You give him your password and dart your tongue on his neck, sucking and nibbling on it. A shuddered breath escaped Caleb's lips and his grip grew tighter on you, the feeling of his fingertips digging deep against your plush hips made you squirm beneath him.

Caleb eventually logged into your computer, he grabbed onto your face and without warning, he smashed his lips on yours again, his bodyweight started to push against you, as he started devouring you again. You notice his other hand–still on the mouse, move around as he started to click random buttons and, fuck.

He already started the stream.

“Caleb! My mask–hngh”

Caleb ignored your words and slid you off the desk as his mouth was still on yours, you felt him slide his fingers up your shirt, the feeling of his rough, cold fingertips grazing against your warm skin, which made you shudder in pleasure.

He pulled away for a minute, just to stare into your eyes before the sound of a riipp echoed through the room and your shirt was already torn up, and thrown on the ground. Caleb's hands immediately wrap around your tits before he flipped you over in a quick movement, making you face the camera as he had his hands all over you.

“Mmph–” you felt his fingers lower down your body, playing with the waistband of your pants, but instead of pulling them down, you felt his large presence shadow over you before his bright, violet eyes glistened at the chat.

“Hundred dollars and this is getting off.” he smirked, tugging at the fabric which caused a yelp to leave your lips. You glance up at the screen and notice a bunch of people sending hundreds of dollars. This was unusual for you, you would usually get way less than that, maybe it's ‘cause Caleb was here?

A menacing chuckle left Caleb’s lips and he slid your pants down in a quick movement. You were now left bare n’ exposed in front of everyone and you slam your head on the desk to cover your face, in embarrassment.

Caleb traced his fingers down your body, those same fingers eventually found their way to your soaking cunt and Caleb rubbed a slow motion against your twitchy clit, you clenched your thighs between him and a grunt left his lips.

“Relax, pips.”

You moan in response and a loud ding brings you back to reality, you peer your eyes at the screen and your eyes widen in shock.

thebestartist sent $500: gotta do more than that ^^

“Yeah? What d’ya think?” Caleb leaned in, his hot breath ghosted over your skin, you mutter something incoherent under your breath and that just made Caleb chuckle.

His fingers curled inside you, a loud, broken moan left your lips and you grip onto the desk tighter. Caleb’s fingers slick out of you and he aligned himself against you.

You felt the feeling of his rough fabric play against your sensitive skin, he continued to grind himself against you, stimulating you in any way possible, and it clearly was working.

“Want it?”

“Y-Yes!” You gulped the lump that was creeping up your throat and Caleb nodded, pulling away and zipping his pants down, you glanced at the chat which was going crazy and also notice the unreasonable donations rolling in.

“Too much..” you mutter, catching your breath, but before you could finish what you were saying you felt Caleb’s hard, leaking tip slick inside your entrance.

“Wha-”

“Did you guys know she’s my coworker?” Caleb said, thrusting more inches deep inside you, you rolled your eyes back and plop your head against the desk when you felt him sink deeper and deeper inside you.

“I’m not—ngh sure if we hated each other, but we never g-got…fuck…”

Caleb grit his teeth and grabbed onto the sides of your body, ramming himself in you in an arrhythmic pattern, you felt your head bob back and forth, your moans started sounding ragged, broken, and real.

Caleb grinned as he lifted your hips, elevating you in a perfect angle so he could hit the perfect spots, and he did exactly that.

“But we never got along, r-right?”

You shook your head, not because you were disagreeing with what he said—well you completely forgot what he said—but because you realized you were already creeping close to release.

With the man you hated.

Well it wasn’t even hate anymore, was it? You didn’t expect Caleb to be hitting every right spot, making you feel this good.

“C-Caleb I’m ugh!”

Caleb only hummed in response, his large length stretched you out, sounds of him slicking in and out of you, and loud moans filled the room.

Your legs shake in pleasure and before you could warn Caleb that you were going to cum, you already felt the pleasure pooling out of you. A mocking chuckle escaped Caleb’s lips and he gulped at the sight.

“D-damn it…” he whimpered, glancing at the screen where the chat was going absolutely crazy and the donations were still stacking up by the second.

thecrow: nice.

imamfstarboy: U looks so pretty.

A groveling groan left Caleb's lips when he realized he was close, he muttered curses under his breath before leaning in and grabbing onto the mouse.

A loud clang of your bracelet hitting the table made you flinch and before you could ask what he was doing, Caleb pushed his full length inside you making you moan in shock, an expression he’s never seen before plastered all over your face and that caused a reaction out of Caleb.

“Y-you’re so beautifu—nghh” with a click of the mouse the stream ended and you pant heavily, catching your breath. Caleb was still trapped inside you, and you felt him slowly pull out of you, sounds of his and your slick drooled out of you and you plop on your knees when a small pop escaped out of you.

“Was that good?” Caleb chuckled, leaning in and planted small kisses across your face. You stare at him, the shock still sparked in your eyes and you couldn’t even bring yourself to say anything.

“Let’s get cleaned c’mon, baby.”

—

Both you and Caleb walked into work at the same time the next day. He stood close behind you, ghosting his hand along your back as he followed you in the office.

And immediately everybody; especially Zayne, noticed what was going on. Caleb chuckled and walked over to his cubicle and gave Zayne the files back.

“I can’t believe that faceless girl was her.” He laughed and slammed the files on the table, resting against the wall with crossed arms.

“Yeah… I checked out her stream last night and didn’t expect you to be there..” Zayne mumbled, his finger resting on his chin as he rubbed circular motions on it.

“Wait you were in the stream wha-“

“Time to pay back the thousands of dollars you gave her, Caleb. And also—”

Caleb only rolled his eyes in response and lifted himself off the wall, walking away from Zayne before he could hear more of his rambling.

“These are the wrong files.” Zayne mumbled.

part 3 of fly into your heart | caleb -> next work

[kunasthiast]

sunshine

“you ever think about how lucky you are to have me?”

you didn’t even look up from your phone as you continued scrolling, sprawled out like a lazy cat on the living room rug (it’s comfy, okay?), half under a throw blanket.

“literally never,” you replied.

“liar,” your husband sukuna said from the couch, not missing a beat. “you’re lying and the universe knows it.”

he was half-focused on some work file on his tablet. he had his reading glasses low on his nose (which should’ve been illegal) and was wearing one of those loose black tees that hung just right on his arms. it’s like his arms were sculpted for violence and thirst traps. it was offensive, really. all of it.

a few minute passed by and you were still just scrolling on your phone. 

“you been quiet for a whole five minutes, brat. you dying or scheming?” he asked, not even glancing up.

“maybe both,” you said lazily.

that got his attention. he finally glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, flashing that signature i-know-you-want-me smirk. “if you die, i’ll sue god.”

you snorted. “you think god wants beef with you?”

“babe,” he leaned back, stretching — showing just enough abs to ruin your life, “god’s scared of me.”

a beat passed.

then you peeked over the your phone and said casually with a grin, “baby, serious question.”

“oh boy,” he muttered, lowering the tablet a little. “let’s hear it.”

you sat up cross-legged on the rug, head tilted. “every time you look at me, do you think i’m the sun or the moon?”

sukuna didn’t miss a beat. “sun.”

“oh?” you squinted at him. “so you’re saying i’m blinding and too hot to handle?”

“that,” he drawled, “and you’re dramatic, impossible to ignore, and have a dangerous habit of setting shit on fire.”

you laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at him. he caught it without looking. “so i’m the sun, huh?”

“absolutely. you wake up and immediately decide to shine in my face whether i’m ready or not.”

“rude,” you huffed. “the correct answer was the world.”

he raised a brow. “mm. nah.”

“excuse me?!”

“you’re not the world,” he said, standing up and walking over to you — towering like the menace he is. “you’re the universe.”

you blinked. “…seriously?”

he crouched in front of you, grin widening. “yup. everything in me, around me, orbits you. even when you’re pissing me off, i still revolve around you, baby.”

you opened your mouth to say something, but your brain short-circuited halfway through. “...that’s so full of yourself.”

“no, you’re full of me,” he shot back instantly, smug and unbothered, and grinning with way too much teeth.

you groaned, shoving him away as he laughed. “you ruin everything, oh my god.”

“you asked,” sukuna laughed, snatching the pillow and smacking you gently with it. “don’t start shit you can’t emotionally recover from.”

“i hate you,” you muttered and flopped back dramatically.

“nah,” he said smugly, grabbing his tablet again. “you love me. you’re the universe, remember?”

a few minutes passed with only the soft clicks of sukuna’s tablet and your scrolling. but of course, peace in this house lasted as long as a soap bubble.

“babe,” sukuna called, not even looking up.

“hmm?”

“you know how planets revolve around stars, right?”

you groaned, already sensing the bullshit brewing. “don’t say it –”

“just saying,” he continued, smug, “i must’ve had some gravity to pull the universe.”

you stared at him. “you’re so full of shit, babe”

he finally looked up, smirking in that god-awful way that made your heart skip and your eyes roll at the same time. “and yet you married me. whose fault is that, brat?”

“definitely mine. i take full accountability for this karmic lesson,” you muttered, hiding your grin behind the throw pillow.

sukuna stood up, stretching his arms — muscles flexing in that unfair, jaw-dropping way — and walked over to you with the audacity of a man who knew he was too hot for his own good. 

“nah, you knew what you were getting into.”

he leaned down and kissed your forehead, then right under your eye, before pulling back just enough to grin at your expression. 

“but since you’re the universe,” he said, “guess that makes me your favorite star.”

“you’re a black hole,” you said flatly.

“damn right,” he said with a wink. “sucks you in and leaves you breathless.”

you choked on a laugh, smacked him with the pillow, and swore to the heavens that this man was a menace wrapped in abs.

“try harder, baby,” sukuna teased. “that weak-ass swing won’t even knock a planet off orbit. and this is planetary alignment,” he winked. again.

“god, i hate you.”

“nah,” he leaned down again, cocky as hell, “you love me. more than the sun. more than the moon.”

he paused, lips twitching. “more than sanity.”

“i’m divorcing you.”

“can’t,” he said, grabbing your hand to try and pull you up from the floor, “you’re obsessed with me.”

you just sighed, making yourself heavier, the ultimate act of petty defiance—still holding his hand.

“that’s what i thought,” he said triumphantly, letting go of your hand. “now get off the floor, we’re ordering takeout and you’re not choosing — i still have PTSD from that vegan sushi you made me try.”

“it was fusion!”

“it was trauma.”

“you are so dramatic—”

“and you,” he cut you off, pointing, “are still the universe. but don’t push it.”

you huffed, dragging yourself up. “you better be getting dessert.”

“only if you promise to orbit back to me tonight.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“you’re obsessed.”

you didn’t deny it.

[satellites444]

i, personally, love the whole “caleb is a panty sniffer” thing bc that is so hot to me?? like?

i picture riding him, bouncing hard and fast on him. he can't decide whether he wants to watch your tits bounce to the rhythm or watch the faces you make when the head of his cock nudges just right inside of you.

either way he's completely spent. he's a moaning mess beneath you, but his noises are muffled because your panties are stuffed into his mouth.

like i picture being roommates with caleb and you’ve been missing a few pairs of underwear here and there for months. and you don’t want to accuse him of taking them, but anytime you complain about it to him, he flushes the lightest shade of pink and then miraculously they’re back in your drawer a week later.

this time your favorite pair is gone, the pretty red lace ones that you wear when you wanna feel hot. you’re supposed to be out somewhere but you end up finishing early and when you return home you can hear a faintest groans coming from caleb’s room. you go investigate but you’re certainly not expecting to see what you do when you open the door.

caleb with his pants around his ankles, his hard length proudly on display as he strokes himself, and he's got a pair of your laciest underwear in his hand, gripping on like it's his life source, holding it to his nose. you don’t mean to but a small, “oh,” slips out of your mouth. it cuts through the quiet room and caleb’s eyes lift to yours, shock filling them.

then he’s turning so red he may as well have been one of the apples he loves so much. you're not mad, though, which you find surprising; you're turned on. you also feel slightly validated the he was stealing them. as you slowly walk into the room he starts rambling out excuses and explanations. he all but trips onto the bed as you back him up against it.

“don't wanna hear it, caleb.” you say, taking the panties from him, while slowly pulling down your pants. his eyes widen, and you swear you see his cock give an enthusiastic twitch. “you're fucking filthy,” you say, but you're climbing on top of him, you're hovering over his hardness. you leave your underwear on, since he seems to like them so much. you do pull them to the side so he can see that you’re glistening, you’re just as turned on as he is. “fuck…” he says, almost to himself as he gets a clear view of your pussy.

“shit, i know. i am filthy,” he whines, looking at you with pleading eyes, “i’m sor-”

his words are cut off when you stuff your panties into his mouth. you click your tongue at him, reaching one hand between you to rub his tip along your wet folds, gathering up your arousal. “told you i didn't want to hear what you had to say.”

then you're sinking down on him. you both let out a moan at the feeling. he’d already been so close before you walked in it’s taking everything in him not to cum immediately. you lift your shirt up so that you're on display for him, and his hands immediately grip your tits, but he pulls away with a whimper when you give him a look that says he can look but not touch.

the pace is fast and relentless, you're trying to draw and orgasm from him as quick as you can and it shows. the sound of your arousal and skin slapping together is filling the room and ultimately that's what pushes him over the edge. his moans get higher in pitch and more frequent. you lift off of him and work him over with your hand until he's cumming on his stomach, chest heaving.

you pull you underwear from his mouth, he lets out a huff of a breath when you do and you use them to clean him up. “you do that often?” you ask him casually, finishing your clean up and standing up from the bed.

he doesn't answer right away, but when he does his voice sounds bashful, “not really,” he says but you know he's lying. you let him get away with it though. partially because you don't want to embarrass him, and partially because you're hoping you can catch him doing it again.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

Sylus

Part 2

Pairing: Sylus x f!Reader

Summary: You have to share some news with Sylus, you're just not sure how to tell him.

Warnings: Fluff, Pregnancy, Yes Sylus has a son but no worries girl dad agenda being pushed in the next part!

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Sylus is past his prime, that he knows. He isn’t the same young handsome man that he once was. Even if you insist that he looks better with each passing day, he knows he doesn’t look like he once did. It’s not something he dwells on though. He likes getting older with you.

“You have to stop acting like you’re dying, Sylus! You’re turning 40.” You scold him as you finish frosting the cake that you’ve poured your heart and soul into. The man has never really cared for birthdays until he got to spend them with you– And they became a sweet tradition until Sylus realized just how old he’s getting.

Sure, 40 isn’t that old but when you’re watching someone else grow with you, it makes you feel ancient. Especially since Sylus watched this person be born, and now he’s too old to spend time with his father.

“Couldn’t he have the sleepover on a different day? Did he have to go away on my birthday?” Sylus asks, swirling the glass in his hand. He can’t bear to look up at you because he doesn’t want you to see how upset he is about this. 

“I know it sucks, but we slowly have to get used to this. He’s a teenager.” You tell him, and he scoffs. Teenager. Just yesterday the child was begging Sylus to teach him how to ride a bike, but now he doesn’t have the time to spend with his old man.

“Yeah. Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “At least I don’t have to go through this again. It’s just one and done.”

“Right…” You awkwardly respond, and that gets his attention. He frowns, looking up at you as you continue making his cake.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sylus questions, and you come to a stop. Maybe you should’ve kept your mouth shut.

“I just said right.” You try to play it off, a chuckle leaving your lips. Perhaps it would’ve worked back when you started to date (it wouldn’t) but it won’t work now that you’ve been married for– He can’t tell you, he’s lost track of time. 

“Right? In that tone?” He points out, and you bite down your lip. Sylus reaches over to get some of the frosting from his cake, and you slap his hand away. 

“Wait till it’s time to cut it.” You scold him, and he clicks his tongue. 

“Can’t we cut it now? It’s just going to be the two of us anyway.” He says, and you shake your head. You pull the cake closer to you, and Sylus sighs again. “Can’t have my son, can’t have my cake, can’t get anything I want.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You tell him, and he lets out a low chuckle. Maybe he is.

“You sly fox, you changed the topic.” He replies, and you hold back a laugh. He stands up, walking over to you until he towers behind you. You can’t run away now.

You feel his breath on your neck as he lowers his head. He whispers, “What are you hiding, kitten?” 

“I’m not–”

“You really think you can lie to me?” He cuts you off before you even get a chance to finish the thought. There’s no need, Sylus can read your mind– Well almost. 

“I don’t want to ruin the night.” You confess, words that worry him.

“Ruin the night? How would it ruin the night?” He questions, and you shut your eyes. You begin to get nauseous, and you try to take deep breaths to calm yourself down. “What exactly are you keeping from me?”

“So you remember Koen’s terrible threes where you said that you would never have another child, and we agreed that he was more than enough?” You bring up, and he has no idea where you’re leading with this. He simply hums in response. “And you remember a couple of months ago where we had a little more alcohol than we should’ve?”

“Kitten, get to the point.” The connection doesn’t immediately happen in his mind, and you sigh. You didn’t want to outright say it, but he doesn’t get it.

“I’m pregnant, Sylus.” You spit out, and you feel as your heart drops. You were going to wait a couple of days before telling him but he spoiled the surprise.

Then he’s silent. For the longest minute of your life, he’s silent. And just when you’re about to speak up, he kisses your cheek. You turn around to face him, and he cups your face before kissing you. He kisses you over and over again before asking, “How would that ruin my night?”

“We haven’t agreed to have more kids and since you’re so bummed out about being old and all… You know–” You begin, and he lets out a low laugh. 

It’s been on his mind lately since his son has completely left him behind, he just didn’t want to bring it up. The universe has granted his wish without even trying.

“And when the baby turns ten you’ll be fifty and–” You ramble, and Sylus wants to scold you for ruining the moment, but it’s impossible. He simply kisses you, overjoyed by the news.

He’s becoming a father again.

[webslinger-holland]

The Color of Sin | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts*

Summary: This is Bob’s first field mission, tasked with going undercover alongside you at a high-profile party. The objective is simple: blend in, retrieve intel, and stay invisible. But when the mission forces you into close quarters—and even closer excuses—the lines between cover and craving blur fast.

Warning: NSFW 18+ minors DNI, loads of sexual tension, swearing, explicit sexual content (it's smut), dirty talk, suggestive content, intrusive thoughts, unprotected penetrative piv sex, yearning, mutual pining

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Type: Oneshot

Standing in front of a long gilded mirror, Bob stood awkwardly, wearing an expensive tuxedo and with his hair slicked back. He reflected a man who didn’t quite fit the suit—too stiff in the shoulders, too self-conscious in the cut of the jacket, like someone dressed for a life that didn’t belong to him. The bow tie tugged at his throat, and no matter how many times he adjusted the cuffs, he couldn't get them just right.

Valentina circled behind him like a lioness, heels clicking with the sharp, deliberate rhythm of someone who had better things to do. She gave a quick once-over, unimpressed.

“Jesus, Bob,” Valentine muttered, fixing his bow tie. “You’re built like a Greek god and still manage to look like a nervous teenage boy on prom night."

He didn’t argue. Just glanced down at his shoes, which gleamed too much, like he was trying to disappear into the shine.

"You need to loosen up. I know you're nervous with it being your first mission—" Valentina encouraged him.

His head snapped up. “I’m not nervous."

Val raises an unimpressed brow. “You’re sweating through Armani.”

Before either is able to get another word in, the door behind them opens. His eyes lifted on instinct and his shoulders stiffen at the sight. You step in and the room stops. His eyes find you and stay there.

The red dress clung to you like it had been poured directly onto your skin, silk catching the light with every movement, the slit along your thigh threatening to give more away with each step. The lipstick—same shade—made your mouth look like a secret waiting to be confessed. And yet, it was the way you held yourself—elegant, poised, utterly unaware of the fire you were walking into—that unmade him.

Valentina smirked devilishly. “Ah. There she is.”

You stepped inside slowly, running a hand down your hip as if adjusting the fabric, but you didn’t need to. The dress wasn't made to wrinkle.

“Too much?” you asked, smoothing a hand along the curve of your waist.

Bob shook his head slowly, not trusting his voice. “No. Not enough.” He immediately caught himself. “I mean—it’s… perfect. It’s fine. You look…” His voice cracked slightly. “…you look incredible.”

“Red is the color of sin. The color that makes powerful men stupid." Val gave a smug little smile; her eyes still on her tablet. She finally glanced at Bob who stood beside her and took in his dumbfound look. “Case in point.”

"Remind me again why I can't take any of the others with me instead?" You wondered, not taking your eyes off him. He swallowed thickly. He fiddled with his cufflink for the fifth time in under a minute.

“Well, Walker and Bucky are too recognizable—neither of them can step foot into a room full of politicians without someone clenching their teeth. Yelena got burned on a recent operative and Ava nearly shorted out the last comm set just walking into a building. And let’s not even talk about Alexei," Valentina said cooly.

Your shoulders slouched visibly, not from disappointment but more so from the nerves. This was going to be Bob's first field mission: a simple intel retrieval with low steaks meant to ease him into the line of work.

“Mr. Reynolds is a blank slate,” Val said, tapping her temple. “Most of the world doesn’t know whether he’s dead, missing, or a myth. That makes him useful.”

Bob stood a little straighter at that, like the praise caught him off guard.

“And you,” Val continued, turning to you with a half-smirk, “are the only operative I trust to handle both intel and attention.”

You arched a brow. “That’s reassuring.”

Bob swallows but nods slowly in agreement. You catch a flicker of something like pride flash in his expression—just a flicker—before he glances back at you.

Valentina reached into the inner pocket of her tailored blazer and handed you each a slim, nearly invisible earpiece. Both of you stuff the piece into your ear so it sits just right.

Val’s tone softens, just barely. “The others are on standby. We’ll be watching from the safehouse—cams, audio, thermal, the works. So keep your flirting subtle unless you want Bucky and John to start placing bets.”

You arched a brow. “They’re watching?”

“They’re bored,” Val said with a shrug, already back to typing something on her tablet. "So do me a favor and don't give them too big of a show. Otherwise, I'll never hear the end of it."

The two of you shifted to stand in front of her; your shoulders just barely brushing the other. She gave both of you one final once over, nodding in approval.

"Alright. Your car's out front. Don't mess this up," Val sent you a pointed look of warning. "It's time to steal some expensive intel."

The city lights shimmered below the rooftop terrace, glass railings framing a ballroom bathed in warm golden light. Soft jazz floated through the air from hidden speakers, its sultry rhythms weaving between conversations and clinking glasses. Diamonds sparkled on elegant necks like tiny stars come to earth, and champagne glistened in slender flutes, catching the glow from ornate chandeliers.

The ballroom was a sea of smiles and whispered secrets, but your eyes scanned for the unspoken paths—the staff corridors, the service stairways, anything that would lead you to the hallway Val had mentioned.

The two of you moved carefully through the crowd, trying best to blend in with your surroundings. You effortlessly snatched a champagne glass of a waiter's tray and raised it to your lips.

"Earpiece working?” You muttered under your breath so only he could hear you.

"Loud and clear," Bob confirmed. His voice was velvet. He leaned closer, his hand warm at the small of your back, pulling you in as you slipped through the crowd.

Heading up a short staircase, you slipped past clusters of laughing socialites, nodding politely. With Bob trailing behind you, his gaze flickering nervously from one suited guard to another. You began heading towards a much quieter hallway.

“This has to be it,” you recognized the hallway image from the intel in the debrief. "Follow me."

Bob nodded, swallowing hard and nervously looking over his shoulder half expecting to see someone following. Together, the pair continued heading down the quiet corridor that led towards the private suites, leaving behind the golden glow and champaign glasses.

You tapped your earpiece once. "Yelena, walk me through this."

“The intel’s not just anywhere— it’s in the host’s private suite, third floor, fourth door on the left. You’ll need to bypass the hallway security to get there. There’s a guard rotation every fifteen minutes; timing will be tight.” Yelena repeated through your earpiece.

You glanced at Bob, who nodded stiffly beside you. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Oh, look—" Yelena eagerly pointed to one of the monitors after spotting you. "Hi! I see you.”

"How's the crew doing tonight?" You wonder with a growing smile on your face.

Back at the safe house, the entire team crowded around five monitors that broadcast the live camera feed of the mansion. With Yelena and Ava wearing headsets, their fingers were poised over keyboards. Their eyes sharp and alert.

Behind them, John and Bucky stood with arms crossed, still watching the feeds for any sign of trouble or an unexpected complication.

Alexei, ever the thoughtful one, had brought an elaborate arrangement of snacks and drinks. The faint rustle of wrappers occasionally echoed softly through the comms, prompting a few light teasing remarks.

With a quick glance down at his watch, Bob predicted they were right on time. The guards were expected to be switching positions soon, which meant there would be a small amount of time where the bypass would be left unguarded.

"Next patrol should be coming in two minutes," Yelena's voice echoed calmly through your earpiece. "Your window of opportunity is now."

"Hang on," Bucky leaned over the back of her chair, eyes narrowing at the screen. He pointed to one of the guards leaving his post and heading their way. "We've got an early bird. I predict less than a minute out."

"What?" You froze in your place, suddenly panic spiking.

Yelena’s fingers paused over her keyboard. “That’s not in the schedule.”

"You guys have to get out of there," Ava repeated urgently over the comms. "That guard’s coming straight toward you.”

Not only was there very little time to think of something, there was also nowhere to turn to. The narrow hallway offered no covering, no escape, and no options.

"Shit—" you looked around desperately. You looked to him. "What do we do?"

With eyes locked, and in one impulsive motion, Bob grabbed you and backed you into a nearby wall. Before you even had the chance to react, Bob closed the distance between you. His lips found yours in a sudden, heated kiss—bold, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.

You gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss, angling his head until he completely blocked your face from view. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, desperately trying to pull him closer.

His body pressed you flush against the wall, slotting one of his thighs between your legs to keep you in place. The guards’ footsteps slowed, hesitation audible as they passed just behind you—too surprised, too caught off guard to react.

His hands didn’t wander, but held you firmly, anchoring you in place as the moment stretched. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, demanding softness—first a gentle press, testing the reaction, then sliding with slow, confident strokes that melted hesitation away.

Caught in the moment, a soft involuntary moan slipped from your throat—just enough to remind him, to tether the heat to the reality of the mission. He reluctantly pulled away from you: his face flush, breath mingling, and eyes searching yours.

Back in the surveillance room, the rest of the team fell silent as they watched the entire thing unfold on the cameras. Everyone had leaned in a little too close to the screens, jaws slack, eyes wide, not one of them pretending to look away.

“Whoa—what the fuck—wow.” Yelena sat upright. She looked over her shoulder to see everyone else looking just as stunned as she was. Her lips curved into a slow grin before she let out a bright, disbelieving laugh. "Okay, that is fucking insane."

“Wow! In the middle of a mission?” Alexei said, taking a swig from his beer. “Pretty ballsy.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His arms crossed tight. “What the hell is he doing?”

John leaned in beside him, his expression a mix of confusion, disgust, and reluctant awe. “I didn’t know Bobby had it in him.”

“He doesn’t,” Ava cut in smoothly, her eyes sharp as she pointed to one of the camera angles. “Look how red he is.”

They all leaned forward again and squinted, narrowing their eyes toward the feed.

“Oh yeah,” Yelena confirmed, laughing again. “Look at that neck. Bright red.”

Back to the corridor, Bob was still trying to catch his breath. The heat of the kiss lingered on his lips and your perfume was still caught in his lungs. His pulse thundered in his ears.

You were still staring up at him with wide, bright eyes, your chest rising and falling in shallow bursts as you tried to reclaim the air the moment had stolen.

“I—I think we’re clear now,” you said softly, your voice not as steady as you probably meant it to be.

He gave a tight, wordless nod. "Right. Clear."

“Come on, Romeo. Snap out of it,” Yelena’s voice crackled in his ear, full of teasing bite. He blinked once, instantly snapping back to reality. He took a step away from you.

You adjusted your dress, squared your shoulders, and gave him a glance that was unreadable. You kept walking down the corridor, knowing he was quickly in tow.

"Wow," Yelena’s voice purred in your earpiece. You just knew she was smirking on the other end. "Bet you liked that. That was some kiss."

“Shut up,” you grumbled, heat rising to your face

Following the team's direction, the two of you navigated deeper through the corridor, moving swiftly now that the hallway was clear again. It wasn't long before you located the host’s private suite where the intel was being secretly stashed.

You knelt without hesitation, picking the lock with practiced hands. The mechanism gave with a satisfying click and the door creaked open slowly on well-oiled hinges.

Stepping inside, you were immediately struck by the shift in atmosphere. The suite was lavish but sterile, all expensive materials and little personality—dark wood floors, tall bookshelves, a marble minibar. There were signs someone had been here recently: a half-drunk glass of scotch, a coat tossed carelessly on the bed, a laptop glowing softly on the desk.

"I'm not seeing a safe," you observed. You cautiously stepped into the room, surveying your surroundings. Your eyes scanned the space with practiced precision—bookshelf, minibar, side table, bathroom door slightly ajar.

Behind you, Bob quietly shut the door with a soft click and remained near it. He stood rigid, back straight, as if expecting the handle to turn at any moment. His eyes tracked you—every step, every movement, every brush of your hand against the edge of the desk.

You rifled through every drawer, moved books aside to look for hidden panels in the walls, and felt the undercarriage of furniture for buttons. You knew you were running out of time; those guards were going to be coming back any moment now.

"Yelena," you pressed a finger to your earpiece. "It's not here."

"It has to be," Yelena insisted. She flipped through some papers to confirm. "This is the room."

The sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway, along with sounds of people talking. Naturally, Bob's whole body stiffened. His eyes blown wide.

“They’re coming.” Bob whisper yelled in slight panic.

A brief flare of panic arose in your chest. Your eyes scanned the room and landed on the half open door that led to the bathroom. Both of you swiftly moved towards the bathroom, slipping inside the tiled room silently.

You heard the door of the suite twisting from the short distance. Without thinking, you roughly grabbed Bob by the front of his suit and pushed him into the bathtub. He landed with a muffled grunt, arms flailing slightly. One leg hooking clumsily over the edge before he managed to fold himself in.

You climbed in after him, nearly slipping in your heels, and fell into the space between his legs, your front pressing into his chest as you yanked the curtain closed behind you. The suite door creaked open and the voices grew louder upon approach.

Bob made a soft “oof” as your knee jabbed into his ribs, but you covered his mouth before he complained more. You held a finger up to your own lips in the dim light, your message clear: Don’t say a word. Don’t even breathe.

You were practically on top of him—your knees bent awkwardly on either side of him. He wrapped one arm around your lower back without thinking, more instinct than invitation, holding you still as you both sank lower, trying to disappear into the porcelain.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare acknowledge the way your heart was slamming against your chest.

Both of you listened carefully; your hand instinctively slid away from his mouth. The voices grew louder, closer. The sound of a chair dragging. Some footsteps pacing the suite. Low chatter over their radio.

You leaned in lower without thinking, trying to make yourselves smaller. Bob’s breath ghosted across your cheek. His other hand had pressed lightly to your waist to steady you, but the contact was starting to burn through your dress. You flattened your hands to his chest.

"Secure room’s empty.”

“You sure? That motion detector lit up.” Your eyes grew wide in realization.

“Check the bathroom.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you down flat against him, chest to chest, nose to nose, curled in the narrow porcelain basin. You braced for the moment you'd be caught by the guards.

You held your breath, face pressed to Bob’s throat, barely daring to move. His hand slipped between your shoulders, shielding you like a human shield, his body tense beneath you.

A shadow passed behind the curtain. A guard stood right there.

You felt Bob’s breath warm at your ear, the rhythm of it slowing as he deliberately calmed his pulse. He was like a wall beneath you, steady and solid, even as your entire body practically molded to his.

The guard stood for a moment longer, and then turned.

“Nothing here. Room’s clean.” The door clicked shut.

You stayed still for five long seconds before exhaling shakily. Your fingers were still twisted in Bob’s jacket.

“That was close” you whispered, finally lifting your head.

“You good?” Bob asked, face inches from yours.

You nodded then looked up. Above his shoulder, just behind his head, was a tile in the wall with a faint seam. It was a little odd looking; if you looked too long, it would appear out of place. You froze in realization.

“There it is.” You smiled to yourself.

"What?” Bob tried to crane his head to see what you were looking at.

“This tile in the wall. I bet the hard drive is hidden there. I need—” you braced a hand on his chest to steady yourself, “—I need to get on top of you.”

He swallowed. “Wait! You’re gonna…”

"Stop moving—" you cut him off. "I need to get higher."

Bob blinked once. “Okay. Yeah. Right. I’m listening.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not like that. Shut up.”

You carefully shifted, awkwardly climbing further up his torso, knees on either side of him as you leaned toward the hidden panel just behind the tub. Your dress rode up your thighs, and your balance shifted as you reached over his head, arm stretching to pry the tile free.

He swallowed hard as you leaned over him, the line of your back arched, the soft weight of your thighs braced on either side of his ribs. Bob stayed completely still, only his eyes moving—flicking once down, then forcibly away when he caught a glimpse of lace under your dress.

Bob made a sound deep in his throat—one you could feel more than hear.

“Not looking,” Bob muttered.

"Don't lie," you replied without looking at him. Your fingers scrabbled against the tile. “Almost got it…”

Bob squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled hard through his nose, as if physically blowing the thoughts out of his head. "I’m really not trying to—think about this.”

“I know,” you whispered, voice soft and maddeningly sweet. Your fingers brushed his chest again as you shifted higher. “You’re doing so good.”

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t say it like that.”

His hands gripping the porcelain on either side of him so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

The tile finally gave way with a soft pop, and your hand darted in to grab the small flash drive. He peeked an eye open.

Without thinking, you strategically placed the flash drive down the front of your dress for safe keeping. It would be tucked securely into the inner band of your bra, flush against your skin.

All the while, Bob watched the movement with wide eyes. His throat went dry and he squeezed his eyes shut again to block his thoughts.

You glanced down at him—still beneath you, eyes dark, breathing uneven. His eyes were closed, brows drawn in painful concentration, like he was trying to slow his breathing through sheer force of will.

“Alright” you said softly. “We got it.”

"Great," Bob commented. Neither of you made any plans to move.

“I should move,” you announced.

“Probably,” Bob rasped, nodding.

Finally, somewhat reluctantly, you finally slipped off of him and climbed out of the bathtub. He exhaled like he hadn’t breathed since you climbed on top of him, then sat up slowly, trying to pretend he wasn’t completely wrecked inside. He climbed out after you.

“You good?” you asked again, smoothing your dress like nothing had happened.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Bob sent you the smallest smile of reassurance. When your back was turned to him, Bob dutifully adjusted himself in his pants and mumbled a complaint under his breath about his pants being too tight now.

The air in the hallway was cooler than the bathroom, but it did nothing to settle the heat beneath your skin.

He kept close behind you—still flushed, still rattled—but focused enough to watch your six as you navigated back through the hallway. The guard rotation had cycled clean, just like Yelena promised, and within two minutes you both reached the service elevator at the end of the corridor.

You hit the call button and exhaled only when the doors slid open.

Inside, the air was stale and dimly lit. The doors closed behind you with a mechanical hiss. Finally, there was a long stretch of silence between you as you stood on opposite sides.

“We can’t pass the checkpoint with it on you,” Bob said quietly, watching you from just a foot away. “They’ll scan.”

You nodded. Your fingers hovered over your chest for a moment, just under your collarbone, unsure how to do this delicately. But there was no time for delicacy.

You reached inside.

The silk of your dress shifted as you slid your hand down, fingertips grazing the edge of your bra. The drive was pressed between fabric and skin, nestled against your sternum, and you could feel Bob watching.

His eyes were locked to your hand, his jaw tight, chest rising slightly faster. He looked like he wanted to look away—but he didn’t.

His voice was low when he spoke. “I can turn around.”

You pulled the drive free with a small gasp of relief. “Don’t.”

He stilled. You looked up at him. His eyes were still right there. Not on the drive. Not on your hand. On the skin of your chest.

Your voice was light, teasing—but your heart was pounding. "Eyes up here, Reynolds."

His lips parted slightly. His gaze lifted, slow and guilty and just a little dazed. Like he wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring. His ears tinted red just slightly.

He swallowed hard. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

You handed the little piece of metal to him, fingers delicately brushing against his enough to make his breath catch once again. He stuffed it carefully into the pocket of his suit.

The feeling of the elevator halting and the prompt ding sound of arrival meant there was little time to linger. It didn't take much effort to slip back into the crowd and make a hasty escape.

The engine purred beneath the dark silence of the night. With Bob driving, he kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other was flexing uselessly against his thigh. The glittering skyline was shrinking behind you, reflected briefly in the mirrors before being swallowed by the hills.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms propped against the window ledge and eyes fixed out the window. Neither of you said a word since the elevator.

He stole a quick glance at you before redirecting his eyes to the road ahead of him. "You okay?" He asked.

“Fine,” you said quickly, too quickly.

“I meant… back there. With the kiss. With the whole…” Bob gestured vaguely with one hand. “Everything.”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept your eyes on the passing trees. “You did what you had to do.”

“I didn’t have to kiss you,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

That made you turn slowly. You narrowed your eyes at him, searching for some hidden meaning behind those words.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed. The tip of his ear was turning red.

“Is that your way of saying you wanted to?” you asked.

He let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between frustrated and helpless. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know my heart hasn’t stopped racing since.”

You didn't know what to say either. He glanced at you—just once, then back to the road.

“I don’t… do this. I’m not good at it.” Bob ran a hand over his face in frustration. You weren't sure what he was specifically referring to: the mission or his relationships.

You let the silence hang there for a few seconds, watching the way his hands gripped the wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world.

"You could... get better at it." You suggested loosely. Bob’s hand twitched on the gearshift.

That was all the encouragement he needed to slow the car down and direct it off the main road. He turned down a quiet side road that dipped into the dark edge of the countryside. The gravel crunching under the tires until the car came to a full stop.

He put it in park and stared ahead, jaw tight. He reached over, fingers brushing yours as he finally turned toward you. His voice was low, rough with something like need.

"Are you sure you want this?" Bob asked, needing the honest truth form you before anything else.

"More than anything," you confessed.

Reaching down, Bob removed his seatbelt and leaned over the console between you. His hand cupped the side of your face, drawing you closer until your lips met in a heated kiss. You gasped against him and he deepened the kiss immediately, one hand tangling into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he’d been starving for it—starving for you.

Somehow, the two of you managed to climb into the backseat together in a tangle of limbs and gasped breaths. The doors stayed locked, the windows fogging over with each passing second. The world outside no longer mattered.

The air was thick with heat and barely-muffled desire. Bob pulled you into his lap like he needed you there to breathe, hands roaming over your dress, along your back, gripping your thighs as you straddled him. 

His mouth found your throat, open and warm, as you arched against him. You let your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging when his teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your jaw. He groaned low, the sound vibrating against your skin, making your whole body hum.

“You don’t know...” he rasped against your neck, “...how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“Then shut up and do it.” You challenged.

His hands fumbled at your thighs, hiking your dress higher and roughly dragging your hips again his pants. Your nails scraped down his chest through his shirt, yanking his tie loose, popping buttons with little care for subtlety.

Clothes weren’t fully shed—just pushed aside where it mattered most. Your hands slid down to his belt, fumbling the clasp until the soft clink of metal echoed in the quiet car. He struggled briefly with his fly and zipper, hips lifting to help slide his pants down just enough to free himself.

Your lips were still pressed to Bob’s when a familiar voice crackled softly in your earpiece.

“Everything okay? The car is stopped—” Yelena’s tone was light but teasing, perfectly timed to snap you both out of your heated haze.

You pulled back, breath shaky, eyes wide in realization. His cheeks flamed a deep red, and he tried to pull his hand from under your dress, but you grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"Don't you dare," you sent him a look of warning. You yanked the earpiece out first, the tiny device nearly cracking in your grip.

Bob followed suit a beat later, ripping his out and tossing it somewhere on the floor of the car like it might burn him.

You kissed him again. His breath hitched as your fingers closed around him, thick and hard beneath your touch, every movement driving a fierce heat straight through both of you. His hips jerked slightly, the friction teasing, unbearable and addictive all at once.

Neither of you noticed the small green light blinking to life on the dashboard. And neither of you heard the faint pop of the car’s built-in comms reconnecting. The team tuning in again unbeknownst to you.

All that mattered to you right now was him.

So you didn’t hesitate. Guiding him, you carefully lined him up with your entrance. The slick heat pooling low between your thighs was a fierce invitation you could no longer resist. Slow at first, Bob slid inside you, filling you completely, every inch stretching and burning deliciously.

A sharp breathy gasp escaped your lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as he held you steady against him. He moved with a torturous slowness, drawing out the moment, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to leave bruises but gentle enough to promise he wouldn’t let go. He guided your movements with precision, hips rising just enough to meet you, watching every flicker of pleasure flash across your face. His eyes never left you—not your mouth, not the way your brows knit together, not the way you gasped each time you sank down on him.

You moved in sync, finding a rhythm that was both tender and urgent, every thrust a raw confession of need.

Then Bob started thrusting up into you—controlled, relentless, deeper. His hands dragged you down onto him in time with each pulse of his hips, and the pace shifted from steady to greedy.

The car rocked gently beneath you, the windows fogged with your breath, the interior thick with heat, sweat, and slick friction. Your gasps mingled with his low groans, the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again filling the space around you.

His mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip in a tantalizing tease as he deepened his thrusts, driving you closer to the edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasped against your skin, voice cracked and hungry. “So perfect.”

You matched him—grinding, rolling your hips, desperately trying to reach your peak. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until the world narrowed down to the heat between your bodies.

Your breath hitched, your muscles tensing as the waves of pleasure began to build, coiling tighter and tighter.

“Bob…” you whispered, voice trembling and body falling apart.

He groaned low, voice rough with need. “Come for me. I've got you.”

And you did—your body shuddering in release, breath ragged, fingers clawing at his back as you trembled against him. You cried out into his mouth as your muscles clenched around him, riding it through, pulsing and shaking in his lap.

He held you tight, grinding up into you once, twice—then with a guttural, broken growl, he came, hips snapping up hard as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed against your collarbone.

For long moments, you both stayed like that—entwined, hearts pounding, bodies spent but connected, the silence between you soft and full of promise. You held each other through the waves of aftershocks.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Just the sound of your breathing, the sweat cooling between you, your bodies still locked together. You leaned against his chest to catch your breath.

His arms stayed wrapped around your back, hands smoothing over your spine. You could feel the way his chest still rose and fell beneath yours, how tightly he held you even now. He tried to brush some of his loose curls out of his face.

Finally, softly—his voice barely more than breath:

"Fuck. I think I’m in trouble.”

You smiled weakly against his shoulder. “That was… practice?”

He laughed once—hoarse, warm. “Apparently, I’m a fast learner.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, flushed and shining in the dim light.

“Then I guess you better keep showing up for lessons.” You brushed your nose against his teasingly, releasing the softest gasp when you felt him twitch inside you again.

His lips curved slowly, fingers tightening around your waist.

“Deal.”

[bi-writes]

Since he won't have MOB lift a finger in their home and given how he reacted when she came out in her lingerie, I like to imagine Simon gets a little flustered whenever he's doing the laundry and he's got to sort out her underwear from the rest of the clothes

mail-order bride

it's quiet this afternoon. it's cold outside again (what a surprise), and there's rain pattering gently against the windows. there's a stew in the oven, but it still needs a few hours to get that perfect tender texture. nevertheless, the house is filled with a warm smell, something hearty and wonderful.

something like home.

when simon walks into the living room, he sees you there. you're curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, head resting on a throw pillow as you watch a movie. there's a mug of tea in front of you, steam rising from it, and simon comes over to greet you.

you turn your head, looking up at him towering over you, and you smile up at him as you snuggle a little further into the pillow. you hold out your hand for him.

"wanna watch with me?" you ask, and he clicks his tongue, shaking his head. he takes your hand anyways, and you swallow hard as he presses your knuckles to his lips, giving them a light kiss before letting go.

"doin' the laundry. can't find yours."

you go to sit up, but simon frowns, visibly upset that you're moving from your spot.

"don't get up," he tells you, tucking the blanket back over you. "just tell me where it is."

you bite your lip.

"uhm...it's in the closet. there's...a bag there."

simon hums, thumbing over your jaw before making his way into the bedroom. he flicks the light on in the closet, moving hangers around until he spots a canvas bag on the floor there, stuffed to the brim with your dirty clothes. he picks it up, cursing a little from how heavy it is, and he carries it with him to the washroom. when he passes the living room, he stops for a moment.

"oi," he calls out to you, and you turn your head, smiling at him, and he points to the bag. "you put y'r clothes with mine from now on, yeah?"

you tuck your face behind the blanket a little more to hide your growing smile. you nod anyways, and he huffs a little before continuing. he puts his basket of laundry on top of the dryer, opening the lid of the washer, and he lifts your little bag up next to the basket. after he sets it down, he steps back when the bag starts to move.

"oi! wot the fuck?!"

at the shout, you scramble off the couch, hurrying towards where he is.

"what? what?! what happened?"

"bag's fuckin' movin'!" simon huffs, but when you try to come further into the room, simon puts a hand on your chest gently, pushing you backwards and behind him. he blocks you completely with his body, and you still can barely see as you stand on your toes and try and look over his shoulder.

"simon--" you sigh. "simon! wait--let me see!"

"fuck no," he snarls, "stay there."

he pushes the bag over so that it tips over, falling onto its side. your clothes tumble out, spilling onto the dryer and onto the floor, and simon reaches around him and wraps one big hand around your waist protectively to hold you back as he cranes his neck to see.

"what is it? simon!" you hiss, and simon holds his breath as the bag continues to move. there's a wiggle of a shape under the canvas before a familiar little head pokes itself out from the opening, one of your shirt sleeves framing their face and hiding their ears.

simon groans audibly, relaxing immediately.

"fuckin' hell," he mutters, letting you push him aside, and you hold onto his bicep as you try and hide your laugh. the cat wriggles its way through your shirt sleeve before shaking, fluffing her hair back up before she takes a seat on the edge of the dryer lid and starts to lick her little paw. "'ow did it fuckin' breathe in there, eh?"

you step past him and reach for her, picking her up off the dryer and tucking her into the crook of your arm. she lays her little head on your arm, blinking slowly up at you, and you tap her nose gently before looking back and up at simon.

"sorry she scared you, big man," you giggle, and he scrunches his nose a bit as he glares at the cat.

"wasn't scared," he huffs, and he brings you closer with a hand on your jaw, drawing you nearer. he runs his tongue over his teeth, looking down at you, and you swear his gaze lingers on your lips for just a second too long. "got precious cargo in m'house. couldn't let anythin' happen ta 'er."

you blink up at him, opening your mouth to say something, but you sputter, laughing, looking away from him. you shrug him off with a roll of your eyes, but you look back at him just as you're about to turn the corner and leave. he's already back to picking up your clothes that have fallen onto the floor, and you nearly choke when he's got one big hand wrapped around bright red lace.

he holds up the edges of it for a moment to inspect it, and he swallows when he realizes it's a pair of your panties.

your favorite panties.

when he looks over his shoulder, your eyes lock, and you squeak as you hide behind the doorway, shutting your eyes as you cringe at yourself for reacting so silly.

for fuck's sake, it's your husband--husbands wash their wives undergarments, right?

you poke your head back into the doorway, just enough for your eyes to get simon in view again. he's putting the rest of the clothes in the washer, putting a small amount of soap into it before shutting the top and putting the water on cold. you hide again when he turns around, flattening your back against the wall, and when he comes out, he's got a hint of a smirk on his face, knowing, because he knows he's caught you.

when he passes by you, you go half-lidded and slack when his hand finds your face again, thumb against your bottom lip. his eyes are so dark; beautiful, pupils blown wide, a magnet that draws you closer, up onto your toes until his thumb is nearly touching your tongue and your lips are nearly brushing against his.

simon takes your breath away when he leaves. you follow him hoping to get it back.

[okwonyo]

SUGAR TALKING ꒪ ✿⠀ making doe eyes at them.

TESTI ────── 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗆𝖾, 𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝗅𝖾𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄 !

❪ 日语 ❫ & fem!rea 1OOO fluff established relationship non-idol au ❜ skinship kissing ◜‿◝ REBLOGS&CLICK

지아 ⠀⦂⠀ since it won the poll :O

HEESEUNG

usually, he isn’t the the type to talk too much during movie nights. his hand always in yours as he watches the movie enthusiastically, never missing one bit of it.

but today it seems different— you don’t really know if it’s either because he is very passionate about this specific actor or if it’s because you called the said actor ‘hot’. but he won’t stop talking.

“seriously!” he huffs after a few seconds of calm. he smiles and shakes his head in fake nonchalance, “i don’t understand what he has that i don’t. do you prefe—”

the rest of his sentence dies in his throat when his eyes meet yours. you look at him wide eyed, with a little pout that makes his heart skip.

“shut up please,” you ask with a honey coat voice— his eyes grow wide. he is soon giggling, leaning on you, as if what you just said wasn’t almost an insult.

at least he stops talking.

⠀ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ﹙ᵕ ᵕ⠀look under the cut ! ♡

JAY

it is not a secret that you can get anything you want out of him. whether it’s his money or the entire world— you ask and you shall receive.

therefore, you don’t need to do anything else but ask for something that you want. because you know you got him wrapped around your finger. and that, if you wanted the moon, then you will have the moon.

sometimes, however, there is things that can’t be bought or that are hard to ask for. today, you want his attention.

you decided to not go bother him as you usually do. no, you choose to stare at him from across the room with the most bambi looking eyes you could manage. he should have noticed by now.

the long silence is what alarms him. he looks over you quickly, “are you—” then he looks again and his mouth falls agape. he sighs fondly, “c’mere, baby,”

JAKE

it’s not your fault. it really isn’t. he shouldn’t have been so easy to tease in the first place. getting a blush out of him is too easy and he is way too lovely for you to control yourself.

and ever since he confessed that he loved when you looked at him with those yes— you cannot stop looking at him with those eyes.

for a while, he is too occupied on his phone to even notice. but when his eyes shoots up to meet yours, he immediately smiles.

instinctively biting his lower lip, he stays silent for a while before throwing his head back and whining, “stop doing that!”

your eyes keep watching his growing blush as you laugh, “like what?” and he groans.

SUNGHON

he swears you do it all the time, but the truth is that you don’t even know what he is talking about. he mays affirm that you play dumb in purpose— you don’t, you really don’t.

the thing is that, he would say that you are trying to seduce him whenever you try to do anything. you run a hand through you hair? you want to make out. you grin? you want him to kiss you.

you just assumed he was that down bad.

“you are playing with me,” he smirks, looking down at you. your bodies moves along with the train you are standing in. you were already looking at him, but now there is confusion in your eyes. “don’t look at me like that.”

“what?” you giggle. honestly, you didn’t even know you were looking at him. admiring him is natural as breathing to you, “are you crazy?”

“when you look at me like that,” he whispers as he leans in. your arms are hugging his waist, your head is all the way titled up and he is so handsome, “my heart beats with need.”

SUNOO

you know he doesn’t get mad often— even if he does act like he is. he is too much of a softie to even think of being annoyed with you.

more times than not, he gets sulky. lips puckered as he gives you the silent treatment. it is always for silly things, however, just because he loves when you ask him to talk to you.

“i love you,” you tell him, holding onto his arm. he doesn’t do anything, obviously hiding his smile—and failing. “look at me.”

he takes a deep breath before bringing his focus on your instead of the dishes in front of him. his eyes fall into yours, “stop,” he says. turning red.

he tries to keep his annoyed attitude as hard as possible. he starts to take care of the dishes in the sink again— as if, trying to distract himself.

he keeps peeking at you. unable to control himself, he ends up crumbling. he hides his face in the crook of your neck in embarrassment.

JUNWGON

“my love, i’ll have to go eventually,” his tone is soft, his chuckles makes it harder for you to even consider letting him leave the bed and let him leave you.

he is not even gone. he is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you. you hold his hand with both of yours— chasing after his warmth that you already miss.

you don’t really care where he is going, you want him here. you make the most adorable eyes you can put up, in a tiny voice you say, “can’t you stay a little longer?”

he seems a tad taken aback. on of his eyebrows shots up ever so slightly. pretty red lips forms a ‘o’ and his dimples smiles when he smiles.

gets back under the cover, close to you. he kisses you gently, “work can wait.”

RIKI

“leave me alone!” your boyfriend whines, faking annoyance. he is laying on your bed, next to your plushies, with his hands on your hips as you sit on

him. he acts like he wants to push you away but his grip is way too strong.

he gets up, rather abruptly, making you settle on his laps. he makes sure you are as comfortable as possible but holds your wrists when you try to reach his hair.

“just a few!” giggles makes your voice tremble. you try to get out of his handle but you can’t— he is much stronger that you, “please!”

he looks at the hello kitty hairpins in your hands with narrowed eyes. he doesn’t look against the idea at all, you know he just fights because of principle, “no!”

you tilt your head to the side slightly, the prettiest pout appearing on your lips. you look at him with a specific look— the one who made him choked on his drink the first time. “please, for me,”

you are already wearing a victorious grin as soon as he groans. he ends up with more than just a few hairpins in his hair.

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[ivyues]

Friendly Fire: Stray Kids' reactions to accidently causing their S/O a minor injury

Bang Chan

Chris gasped, immediately reaching out to steady you. "Oh my god—babe! Are you okay?" His eyes were wide with panic as he carefully looked you over. When he noticed you rubbing your arm, his expression twisted with guilt.

"I wasn’t looking—I just—ugh, I’m so stupid," he groaned, ruffling his hair in frustration. Then his gaze dropped to your arm, and he let out a dramatic sigh. "You’re gonna bruise, aren’t you? I literally just hurt my own girlfriend – what kind of boyfriend does that?"

You tried to reassure him, chuckling softly. "Chris, it’s fine. It was an accident."

But Chris, still looking at your arm, was clearly having trouble letting it go. He stepped closer, lowering his gaze with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. "No, seriously. Let me see it," he said softly, his voice suddenly tinged with concern. He gently cupped your arm and lifted it so he could inspect the spot where the small bruise was starting to form. "It looks... pretty bad, huh?"

You gave him a small smile. "It’s not that bad, really."

Over the next few days, Chris becomes obsessed with checking on the bruise. Every time you roll up your sleeves or he catches sight of it, his face immediately drops. His expression fades into one of pure regret, his brows furrowing as if he just got reminded of the worst thing he’s ever done.

"Ah... it’s still there," he mumbles, almost to himself, his lips pressing into a guilty pout.

"It’s fine, Chris," you reassure him, but he just shakes his head dramatically.

"Fine? Fine?! Look at it!" He gently takes your arm. "It’s so dark—I knew it was going to bruise badly. I swear, I have to be more careful with you…"

He sighs deeply, rubbing his face with his hands before looking at you with the saddest puppy eyes making sure he's the gentlest with you from then on.

Lee Know

You were reaching for a spoon just as Minho went to shut the drawer. Before either of you could react, the drawer shut on your fingers. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as you quickly pulled your hand away, wincing at the sting.

Minho’s eyes widened in immediate shock. "Yah!" His voice was sharp, but his hands were quick, grabbing your wrist to inspect the damage. "Why would you put your hand in when I was closing it?" His brows furrowed in a mix of frustration and concern.

You pouted slightly. "I didn’t think you’d close it that fast…"

He let out a sigh, shaking his head before pulling you towards a chair. "Sit. Now." His tone was firm. He quickly went to get an ice pack, muttering to himself about how reckless you were.

Returning, he carefully pressed the cold pack against your fingers. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, softer now. "Does it hurt a lot?" he asked, his voice quieter.

You shook your head. "Not too bad."

He clicked his tongue, still frowning. "Be careful next time."

After a few minutes, you tried to get up to help him again, but before you could even take a step, Minho placed his hands on your shoulders and firmly pushed you back down. "Nope. You’re staying there," he said, not even looking at you as he went back to what he was doing.

"But I can still—"

"No, you can’t," he cut you off. "Do I have to tape you to the chair?”

By the time he was finished, he walked over to where you were sitting and, instead of saying anything, leaned down and rested his head on your shoulder from behind.

A sigh escaped him as he relaxed against you. "You always do this," he murmured. "Getting hurt, then making me feel bad, and then acting like nothing happened."

Changbin

Changbin had always been careful with you. Always mindful of his strength, always gentle with his touches. But today, he was distracted.

You had just walked into the room, planning to give him a back hug. He was standing by the counter, completely focused on his phone.

Just as you stepped closer, he suddenly turned, his elbow swinging and catching you on the forehead.

The impact sent a sting through your skin, and your hand flying up to the spot instinctively.

His eyes widened in horror. 

“Oh my God.” His voice was already laced with panic. “No, no, no—baby, I didn’t see you!”

You winced but tried to shake it off, offering a small smile. “Ouch. I didn’t know elbows were part of your workout routine.”

But he didn’t laugh. His lips pressed into a thin line as if he was trying to hold back how upset he was.

He gently reached up, fingers brushing over the spot he had hit. His touch was featherlight, hesitant, but you still winced slightly at the pressure. The way his jaw clenched told you he noticed.

“Does it hurt?” His voice was barely above a whisper, guilt thick.

“It’s okay, Binnie,” you reassured, placing your hand over his. “I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Then quickly opened the freezer to grab a small ice pack, wrapping it in a paper towel before hurrying back to you.

“Here, hold this.” He gently placed the cool pack against your forehead himself, making sure it wasn’t too cold against your skin. “It might not swell, but just in case.”

Your heart melted at the way he was looking at you – soft, regretful, completely focused on taking care of you. He sighed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple – careful, apologetic. “I still feel awful.”

“Don’t, but… can I still get the hug I originally wanted?”

Hyunjin

Hyunjin playfully snatched the paper from your hands, grinning as he held it just out of your reach. “Hey, let me see that—”

But before he could finish his sentence, the edge of the paper scraped against your finger.

You flinched, a sharp sting shooting through your skin. “Ow—”

Hyunjin’s smile vanished in an instant. His eyes widened in pure horror as he dropped the paper like it was on fire. “Oh my god—Y/N! Are you okay? Did I just—? No way, tell me I didn’t—”

You looked down at the tiny red line forming on your fingertip, letting out a small sigh. “It’s just a paper cut, Hyunjin. I’ll be fine.”

But he wasn’t convinced. He gently took your hand in his, holding it like it was the most fragile thing in the world. “Oh my god, I hurt you,” he mumbled, guilt heavy in his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”

Without another word, he scrambled to grab a small first aid kit from the nearby table. “Give me your hand,” he muttered under his breath as he carefully placed it over your finger.

Once it was securely in place, he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss over the bandaid. His warm eyes met yours, filled with so much sincerity it made your heart flutter. “That should help it heal faster,” he said softly.

You bit back a smile, warmth spreading through your chest. Unable to resist his adorableness, you playfully shook your head.

Han

Han had only meant to play around, nudging you lightly with his shoulder as you walked side by side. But he didn’t realize you weren’t standing all that stable – and before either of you could react, you stumbled, losing your balance completely and landing on the ground with a small thud.

The moment you hit the floor, Han’s playful smile vanishes. His eyes go wide with panic, and he’s crouching beside you in an instant.

“Oh my god—wait, are you okay?!” His hands hover uncertainly, torn between helping you up and checking for injuries. Then, when he sees the glint of unshed tears in your eyes, his heart clenches painfully.

“I—wait—did I actually hurt you?” His voice is laced with pure guilt. “I swear, I didn’t mean—ugh, I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head quickly, blinking away the tears before they can fall. “No, no, it’s fine. It didn’t even hurt that bad.” You sniffle, willing yourself to push past the sting of the fall. But Han clearly doesn’t buy it.

“You’re crying,” he points out, lips pressing into a worried pout. “Where does it hurt? Do you need ice? A bandage? I can carry you—should I carry you?” His panic is growing by the second, now making tears of his own form on the waterline of his eyes.

His dramatics finally crack a smile out of you, and you nudge his arm lightly. “Hey, I said I’m fine.”

He blinks, then exhales in visible relief. “Oh, thank god. You scared me, you know?”

He lets out a small whine before nuzzling his head against your shoulder, his way of silently apologizing. You huff a soft laugh and ruffle his hair affectionately. “Next time, tell me if you’re about to fall over so I can not be an idiot,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled against your sleeve.

Felix

Felix had been playfully pulling you along, his warm hand wrapped tightly around yours as he led you through the bustling streets. His deep, honey-like laughter rang in your ears as he turned back to flash you one of his signature sunshine smiles.

"Come on, love! Keep up!" he teased, eyes twinkling with mischief.

But in his excitement, Felix didn’t realize how fast he was going. As he quickly tugged you around a sharp corner, you barely had time to register what was happening before your shoulder slammed into the hard wall.

The impact made you stumble, a small yelp escaping your lips. Immediately, Felix froze, his grip on your hand tightening before he spun around to face you, panic overtaking his features.

“Baby!” His hands were on you in an instant, gently cupping your face, eyes darting frantically from your expression to the point of impact. “Are you okay? I swear I didn’t mean to—ahh, why am I so stupid?” He groaned, eyebrows knitting together as he carefully examined you.

You laughed lightly, rubbing your sore shoulder. “I’m fine, Lix. It’s just a little bump.”

But he wasn’t having any of it. “Nope. Not fine. I just threw my love against a wall.” He pouted, his lips forming a deep frown, the corners of his mouth trembling slightly.

You squeezed his hand reassuringly, offering him a warm smile. “Lix, really, it’s okay. I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.” You gave his fingers a playful squeeze. “Just maybe don’t go full-speed next time?”

Felix sighed, but then his expression softened. This time, his grip was gentler – fingers lacing through yours with careful intently. “Let me make it up to you,” he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before guiding you forward at a slower, more considerate pace.

Seungmin

Seungmin’s laughter faded the second the coffee cup tipped, the warm liquid splashing onto your hand. 

“Ah—!” You flinched, quickly pulling your hand away as a sharp warmth spread across your skin. It wasn’t excruciating, but it still stung.

His eyes widened in horror as you hissed in pain, quickly pulling away to rush to the sink.

“Oh my God—Y/N—” His voice was sharper than usual, edged with panic as he followed you. He hovered beside you while you let the cold water run over the burn, his hands balled into fists like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, even though the skin was still an angry shade of red. You could already see the guilt settling into his features, his jaw tightening.

“No, you’re not,” he muttered, then exhaled sharply. “Come on, let’s go get it checked.”

You turned off the faucet and shook your head. “Seungmin, it’s just a little red. It’s not even blistering. You’re just—.”

He didn’t let you finish, gently nudging your shoulder. “Still. What if it gets worse later? What if it’s worse than it looks?” His brows furrowed, frustration laced in his concern. “Just—please, let me take you.”

You sighed, but the way he looked at you – so genuinely upset – made it impossible to refuse.

“Fine.”

Seungmin didn’t waste another second, grabbing his keys and leading you out, his hand hovering near yours like he wanted to hold it but was too afraid of hurting you again.

I.N

Jeongin and you were playfully messing around, laughing as you teased each other. He reached out to lightly nudge you, but he miscalculated his strength. You stumbled forward, losing your balance and falling onto the pavement with a surprised yelp.

The moment your knee made contact with the rough ground, a small sting made you wince, though thankfully, it was just a light scrape – no blood, just a little redness.

Jeongin's eyes widened in sheer panic. “Oh my god—are you okay?!” He practically flung himself down beside you, hovering over you with frantic hands, unsure whether to help you up or check your knee first. “I— I didn’t mean to— I swear! Oh no, are you hurt?” His words tumbled out quickly.

He spotted the small scrape on your knee, and his face fell, guilt washing over him instantly. “Ahhh, I’m so sorry! I was just playing, I didn’t think—” He stopped himself, shaking his head before carefully reaching for your hand. “Here, let me help you up.”

Even as you reassured him that it was just a small scrape, he wouldn’t let it go. He dusted you off gently, his brows furrowed in worry.

Then, suddenly, he perked up as if struck with an idea. “Wait! I’ll give you a piggyback ride,” he announced, turning around and crouching slightly.

You couldn’t help but giggle at how serious he was about it. With a small sigh, you climbed onto his back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He hoisted you up effortlessly, adjusting his grip under your thighs as he began walking.

masterlist

[robo-writing]

So that idea you had with 70s Logan being selfish while eating you out... could we get an expansion?

*cracks knuckles* let’s get into it

Logan loves pussy, short and sweet. His problem is that he loves it a little too much.

It makes for a great time with whatever lucky lady he’s got in his bed (or the couch. Or the kitchen.) but it also means that it’s going to be quite a while before he tires himself, if that even happens. Where his younger self differs is that he’s firmly rooted in his “I don’t need meaningful relationships” attitude so if he’s bringing someone to bed, it’s for one thing and one thing only.

He’s got an urge to satisfy, and you just so happened to be the nearest thing around.

That isn’t to say he’s a total asshole; he tells you up front not to expect anything more than what he’s offering, and if you don’t take his advice? That’s all on you. His deal is a simple one, take it or leave it.

Now, assuming you accept, you’ll be happy to know that he can talk the talk and walk the walk—that is to say, he’ll have your legs shaking within the first five minutes guaranteed. Something about his enthusiasm is half the show, the other half is how adamant he is about keeping his lips glued to your pussy.

Over and over again you cum—your weeping cunt crying out against his fingers, his smug grin as you beg him for a break—only to be met with the sounds of his tongue flicking at your clit. Your hands tug at his hair, begging him to stop, trying your damndest to wiggle free from his iron hold but he doesn’t budge in the slightest. If anything at all your movement just annoys him further, and in turn, makes him take out his anger on your sensitive cunt.

“Stop fucking movin’” he muffles against your sex, but it’s easier said than done. Even when you slap against his arms he doesn’t flinch, instead opting to glare at you from below while his fingers scissor you open.

“Stop being fuckin’ difficult—“ he starts, growling out when tears start streaming down your face. It’s immediately met with a slap to your puffy cunt, the shock of it sending you reeling forward.“Don’t whine, you asked for this.”

You want to argue, tell him you asked for a one night stand and not a torture session—unfortunately for you, your brain cells leak from your ears every time his beard scratches between your thighs.

And then, somewhere between the long-drawn out agony of your nerves being lit on fire is the smallest ember of pleasure. An echo, and then a roar, a spark that turns into a roaring fire and then something just clicks.

All of a sudden you’re going from stop, Logan, I can’t to yes, more, please between what little semblance of sanity you can muster.

The sudden change in attitude makes him grin. “Told you you’d enjoy yourself.”

[abbotjack]

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

“Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.