press four for more options. | part four.
( Read on AO3 )
Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)
Word Count: 4.6k
Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.
Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), sex work, pet names, alcohol, mentions of drugs, jokes about death
Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics
part three. / return to part one. | masterlist
Night comes around.
You do not call.
In fact, you don't call the Scout Services Hotline a single time that whole weekend.
As you scroll mindlessly through social media in your bed, fluttering between apps without retaining a single word or meme, your cell phone weighs heavily in your hand.
Don't call.
Just don't call.
It isn't like you're devoid of things to do.
Going out is an option.
Being around people may help your mood — but you don’t feel like unearthing from your snuggie poncho.
Putting on a movie can be a great distraction — but you know your attention span would barely last through the opening credits.
It was him.
Right there.
Right in front of you.
Levi from Scout Services, alive and in the flesh, holding your phone.
No amount of mental gymnastics can make you doubt otherwise.
He has a voice like no other; one that haunts your day dreams and soothes your nightmares, one that brings this sudden urge to do better for yourself—
Ironically, to be independent and strong on your own.
Which, actually, really fucking sucks now that you’re stuck with the decision to totally disappear from the gym, too.
(Kind of thwarts the whole ‘new me’ chest-puffing you’d started Friday with.)
So you make a final decision:
You still have to go to the gym Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.
Even if you say nothing, keep to yourself, remain a shadow, you have to go.
(There’s a fragile line drawn in the sands of reality. You can toe the edge, but you refuse to. This is his livelihood. You’re not delusional to believe you’re a main character exception.)
Coincidentally, Levi goes every day, too.
Your stomach flip-flops with the unsettling realization that your perch on a treadmill actually gives you a perfect vantage point to watch him as he sets his station up every morning.
Meticulously he sets towels down to place his shaker bottle and water thermos down, as if worried the ground hadn’t been cleaned overnight.
He even takes the disinfectant cloths and cleans every dumbbell he lines up neatly before starting his workout.
The dark-haired man truly is less-than-average in height, which isn’t a turn-off to you in the slightest, but his arms — his goddamn arms.
Levi wasn’t kidding when he told you that he could pick you up.
He could probably pick two of you up, one arm each.
They’re so toned, his forearms veiny from morning dehydration.
Training vigorously in his own world, not once does he notice that you’re the bumbling idiot that’s tripped on the treadmill (see: a few times) from dissociating.
Hell, he hasn’t a single fucking clue that you’re close enough to yell across the room to him.
Would he know?
That you’re Scarlet.
His, in some made-up world.
(Does your voice stand out in a sea of lonely people?)
The cleaning ritual extends to his cooldown, where he properly cleans each piece of equipment before nestling it back in its place.
Levi sits on his phone for a second, dropping down to a bench to scroll — text messages.
(Damn it, have you really resorted to minor stalking?)
As soon as he stands, though, you drop your chin to watch your sneakers rhythmically pass one another on the treadmill belt.
He passes like a ghost, evaporating into the men’s locker room without a word.
This is torture.
You miss him.
But you still refuse to call.
Can't — because in another world you may be his, but in this world, he is not yours.
.
.
— —
.
.
Tuesday night rolls around and you decide you hate life.
Annie, Eren, Reiner, and Mikasa are already there by the time you walk into the downtown hotspot.
The boys as well as Mikasa are still in their suit attire from work, their ties loosened at their necks. Annie’s in a hoodie and jeans, clearly much more interested in having a comfortable evening.
If the emptied shot glasses are any indicator of the plans for this evening, then you steel yourself for one hell of a Wednesday.
You glide through the busy crowds of the bar towards the group.
Bodies upon bodies crowd this place — it’s never not a zoo at this hour, no matter the day. Saying excuse me would only waste breath.
A live band croons on the far end of the smoky bar, forcing everyone to talk ten decibels higher just to hear the conversation.
(Can’t you turn around and go home while you’re ahead?)
In the sea of people, a pair of emerald green eyes over by a cluster of tables in the right-hand corner catch your movement. They widen, recognizing your face, and a lopsided grin of surprise follows.
“Holy shit, she left her cave!” Eren yells, holding up a cheap beer in salute to your arrival.
(Thanks Jeager, you little fuck.)
You don’t hear what she says, but you can see Mikasa’s lips part in tandem with a sharp elbow jab straight to his ribs.
Eren instantly falters his salute, souring in pain.
“I know. Don’t be so shocked,” you state to your colleagues, leaning up against the circular high-top table. “Am I the last to show?”
“Nah, you’re right on time. Armin and Jean’re on their way,” Reiner grunts, holding onto a comically small cosmopolitan in his rather large hand. “Sasha’s on babysitting duty with Nicco.”
You look around the bar for any other familiar faces.
“And Connie?”
“Passed out,” Mikasa supplies. “Took edibles after work.”
“There’s no chance in hell anyone’s waking him,” Eren snorts. “Fucker’s toast.”
Reiner sighs. “For what it’s worth, Jean tried.”
“No, Armin tried,” Annie corrects, finally piping up. She holds something on the rocks — brandy? Whiskey? You can’t tell. “Jean just laughed and kept trying to draw shit on his face.”
“You didn’t see the Snapchat he sent?” Eren asks after a gulp of his beer.
You shake your head, knowing damn well you’ve avoided using your phone for the last several days.
Missed texts, abandoned tagged tweets, your streak in your mobile game ruined — anything so you wouldn’t be tempted to click that little number.
Damn it.
Enough wallowing.
“I’m gonna go grab a drink,” you state, disengaging with the table. “Anyone need anything?”
From your peripheral, you see a familiar mop of blonde hair walking towards your group. At his side is a much taller man sliding through the crowd, navigating the shorter one to the tiny table you’ve commandeered from the masses.
Armin and Jean.
Reiner and Annie shake their heads.
“Nope, I’m solid.”
“Good here.”
“Eren’s got the next round of shots,” Mikasa flatly states. “You’re fine.”
“Ha, hell yeah!” Eren exclaims, before he settles into a confused pause of silence. His head whips to Mikasa, blinking twice. “Wait, what?”
You don’t stick around for that aftermath.
Squeezing back into the lion’s den of people, you try not to get hit with any too-full beverages or waving hands.
You manage to weave and duck, eventually finding a small empty corner at the edge of the bar.
Success.
You rush to claim it before someone else can, your forearm on the wooden surface.
Holding up two fingers to get the one of the three bartender’s attention, she nods once to acknowledge she sees you — she’ll get there eventually.
Two empty stools are available, so you scoot onto the one closest to the wall while waiting for your turn and drop your purse onto the other while you situate yourself.
It’ll likely take a while if the busyness of the staff has anything to say about it.
An hour.
All you need to do is last one whole hour.
Chat a bit, mingle a little so everyone at work doesn’t think you’re a total goddamn recluse, then you can go—
“Is this seat taken?”
A question sounding to your left breaks your train of thought.
The seat.
The one next to you, where your purse lay.
Way to go, dumbass.
You answer on autopilot, not thinking twice about it.
“Oh — shit, yeah. I mean, no! No it’s not. I’m sorry.”
As your torso turns to grab your purse off of the deep red stool, your eyes drop to make sure nothing spills out of it.
“Hold on, let me just move—”
Your chin lifts to find yourself staring eye to eye with Levi.
Wait.
Levi?!
His cheekbones look even sharper under the warm hue of the bar lights overhead, lips parted like he was interrupted in asking a question.
The whites of his eyes grow more prominent with every passing second, making the blue-gray color of them stand out in stark contrast to the black curtain of fringe falling against his temples.
The realization that you spoke — that he’s seen your face before — seems to be hitting him like a goddamn freight train.
Your blood runs cold as your own eyes round.
“...my stuff.”
Weakly you finish your thought, wishing for nothing but death right now.
Maybe a stranger, like a secret agent with wicked strength, will simply rush the bar and put you in a headlock and knock you out.
Maybe your drink will be poisoned.
You’re happy for anything so long as it’s swift.
Levi grunts in acknowledgement, slowly finding a spot on the empty stool beside yours.
Both of you swivel towards the bar, staring ahead.
Silence.
For what feels like hours, neither of you speak. The noise of the bar becomes overwhelming.
Somehow the surrounding voices feel amplified when you’ve lost your own.
It’s trapped between a thousand apologies and half a dozen explanations that sound worse than the one before it.
You need to get up.
Excuse yourself out.
Leave.
You won’t get your damn drink, but that’s fine so long as you’re not here.
“How’s your phone?”
Eventually Levi speaks, and you find yourself wishing he hadn’t.
The effect of his voice is even worse in person — so buttery smooth, the gravel much deeper in his chest now that there isn’t a phone receiver to dilute it.
“Not… damaged,” you reply cautiously.
“Good.”
Another stretch of silence passes, and you forget about ordering drinks altogether.
Your eyes drop to view his folded hands, how the veins protrude even when resting.
His fingers are slender, strong, and hate yourself for yearning.
You have to apologize.
This is crossing a line.
You need to—
“So—”
“I’m canceling my subscription.”
You blurt a fraction later than Levi, proclaiming your innocence before he can ever condemn it.
When you meet his steely eyes, they squint with curiosity.
From the crown of your head to your chin, he assesses in a serpentine pattern before eventually finding your eyes once more.
“How come?” he asks, leaning further against the bar top.
“I— how come?”
You repeat his question in surprise.
Wildly gesturing towards the space between you with your hand, you snort.
“Uh, because that’s the right thing to do in this circumstance? Because seeing you in person is borderline unethical?”
He hums at that, not giving you much to work with.
“And for the record, I did not stalk you to this bar.”
“Didn’t think you did.”
“I’m actually here with friends—”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Levi interrupts, seemingly unbothered by your rambling.
“At the gym. I can make an educated guess and say you knew it was me from the second I opened my trap, but you didn’t say anything.”
Why isn’t he freaking out?
Shouldn’t he be freaking out?
Just as you open your mouth to continue professing your innocence, the bartender walks over and points to you.
“What can I get you?”
You blanch, no longer remember how to order drinks.
“I—”
“I got her tab,” Levi interrupts casually, tapping his index finger into the counter. “Two hard seltzers.”
Then he has the audacity to glance your way.
“Pineapple, right?”
Holy shit, he remembers your favorite flavor?
Is this a flex?
(It kind of feels like a flex; a way to say I know you, I was there.)
“...pineapple’s fine,” you murmur in return, hesitant.
The bartender doesn’t waste another second to rummage in the mini fridge on the other side of the bar for two slim cans.
For another agonizing thirty seconds, neither of you say a word.
He raises his chin to watch whatever sport’s game is playing overhead on the television.
You stare at your mirrored reflection in the bar backsplash.
This is real life.
The man you’ve spent hours talking to over the phone to, getting off to, is sitting right beside you, yet he isn’t trying to create distance.
If anything, he’s buying you a damn drink and asking you why.
Why didn’t you say something?
“I didn’t say anything at the gym because that would have been extremely inappropriate,” you finally argue under your breath, keeping the conversation strictly between you. “What would I have said? ‘Oh hey, guy I've paid to talk to on the phone every single night for the past week. Isn’t it crazy that I actually go to the same gym as you?’ That’s so creepy.”
When he says nothing, still staring at you, you continue to bury yourself into a deeper grave.
“I mean, I thought you lived, like… a billion miles from me. Maybe from another planet.”
His brows pinch with amusement.
“On Mars, or…?”
Oh.
He’s joking.
He’s actually joking about this.
You turn your chin, brow furrowed. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.
“I wondered why you looked so scared of me on Friday. Thought maybe I smelled like shit from my workout.”
No, you want to say. Unfortunately it was the goddamn opposite.
“So you’re not…”
“Worried you’re a stalker trying to dox me because of my job?”
Levi blatantly finishes, and you wince.
Clearly he notices your embarrassment, because he sighs and relaxes his shoulders.
“I’m more pissed that you didn’t call all weekend, but then again, that’s the nature of the job.”
You both watch each other for a moment as the bartender returns, passing you both pineapple hard seltzers to nurse.
He pushes your can to your hand, nudging the icy-cold aluminum against your thumb, then picks up his own.
“The nature of the job?” you repeat, and he nods.
“People get bored. Run out of funds. Novelty wears off fast.”
Levi shrugs, sipping his drink.
“Just because you like talking to someone doesn’t mean they stick around. Wouldn’t blame 'em — shit gets expensive quick.”
“I just…”
You trail off, fighting to find the correct words to say.
“...I thought it wasn’t right to call again, knowing I knew what you looked like, so I didn’t.”
Explaining yourself makes your tongue feel sluggish, like you were caught red-handed in a crime you didn’t know you’d committed until hindsight.
“I can leave you alone,” you decide to add, holding your drink tighter. “Like I said, I’m here with my friends and… after all, you were doing your job. A great job. You’re kind of the reason I’m even here in the first place.”
Levi’s brow knits, and your eyes widen.
“Not like that!”
“Pretty shit at asserting yourself even in person,” he murmurs like it’s a cheeky inside joke, and he sips once more. “So how am I the reason?”
He’s not angry.
Hell, he’s conversational.
Not the least bit worried about how you’ve both managed to get here.
Might as well be honest.
“Because I decided to stop being a little less scared of the world,” you confess softly. “It— That’s why I got to the gym so early on Friday. I wanted to start doing strength training, like how you talk about how much you love it. And… I thought, maybe, I’d spend more time with friends. Get out there more. Be more assertive — beyond right now, obviously.”
The dark-haired man’s expression smooths at that in a mixture of recognition and surprise.
The slide of his brow is beautiful, and your heart squeezes at the sight of an animated Levi in the flesh, just as you pictured.
“Do you have to go back to your friends right now?”
At first you don’t quite register his question, but then it causes butterflies to flutter in your stomach.
He looks left to right, as if trying to find your troop of buddies, before returning his attention back to you.
“You don’t… want me to leave?”
Levi shakes his head.
You feel bolted to your stool, unable to move even if you wanted to.
Simultaneously you sip your drinks, keeping eye contact.
It feels intimate.
Too intimate.
“So, then…” You start slowly. “What does this mean?”
“Well,” Levi begins, mulling it over in his head. “Means the whole provider-client relationship has basically gone to shit. You know my face, now I know yours.”
“Right.”
“Then again, that professionalism was already well into a shit pile way before Friday morning.”
You blink, not following. “Huh?”
“There’s nothing in the company policy about what to do when you stumble into your client at the damn local gym, but there sure as hell wasn’t anything about…”
Levi trails off, clenching his jaw in debate.
“...about crossing the line I practically leapt over. I’m good at my job because of my detachment, but this was the only time I bordered on unethical myself. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.”
Sorry.
Levi… was sorry?
The words blurt faster than you can stop yourself. “Why the hell are you sorry?”
His eyes widen with a budding uncertainty.
“I… just said I crossed the line?”
“When?”
“On the phone?”
“Okay, duh, but when?”
“Our last session.”
“So that was real.”
Levi actually got off to your voice.
If you weren’t in such shock about sitting here face-to-face with him at a local bar, then perhaps your ego would have, in fact, made a crash landing on Mars.
He considers his next words very carefully.
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Then he sips more before shaking his head.
“Look. It’s… a job a friend of mine got me. I’m not a real-life Casanova or any of that shit. Hell, most of my time was spent training punks to fight in a boxing ring, so I never had the energy for relationships or dating.”
You can't hide your surprise. “You were a fighter?”
He makes a noncommittal face.
“Loosely. Personal trainer, training in general — fell into it after I got out of the service.”
“Right, you were in the army,” you murmur, and the edge of his lips upticks at your recollection.
“A couple of months ago the gym I worked for went under, money got tight, so I thought I’d try it out. Guess everyone says it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, but bossing fighters around and fielding horny-ass callers ain't all that different."
Levi turns his chin just so to regard you under a wispy black fringe.
“I can usually predict what someone wants. The people that call this hotline shit, they’re in and out."
He takes a pause.
"You, though — the second I picked up your call, you threw me through a goddamn loop.”
You use your nail on your index finger to absently scratch the side of your thumb, attempting to process everything he’s telling you.
"First night we spoke, actually, I ended up at this very bar to contemplate why the fuck I wanted you to call back. Didn't want you blowing your money on it, obviously, it's overpriced and ridiculous, but — it clearly shook me up enough for me to take then ten-minute walk in the middle of the night in the first place."
Ten minutes.
That length of time strikes something in you.
“So, your… office building isn’t far?” you slowly ask.
Levi shakes his head. “No, no office. I work remotely. Kind of the reason why I took the gig in the first place. I wouldn’t do this shit if I had an audience in a damn two-by-four cube.”
You’re not sure what possesses you to confess it, but you point past your shoulder.
“My apartment complex is actually six blocks down the street.”
Ten minutes away, is your implication.
His hand had raised to sip from his seltzer can, but it halts immediately.
His eyes narrow.
“The complex on Junction Ave?”
“Yeah," you say.
“Right across from—”
“The Reiss deli.”
That narrowed gaze shoots wide. “You’re shitting me.”
“You say the word shit a lot.”
“Baby, I live there,” he blurts.
“Wait, what?”
Now it’s your turn for your eyes to nearly pop out of your skull.
(You’re too shocked to even process what he called you.)
He huffs in a brief laugh, shaking his head.
“You gotta be fucking with me.”
“I’m not! Wait, you live in the same building as me?”
“You said Thomas was your goddamn mailman,” Levi states. “Do you know how many fucking Thomas the Mailmen there are in this world? I didn’t think we’d have the same one.”
Holy shit.
Oh, holy shit.
You sit up taller in your seat. “Wait, what floor?”
“Sixteenth.”
“I’m on the tenth!” you exclaim in your shock. “Holy shit, so you…”
Have been right above me this entire time.
Your phone buzzes, ruining your train of thought.
Reflexively you look down to see the preview of Annie’s message over your lock screen.
[A. LEONHART]: Did u die?
Right.
You’re here with friends.
“Friends wondering where you are?” Levi inquiries at the sight of your growing frown.
“Yeah, give me a sec.”
You swipe the screen north and type a reply.
[ME]: Talking to someone. Be over in a bit.
Annie’s reply is immediate, and you turn your phone from Levi’s view in mortification.
[A. LEONHART]: 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆
[A. LEONHART]: WINGMAN??? NEED????
[ME]: NO! Do not come over here!
[A. LEONHART]: ok ok ok noted
[A. LEONHART]: i’ll keep jaeger to the left end of the bar
“Looks urgent.”
“Huh?”
You shoot a glance back up to Levi, who’s now angled towards you with his cheek squished against his clenched fist. His elbow props him up on the bar top.
“No! No. It’s just my friend Annie. She — is actually the one who gave me the number to that hotline in the first place,” you confess.
Levi hums in that delicious way you’ve come to crave.
“I don’t want to derail your evening. I’ve already taken you away from them for a while.”
Your heart is hesitant, but it grows despite yourself.
“If you want me to stay, then I’ll stay,” you quietly state. “I… liked talking to you. I mean, beyond the whole — you know.”
He nods once, setting his drink down.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t want you to disappear, either. My job’s not exactly corporate. Not many people can separate fantasy from reality. With you, I never had to bullshit what it was, but…”
Levi trails off, sighing heavily.
“...but I also understand if it’s just a fantasy, for you.”
Something nestles itself between the lines of his words.
Something he isn’t saying outright, sussing out if he has any right to try.
“Do you really mean that, Levi?”
That sigh turns into a curbed huff, smile fleeting but enough to bring your stomach butterflies.
“Damn. Sounds nice, hearing my name in person.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
You could scream into your damn seltzer, but you decide to play it as cool as you possibly can.
“So Levi’s your real name?”
He nods.
“Not creative enough to come up with an alias."
Levi shifts, rolling out a shoulder.
"But to answer your question, I’m saying I… yeah, I mean it. I wouldn’t mind asking you out for coffee sometime, given we seem to run on the same gym schedule as it is. Just didn’t know if you wanted to leave it at the hotline and call it a day — no pun intended.”
Are you seriously hearing what he’s saying right now?
Does Levi want to step out of a fantasy and into your reality?
Your lips part with a million questions only to end up blurting a very stupid one:
“Are you single?”
That earns a bark of a laugh, causing his head to gloriously drop back, exposing his neck.
(All you want to do is sink your teeth into it.)
“Yes. Very,” he promises. “Are you, still?”
“Very,” you promise back.
“And my job doesn’t bother you?”
You haven't quite gotten that far, logistically, but it's only a coffee.
He isn't asking to marry you.
Besides, he talks about it like any other office job. You can't find any ill feeling toward it.
“Work is work,” you argue with a one-shoulder shrug. “Sure, it’s unconventional, but… I’m so used to not knowing what I want, or second-guessing what’s good for me, and I don’t think I’ve ever second guessed a damn thing with you.”
Bringing the seltzer back up to his mouth, Levi smirks against the can, mulling something over.
You smile in return, sipping your drink.
It's the truth.
He may not really know you, but he knows you.
Just as you're beginning to think you know him.
“Well, if you don’t get too wasted with your friends tonight—”
He steals a ballpoint pen from a dampened closed check from his left side.
Then he snatches a napkin from one of the bartending stations with lemons, limes, and straws.
Hunching over, he scribbles on said napkin, before turning a cheek to you.
“—and you end up going to the gym tomorrow morning—”
Levi then sits up taller, folds the napkin, and reaches for your hand resting on the bar top.
His skin is smooth.
Heated.
Your entire body melts to his whim as he turns your wrist over, palm facing up.
One by one his fingers unfurl your fingers, nestles the napkin in your hand, then closes your fist for safe keeping.
“—give me a call.”
Leaving a twenty on the bar counter, Levi lets go of your hand to slip off of his stool.
You say nothing as you watch him give you one last once-over, expression full of admiration, before turning into the sea of people.
A call.
Flexing your hand, you uncrinkle the napkin to read the number etched black on white.
Not the Scout Services Hotline.
No — his number.
Your attention flies back to the original spot where you've now properly abandoned your friends, but you know they'll forgive you for your absence.
Annie knows.
She'll cover for your abrupt disappearance.
On autopilot you yank out your phone, bypassing the texts from your friends, emails from work, and tap the little telephone icon.
Zero through nine appear.
Hastily you type the number, hesitation long gone, and press send.
One ring.
Two.
By the third, it abruptly cuts. You hear shuffling in the background. Cars beeping.
“Hello, Levi Ackerman speaking.”
Levi Ackerman.
Knowing his full name warms your heart.
Standing from your stool, you rise to your toes to search the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Levi stands there on the sidewalk, holding his phone up to his ear.
“Hi, Levi. It’s formerly Scarlet.”
Immediately he turns to the bar, searching the very same window.
Searching for you.
You smile to yourself.
"My schedule just opened up. I know it's a little late for some coffee, but..."
Trailing off, your teeth catch your bottom lip.
Be selfish.
"Are you free for some tea now?”
.
FIN
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
How are we feeling, Hotliner Nation? I teased that this may not be the end of this story. I'm not against writing a sequel, whether to continue the immediate story or time skip, but I wanted to see what people thought before I spoke too soon. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed our hotline journey together.
In the meantime I invite you to follow me here or subscribe to my AO3, as I have other projects in the works (including finishing the final chapters of my canon-based amnesia au with Levi, Silver Underground.)
The last two months have been such a wonderful journey, and I thank every single one of you for engaging the way you have. I never anticipated such a frenzy when I started P4, so sincerely, from the bottom of my heart - thank you for the comments, reblogs, inbox mssgs, etc. Every reblog gives this writer wings.
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12:29 AM
- your normally sober husband comes home drunk out of his mind after a party, and you can’t say that he’s any less sweet. (robert “bob” floyd x wife!reader, fluff, honestly one of the cutest things i’ve ever written, ⚠️ obviously heavy themes of alcohol and being drunk, sexual innuendos but nothing graphic)
word count: 1,502
a/n - i haven’t written a fic with a timestamp as the title in… (checks old blog) over three years?!? in any case, i hope you guys like drunk!bobby as much as i do <3 he’s definitely an emotional/clingy drunk imo.
It’s not often that your husband stays out late, and it’s not often that he doesn’t text you while he’s out, but you trust him. He’s not the type to get blackout drunk or come home stumbling through the doorframe. Robert Floyd is a clearheaded and strong man.
Well, he looks neither right now, as he’s supported by Jake and Javy’s arms, glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose and a dopey smile brightening his face. Jake looks at you apologetically— as apologetic as he can get for a situation that’s likely his fault. “Sorry, hun.” He huffs, shifting around Bob’s weight. “There were a few too many fruity drinks ordered, and I guess he didn’t realize they were full of alcohol.”
“You guess?” You ask, rubbing the space between your eyebrows with your fingers. The two more sober men lead Bob into your bedroom, half-dragging him. They lay him down on your shared bed with a softened thump that has him groaning on top of the sheets. “I can’t believe you guys.”
Bob went out with the rest of the squad for some coworker’s promotion celebration, and he promised to come home perfectly sober, as always. He doesn’t even need to promise, if you’re being honest, because that’s just how he is; the most levelheaded person in the room. He would stay until it was socially acceptable for an acquaintance to leave, then he would head home and help you cook dinner to your favorite old school tunes. You never expected to see him shitfaced at 12:29 AM.
Javy shakes his head as he steps around you, taking Jake for a clean escape. “We tried to warn him. I hope he feels better in the morning, but until then, we’re gonna have to leave him with you.”
You sigh, eyebrows just as pinched as they were before. For the first time ever, you’re scared that Bob is going to die in his sleep, and the thought frustrates you to no end. “Thanks. It’s so great that he’s drunk out of his mind, but I have to give you credit for getting him here in one piece.” Your tone is sarcastic enough to get the two men cringing in shame, but you also know that without them, he might still be at that party.
Jake pats you on the shoulder. “Good luck, soldier. You’ll need it.”
With that, Javy and Jake walk out of your bedroom, past your living room, and out of your house like they couldn’t wait to leave. As you hear them close the door, you look down at your husband.
He’s still conscious, thankfully. His eyes are slightly unfocused, he’s blushing like a madman, and he’s groaning lightly, but he’s not completely gone yet. You brush the damp hair away from his forehead and he whines just a bit.
“Wife.”
You quirk your eyebrow in confusion. “Yes?”
“I… have a wife. Y’ can’t touch me like that.” He mumbles. It feels like he’s looking past you. Despite everything, you feel like laughing.
You adjust his glasses on his face and lean over him a little more, fully in his field of vision. “I am your wife.”
His eyes widen like he’s seeing you for the first time, and he smiles crookedly. He tries to sit up, but only manages to prop himself up on one arm as he takes in the sight of your face. “S’ pretty. You’re really my wife? My girl?” In combination with the slurred words of someone down in the cups, the slight southern accent he took so much time to push away is coming back as he speaks to you.
“Yes.” You confirm, kissing him on the cheek. He somehow smiles even wider and reaches out to touch the apples of your cheeks.
“Love you. I missed you.” He mumbles. “Spent that whole party wonderin’ when I could see you again.” He flops back down onto the springy mattress, throwing his arms up. He moves with the precision of a toddler, his limbs seemingly coated in lead. He almost smacks the glasses off his face as he motions to you with grabby hands.
“I missed you too, honey. Can we get you into your pajamas? I’m sure you don’t want to sleep in jeans and a polo.” As you ask that question, his fingers are already attempting to pull the shirt off of his body. It doesn’t work very well, considering he’s still laying down, but you appreciate the effort. “Sit up, my love.”
He sits up, winking at you heavily. It’s more like a slow blink with how long it takes him to do it. “Can’t wait to get me naked?”
A laugh escapes your mouth, and you smother the rest of your giggles with the heel of your palm as you gaze at his slightly crestfallen face. He’s funny when drunk, apparently, even when he isn’t trying to be. It’s like seeing him completely unhinged with none of his usual, careful filters. “Sure. You need to be in some state of undress to get your pajamas on, anyways.”
His face falls into a slight pout as you help him unbutton the top of his polo and slide it up his chest. He seems to notice how your hands hesitate when meeting the warm, taut skin of his abs, and the pout fades instantly. “Like it?”
“I always do.” You hum. He does have a great body, one that you’ve found to be extraordinarily hot. Strong arms, tight muscles, and yet a gentleness in the way his hands hold yours. Right now, though, it’s a bit of a problem as you’re attempting to get his jeans off. He’s still sitting, and you think you could lift weights for ten years and not be able to pull them out from under him. “Can you stand, Bobby?”
“Gladly.” He sings. You help him stand, supporting a bit of his weight. He seems to find a little bit of his footing as his other arm presses into the wall, allowing the both of you to shimmy his pants down his legs and kick them to some unknown corner of the room.
You gather his neatly folded pajamas, a soft shirt and some plaid flannel pants, and help him put them on. Luckily for you, he’s been revitalized by your touch and is a little more helpful now. He’s still moving awkwardly and shifting around like he’s constantly trying to get his balance straightened out, but it’s better than nothing. It would be hell to get him to do anything other than dress, though, so you settle for just getting him in bed. His dental hygiene routine will have to wait.
You lay him back down after he’s dressed and pull the blankets up to his chin, kissing his forehead gently and tucking his glasses in your dresser drawer. You’re already ready for the night (the perks of thinking he would come home three hours ago), so you slip in bed next to him. He immediately pulls you into his arms, his body comfortingly warm. He’s always run just a little hot, which is amazing on cooler nights like this.
He sighs contentedly before moving to stare directly into your eyes. “Y’know,” he starts, “I can’t sleep without your arms ‘round me, and your legs ‘round me, and you breathing all sweet on my neck. ‘M up all night when I’m deployed, at first anyways. My carrier roommates hate it.”
You shift just enough as to where your body is clutching on to him as tight as possible, and he hums in relief. It’s like the little tension that he was holding dissipated entirely. “I’m sorry, baby. That must be hard.” You soothe.
“Payback gave me his pillow once so I could wrap it in my arms, but it didn’t help. He threatened to ‘come up there n’ cuddle me himself’ if I didn’t stop moving.” He scrunches his eyes closed at the memory. You do your best to suppress another bout of laughter, but he makes it even harder when he shivers like he isn’t covered in three layers of blankets and you.
“Did he ever follow through?” You ask, pressing your lips together to stop from smiling. Bob shakes his head.
“Thank god he didn’t.” He utters. You turn to shove your face into your pillow to muffle your expressions. He just keeps his eyes closed, completely unaware of the fact that you’re losing it next to him.
When you finally come up for air, he is drifting in and out of sleep. “Love ya. G’night.” He whispers. It’s so soft that you almost start laughing again.
“Good night, Bobby. Love you too.” You say, kissing his cheek. You click off the lamp on your bedside table and snuggle deeper into his grasp.
He’s going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning. At least he’ll have his wife, breakfast in bed, and an aspirin to take care of him.
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