#the fact he says this after running into a burning building to save him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lyjen · 3 months

Text

Reckless

Summary: As their argument gets out of hand (Y/n) needs her space. Evan tries to apologise. But (Y/n) won’t listen.

9-1-1 masterlist

……………………………………………………………………………

Buck was leaning with his lower back against the kitchen counter “You know what you signed up for!” Evan tried to defend himself.

(Y/n) was mad at him. Today on a call, he went against the captains orders as he tried to save someone else’s life. He was in a burning factory full with chemicals, ready to explode when they came in contact with fire. Bobby, ordered everyone to get out of the building. Everyone did, except for her boyfriend. He was trying to save a man’s life, who was stuck and couldn’t get out on his own.

She understood. She did. But she couldn’t handle the fact, that if he came out 10 seconds later than he did, he wouldn’t have made it. He wouldn’t be standing there right now. And that’s what stung (y/n)’s feelings.

(Y/n) was in front of him, the only thing keeping them separated was the kitchen island.

With both hands leaning on the island in front of her, she sighed. “Yes, i signed up for knowing you might not be coming home after a shift. The same thing you signed up for.” (Y/n) started. “The only thing I didn’t sign up for was the fact that you’d be so reckless to go against the captains order and almost get yourself killed!” She continued as she pushed herself off the island. She was pissed at him.

Evan stayed silent. He folded his arms over each other as he shook his head as he looked to his right. Thinking about what he could say. He knew that whatever he was going to react, wouldn’t calm her down at all. She would only get more angry with him than she already was.

She started pacing through the room. “You could’ve died Evan!” She spoke now even louder, not even bothering to look at him. She never addressed her boyfriend with the name what was written on to his birth certificate. She always called him Buck. She only used his real name when she was really pissed off, or when she wanted to tease her boyfriend.

“Yeah but I didn’t, did I?“ Evan shot back. His girlfriend knew that he could be reckless now and then, that he was in fact a really bad listener and impulsive.

“That’s not the point!” Her voice sounded broken and angry. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at him. And let out a sign to try and calm herself down. “The point is that you should listen to your orders..” her voice sounded broken, shaky and barely audible for Evan to hear. She let her hand rest on the kitchen island as she looks at Evan.

“Well if you can’t handle me getting hurt, or not coming home some day. Maybe we shouldn’t be together.” He says, before even realizing what he just told her.

Evan sighed when he glanced at (y/n). She said nothing. She was just staring at him. She had so many things to say. But she just couldn’t talk. Tears were slowly starting to run down over her cheeks now.

Evan and launched himself off the counter. He reaches his hand out, to touch her fingers which were resting on the kitchen top. But when his hand slightly touches her fingers, she pulls her hand back. Evan tries to make contact with her eyes. But (y/n) doesn’t dare to take her eyes off of the floor she was looking at. Trying to avoid any kind of contact. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” he apologized as he leans with his hands on the island.

She doesn’t say anything. And then after a few moments, she just turns around and walks towards the gaderobe where they had stashed their shoes, jackets and their bags. (Y/n) grabs her coat and pushes her arms through the sleeves. Evan barely had time to process what was going on. “(Y/n)…” her name sounded through the room.

She grabs her duffle bag which was already filled with the stuff she needed for her upcoming shift. Which was in a few hours, just like Evan’s. “(Y/n).. please.. talk to me.” His voice sounded. It was almost like she heard a shy little boy talking.

She ignores Evan’s request and swings the strap of the bag over her shoulder. And turns around around to grab her car keys off the dining table. She didn’t dare to give him a glance.

When Evan didn’t receive an answer and she turned around again to make her way towards the front door he called out her name again. “(Y/n) where are you going?” But this time with more intensity in his voice.

The tone of Evan’s voice made her stop as she was making her way towards the front door. Silence filled the room. She turns her head to the left, so he could hear her loud and clear.

“I think it’s better if I sleep somewhere else tonight.” she said. She didn’t wait for an answer to come from Evan’s lips. And continued her path towards the door. She opens the door and shut it with a loud bang.

Buck just stood there and watched how she left the room. A sigh left his mouth. He knows he screwed up big time. Why does he always speak before he even thinks? It was like his mouth was working faster than his brain was. How was he gonna fix this mess?

…………………………………………………………………

“Really? Another cup? How much caffeine do you need? We don’t need you to become a bouncing ball. ” Chimney asked when Buck poured another cup of coffee into his mug.

Evan didn’t get much sleep last night. He couldn’t stop thinking about the argument he had with his girlfriend. And he couldn’t let go off the fact that he told her that they shouldn’t be together if she couldn’t handle him getting hurt or being reckless like he was. He regretted every single word he said in that conversation.

After she left, he tried to call her and text her. But of course she wouldn’t answer him. And to be fair, if the roles were reversed and she told him that. He would probably have done the exact same thing.

He didn’t know what to do. So he did what he always did when he didn’t know what to do with himself. He called his best friend, who felt more like a brother to him. Plus Eddie had three sisters, he would know what to do when you pissed a woman off which you actually didn’t mean to.

He asked him for advice. Should I go after her? Should I look for her? Only to receive the advice from his best friend, to give her some space. And after some talking with Eddie, he accepted that. The phone call went on and on for like half an hour.

But he needed to know that she was safe. Until he received a text from Hen, telling him that (y/n) was staying the night at Hen’s and Karen’s. He still didn’t get any sleep, but at least he knew that she was safe.

Buck nodded as an answer to Chimneys question. “But can you at least tell me why you need a third cup of coffee?” Chimney continued. “You will find out in a few seconds.” Eddie said as he took a sip of his coffee. Chimney’s face just stared in confusion.

(Y/n) just came upstairs. Buck glanced to his right, as he sees his girlfriend coming into his sight. He had so much words he wanted to say. But he couldn’t bring them out.

It was weird. Normally she would enter the loft and tell everybody good morning, like she always did. Except for this time. She didn’t say anything. She just went to the fridge, to pour herself a glass of juice and completely ignored the three men who were having a conversation. And left to go downstairs again.

When (y/n) steps down the stairs. Buck’s eyes were still following her, each step of the way. “Yikes.. trouble in paradise” Chimney hissed. Evan’s eyes shot up at him, he had a certain look in his eyes. The kind of look that could kill you. “Uhhh- Yes! I’m coming!” Chimney said, pretending like someone called him over. And he hurries away, trying to avoid getting killed by Evan. Well, if looks could kill.

Eddie stepped forward, letting his hand fall on Evan’s shoulder. “She will come around.” He tries to reassure Evan with a promising look. He didn’t answer. He just nodded with his head, as Eddie patted his hand on Buck’s shoulder and walked past him.

When the alarm bells sounded loudly through the firehouse, they rushed towards the rigs. Saying that there was some office building fire. The ride down to the location was silent. (Y/n) was just staring outside the window, trying to keep herself busy so no one would speak to her. Especially Evan.

Eddie and Bobby were just chit chatting about something. He could hear their voices dull on the background as he got caught up in his thoughts. He didn’t know what the conversation was about. And to be honest, he didn’t care. He just wanted to apologise to his girlfriend, for being such an unbelievable idiot. But he didn’t know what words to use.

He feels how the truck comes to a stop. As he receives a tap of Eddie’s hand on his forearm, winking with his head towards (Y/n) as she gets out of the rig. “Apologise to her.” He advises him and opens the door on his side.

Evan knew deep down that Eddie was right. Now was the time to apologise to her. Maybe if something would happen, he might regret that he never apologised. Or actually, to hear her say that she accepts his apology. He stood up from his seat, and hopped out of the rig.

He took a look to his left and saw (Y/n) closing the door on the compartment where they had storaged their helmets. She made her way towards Bobby, who was waiting for them to surround him and listen to his orders. (Y/n) was one of the firsts, which meant they had a little bit of time to chat before Bobby started shouting orders. Evan took place next to her.

“I’ve tried to call you.”

She didn’t answer. Starting to tap with her foot against the concrete on the ground.

Silence. Yikes. That wasn’t the best way to start the conversation. You can hear the LA streets on the background. Sirens from other ambulances, fire engines and fire trucks which were called to other scenes.

As Evan rethinks his choices of words,

Bobby starts shouting orders. He wanted to say something, but he decides to focus on what Bobby has to say. When they had received their assignments, Y/n) starts walking towards the truck.

Buck tries to catch up with her. But he didn’t want to run. That was weird and attracted attention they didn’t want. (Y/n) opened the compartment where the oxygen tank was. She got out a tank. And flinched slightly when Evan came standing next to her. “Look. I know that I’m reckless, and impulsive sometimes on calls..” he starts. As he grabs a oxygen tank too. And they both put the tank on their backs.

“but it’s like I get so lost in my own mind, that I forget that I am not invincible. But most importantly that there are people waiting for me to come home.” He secures the tank on his back with the clips.

She gets up from her knees and walks towards the compartment where they had more tools. “I guess what I’m trying to say is.. sorry. For my behaviour on calls, how i made you feel, and for my dick move. I should’ve never said that. And I would be an idiot for letting you go.” She doesn’t answer. She heard him. She heard every single word. She rests her hand on the halligan, which was still in the compartment when she froze as she heard his last words. “I just wanted you to know.” He finished and went those words left his lips, he left.

She wanted to answer so badly. But she had to focus on the call. she got the halligan out of the compartment and yanked the hatch closed.

As Evan leaves (Y/n)’s side. He walked towards Eddie, who was also gearing up. “And.. did you get the chance to tell her everything you wanted?” Eddie asks before he clipped his tank secure on his back. Evan nodded. “Yeah.. I’ll tell you later. Let’s get in there.” He says as he puts his mask on his face, Eddie does the same. Evan feels how his heart skipped a beat when (Y/n) joined in. “Are you guys ready?” She asks, as if nothing was wrong.

She was a professional, which meant that she wouldn’t let her personal life interfere with the way she would do things on the job. She just had to communicate with Evan and Eddie. Safety first.

The two nodded when they had their masks secured on their face. “Okay let’s go!” (Y/n) says and they went towards the entrance of the building. It was an smaller office building than usually which was on fire. This one was only 4 stories high. Not like the usual down town office buildings which had like 40-70 floors sometimes. Luckily this was a small one.

The smoke was floating around in the entrance of the building. “You two get the fourth floor. I’ll sweep the third floor and we’ll work our way down.” (Y/n) said. Buck shook his head. “No you go with Eddie. I’m not letting you sweep a floor on your own.” Evan protested. “You think I can’t handle it on my own?” She asked as she folded her arms over each other. “No it’s just-“ Evan wanted to react but Eddie cut the two off. “This isn’t the time to argue guys. Buck. Let’s go.” Eddie stated as he started walking upstairs towards the fourth floor. Evan sighed and did as Eddie told him and followed him to the fourth floor.

…………………….

“Fourth floor is clear. Heading towards the second floor now.” Buck spoke through the radio. Her hand went towards the radio, as she held in the speak button “Copy that, still searching the third floor here. Almost done.” (Y/n) was still working on the third floor. That was definitely one of the cons, she lost more time on searching the floor on her own. But she didn’t mind actually. She loved her co workers, but sometimes she liked being able to do some stuff alone.

She works her way through the flames, trying to see if she could spot any casualties through the thick dark grey smoke. “LAFD! Call out!” Her voice sounded through the mask. Nothing. She worked her way through the third level as she opened a door and yelled that well known sentence another time. Nothing again.

A wave of air blew in her face together with bright red and orange coloured flames. An explosion roared over the third floor. She heard the sound of breaking glass from the windows on the floor, which shattered in a million tiny pieces. (Y/n)’s body got blown away by the power of the explosion. It almost felt like she was falling down in slow motion.

Evan had trouble with opening his eyes, and keeping them open. His ears were ringing, a high frequency sounding through his ears along with an annoyingly high beep from a pass device. His vision was blurry, and he tried to regain his sight by blinking. He received an impact of the explosion what happened right above him. He fell forward, on his stomach with his helmet laying right in front of him. He tried to break his fall with his hands.

He groaned, he had an headache which almost made his head pop off of his body. “Eddie Report!” The voice through the radio was loud, and made his headache even worse. “Buck report!” It was his captains voice who was calling through the radio. Desperate for an answer from one of his team members. Evan slowly pushed himself up so his face wasn’t meeting with the ground anymore.

With his vision still blurry, and a few blood splatters across his oxygen mask he tries to take in his surroundings. The fire was still spread across the floor. “(Y/n) come in!” Evan’s eyes shot up when he heard her name. She was on the third floor. When he looks up, he can clearly see that a part of the third floor has collapsed onto the second floor where he was. His hand grabbed his radio, “Bobby, the third floor partly collapsed.” He spoke through the radio, groaning at the pain he felt on his chest.

Evan stood up, but almost lost his balance. It was almost like he just woke up from a nap, and he stood up too quickly. But he quickly found his balance again. He was almost ninety nine procent sure he had a concussion. “(Y/n)! Eddie!” He called out when he couldn’t seem to spot his team members. He heard a groan. “I’m here.” He heard a male voice say. “Buck. Find Eddie and (Y/n) and get the hell out of there. This building could collapse every second!” Bobby radioed. “Copy that cap.“ he answered.

He follows Eddies voice.

Eddie was pinned between the floor and an office cupboard. Luckily the cupboard was empty, so Eddie could squeeze himself out. When Evan reached Eddie, he helped him up. And patted his shoulder, as a sign that he was okay. “Cap I got Eddie.” He updated his captain. “Copy that.”

The sound of the PASS device was still ringing through the level of the office building. Evan tried to follow the sound of the device. Together with Eddie he searched for the location where the sound came from. “Oh my god! (Y/n)!” He yelled when he saw the coloured letters of her last name through the chunks of concrete. A few pieces of concrete had fallen onto her legs, which were crushing her legs. While her upper body was luckily not harmed.

She was lying on her stomach with her face to the side. Evan ran to her side and immediately checked her pulse. He grabbed her shoulders and shook them to try and get her conscious again. “(Y/n)! Hey! Open your eyes for me will you?” He sounded. She squeezed her eyes as she groaned at the throbbing pain she felt at the bottom of her body.

“M-my leg..” she cried out when she tried to blink her tears away. “I know. We’re gonna try to get you out okay.” Evan tries to reassure her.

“Cap, we’ve got a situation here. (Y/n)’s legs are stuck underneath chunks of concrete.” Eddie calls through his radio to keep his captain updated.

Evan stood up straight again as he tried to push one of the concrete blocks off of (Y/n)’s legs. Eddie joined in to help him lift the chunk off of her leg, but without any succes. An ear deafening scream sounded over the second floor. “Cap. We need more hands, and equipment. This concrete is way too heavy for two people.” Evan spoke through his radio.

“Cap we have to help them!” Chimney fought his captain. Bobby didn’t want to lose three of his team members, but the time was ticking by. He had to make a call. The three of them, or all of them. It could make them get out faster if Hen, Chimney and Bobby himself got in right now with the right equipment. Or it could all go side ways, and they all would go down with the building. They all knew what they signed up for when they entered the training. “Hen, get a medic bag and a splint, Chim get the jaws of life. We’re going in.” He ordered them. As he walked towards the truck to get a halligan out.

“This isn’t working.” Eddie concluded when they tried again to push the weight off of her legs. Evan sighed. But his eyes wandered back to (Y/n) when he heard her trying to say something. “H..halligan” she gasped as she tried to point out for the halligan she had with her this entire time. She dropped the halligan when she dropped down an entire floor down.

Evan stood back up and picked up the halligan from the floor. “Let’s try this again.” He told Eddie. Evan was desperate to get his girlfriend out of here. He put the part of the halligan underneath the concrete blocks as he tries to push the chunk off of her with all his weight and help from Eddie. The part moved barely an inch. But it was something.

(Y/n) was screaming out in pain again, when she felt a hand squeeze hers and a familiar voice sounded through her eardrums. It was Hen. Hen kneeled beside her as the four guys worked on her legs.

Meanwhile Chimney put the jaws underneath the pieces of concrete and widened the jaws. When the piece of concrete was high enough, Bobby, Eddie and Evan pushed it so it landed on the floor. And so they proceeded until both her legs were free. Hen put together a splint so her legs wouldn’t get anymore damage than it already had.

“Okay let’s get you up.” Hen’s voice said as she looked up at Evan. As a sign to get her up. Evan lowered himself down, and slung her arm around his neck. His right arm underneath her knees and his left arm was supporting her lower back. “Chimney, get down stairs to get the gurney ready. Eddie, put the jaws back in the compartment.” Bobby ordered when their work was done.

He carried her two floors down and as soon as they reached the exit, Chimney came running down with the gurney. Evan gently put her on the gurney. Yanked off his oxygen mask and (Y/n) did that too. Evan unbuckled her oxygen tank to lift it off of her back and she lay down on the gurney. When Evan wanted to walk away to put her oxygen tank in the truck. Her hand reached out to his bicep.

“You know. I do accept your apology from earlier.” Her voice sounded weakly. A smile appears on his face. Her hand shifted from his bicep to his cheek. “I never meant to say those words.” He said. It sounded like he was on the edge of his breaking point. “It’s okay” she whispered. She pulled Evan closed by the collar of his florescent jacket. And placed a quick kiss on his lips. She leans forward to let her forehead fall against his. He felt his hand falling against her skin. His thumb slightly stroked her jaw as she closes her eyes. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. Not after one fight.”

#911 #911 fox #911 imagine #buck imagine #buck x reader #evan buckley imagine #evan buckley x reader #evanbuckley #imagine #911 abc

484 notes · View notes

crowcravesmore · 21 days

Text

Dead Girl Walkin' (Frank Castle x F!Reader)

AKA 'Bounty & Bliss'

Frank Castle x F!Reader (18+)

+ After a mission gone wrong, you end up on the wrong side of Fisks gun, and now you're a wanted woman. You have 30 hours of freedom before every bounty hunter in New York has his eyes on you, so of course you run straight to Frank. Oh how he loves the sight of you.

Word Count: 5.1k ( It's actually impossible for me to write a "short" fic. I'm a wordy bitch, I can't help it. I love to talk.)

Warnings: Cursing, violence, reader getting beat tf up (She's got powers it's fine), explicit content/smut, Frank being such a softie for you, fluff (is that a warning?).

A/N: LETS GO FRANK CASTLE LOVERS! I absolutely adore this man, and I think it shows in how I write him. This is an oldie from my previous blog, but it's one of my favorite fics I've ever written. It's a long one so buckle up. (This fic was absolutely based on the song Dead Girl walking from Heathers the musical. Take that as you will.)

+ + +

It was an absolute fact that you weren't gonna die a peaceful death. Yeah no, you were gonna go out one of two different ways. One, a Bruce Willis, Die Hard type thing with at least two explosions. Or two, someone else is gonna punch your card for you. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, that's it.

Frank threw a guess in once. Said you’d probably go out saving a bunch’a kids from a burning building or something, because you're a soft ass like that, Sunshine, that’s why. He was three stitches deep on his right arm, and shooting you looks from his side of the couch. Ain’t that right, Sunshine?

Nope. nuh-uh, not even close. You get a grand total of thirty hours, all Courtesy of Mr. Kingpin himself. Fisk. What kind of name is Fisk anyway? It sounds too much like Fist, or fish, either way it’s awkward. You’re just being pissy, because you got caught, and Fisk is rubbing it in your face.

Third punch is to your jaw, and that’s the one that knocks you, and the chair you're strapped to, back. You’re taking this whole thing in stride, you haven't passed out or anything. Be proud of that. After the fourth punch Fisk finally waves his hand and lets— what's his name? Rick? This guy looks like a Rick —stop. You ever been hit with brass knuckles by a heavyweight? It sucks.

You were hired by an unnamed client to sneak into Fisks club, and put mics anywhere you could. It was easy getting in without being noticed, unfortunately for you Fisk has eyes everywhere. Fortunately for you one of your powers is strength, so a couple of blows by a heavyweight won't kill you. It fucking hurts though.

Fisk says something, but he’s standing on the other side of the room and your ears are still ringing, so he really says nothing. He turns, catches your eyes, and there's a curious sort of smile on his face. Your ears are still ringing but, over all of the noise, you catch him say ‘Again’, and brace yourself for impact.

Rick, son of a bitch, knocks you hard, just under your eye and you can practically hear the bruise forming. You must’ve blacked out for a second because when you blink there’s Fisk, dropped to his haunches in front of you. It takes thirty seconds after you start drooling blood for him to start back up.

“You’re a real woman, you know that?”

“And what does that make you?” Your voice doesn't even sound like you, it’s too scratchy, and your words are hard to make out.

Fisk sort of ignores you and says,“And Because I'm a nice guy,” Pulling a white handkerchief—Christ—out of his shirt pocket and wiping your mouth. “I'm gonna make this easy on you, how bout’ forty eight hours? Sound good?”

You’re so stubborn. Like, way too stubborn for your own good, that’s what you’re gonna tell Frank when you explain why you spit your blood in Fisks face. And because you’re a real woman.

“Thirty hours,” Fisk says, gripping the bottom half of your shirt, using it to wipe his face, and standing up. “Butch,—” So that’s his name, he looks like a Butch. “Show her the door.”

Brace for impact.

You can't be that mad though, I mean come on. After that stunt you pulled at the Quagmire tonight you’re surprised you’re even still walking-uh -running. So yeah, thirty hours and after that you’re gonna be a goddamn beacon of come get me for every baddie in New York. Okay, you gotta stop running or else you’re gonna pull something, and catching a cramp probably isn’t the best thing for you right now...just sayin’.

You pitch from a sprint to a light jog and eventually stop, bowing over and pressing your hands to your knees. A long groan crawls out of you, and you shake your head. The middle of 10th and 42nd isn’t the place to let it hit you. Clear your throat, spit, stand back up, keep walking.

You decide to swerve out of the road and onto the sidewalk, that way you’re not ass out for everyone to see. And it’s a helluva sight. You’ve got a bruise forming just under your right eye and your nose is busted to shit, not to mention the blood- that you’re not even sure is all yours- caked over you. All that and you probably smell like a back alley.

You shift and adjust, turn right toward the dock, and pick up the pace.

‘I can run,’ you think, digging your thumbnail into your palm. ‘haul ass to Seattle, become some poor fisherman's wife.’

That doesn't sound all too bad, besides the fact that Fisk has got eyes all over this goddamn city. You so much as even look toward the bridge and his thirty hours-oh-mercy are gone. Poof! You won't even make it out of New York.

A street light flicks off for a second before coming back to life, and you dig in your back pocket, fishing for your phone. It’s a mess of cracks and smeared blood, but still manageable. You click it on and the screen gives a few half assed flashes of light before turning on. Yeah, still manageable.

You wipe the screen against your shirt and pull it back, checking the time. Twelve oh five. Good, he's still up.

•

Frank's van is static under the west bridge, just next to the pier. It’s a beige camper he’s had since way back when, and is still too sentimental to give up. It’s rusted, a hubcaps gone missing, and the battery is standing on it’s last leg, but don’t ever tell Frank it’s anything less than perfect. Seriously, buddy, don't do it.

You called it a piece of junk once, something mumbled between Frank trying to turn the engine over and almost flooding it.

“If you don’t like it that much, Sunshine, you can walk back.” He shakes his head and turns the key over again. The engine makes an almost awkward sort of noise. Something like a cr-r-r-eek! Before gray smoke creeps its way from under the hood. “God fucking damnit.”

You're ninety percent sure the only reason he didn't knock your head through the window is because he's got a soft spot for you....Eighty-five percent.

Your boot knocks against an empty can, probably oil, and Max pokes his head up. He's lying right outside the van's side door, tucked halfway under it with his head on his paws. You go still and try to remember if this dog actually liked you or not.

When he doesn’t move you chalk it up to a definite maybe, and start walking again. He lets out a few half assed growls before crawling from under the van and barking, loud and proud. You throw caution out the window and speed walk toward him, forgetting the fact that he’s a full grown pitbull, and wave your hands in front of you, shh shh shh! No, doggy. Nice, Max! You got a million different scenarios playing in your head, and none of them are good.

Max is howling now, nose pointed to the sky and oh sonofabitch.

You hear a gun cock over your head and now you're staring down the barrel of a shotgun. This was the fourth scenario. At the end of that is Frank, standing in a pair of raggedy sweatpants, an old NYU tee, and-Christ he's not even wearing any shoes.

You're still a little wobbly in the legs so you press your hand against the doorframe, and lean. That's it. Play it cool, nice and steady.

“Hey, Frank.” You say, and then. “Can I come in?” You're batting against four hours of sleep and maybe a concussion, so hey, frank is the best you're gonna do.

His shoulders slump down and he points the gun away from you, eyes moving three speeds too fast. Like I said earlier, you’re a helluva sight, girl.

“You look like the back end of hell.” He says, side stepping to let you in, eyes catching on your knuckles. They aren’t the worst of it, but you can tell a lot about a person from their hands, and Frank’s getting the whole goddamn story.

You step up into the kitchen—living room?—and focus on everything you’ve already seen before. The sketchy stain on the ceiling, the empty Budweiser cans, your feet. Just for good measure you pick up a roll of gauze and turn it over in your hand, because this is the most interesting thing in the world, not your bloody knuckles. And definitely not Frank who’s staring down your back, shooting imaginary laser beams your way. Pew pew pew. I’m calling it now, he’s gonna get mad. You know it, I know it, so just fucking face the music before he-

“So,” oh-Kay. He clicks the third deadbolt, and leans his back against the door, gun cocked on the wall, and arms crossed over his chest. “You gonna tell me what happened or am I gonna haveta’ guess?”

He doesn't have to guess, because he already knows. But, he's gonna lean back and give you a chance to say it before he starts pulling teeth.

“This was once in a lifetime, Frank.” You're pushing out excuses and he's barely said anything. “There was an opening-”

“Y/n, what the hell did you do?”

Franks more worried than actually confused. He knows you're in some deep-I'm talking chasm into hell deep- shit, he's just worried he's not gonna be able to pull you out.

“I went to the Quagmire, and Fisk was there.” You wring your hands because of the look he gives you. Priceless. “I had a shot, I took it, I—”

“Tell me you killed him.” He's shaking his head, tilt up, and looking at the roof. He's about to start praying, and lord knows he hasn't done that in a while. “Tell me you killed him, Y/n.”

The throbbing behind your eye is enough to remind you that no, you didn't. You came damn close though, I'll give you that.

Frank blinks, slow squeeze, and groans something low in the back of his throat. He drops his head and drags a hand down his jaw, you're gonna be the death of him if you keep this shit up.

“And,” you gotta get it out now, if you don't do it now you're gonna hate doing it later. “I got a bounty on me.”

“Course you do,” he's looking at you again, but his foot is tapping against the linoleum, so he's beyond mad now. “Is it active?”

You shake your head. “No, I got thirty hours.” You would have forty eight, but he doesn't need to know that...or why you don't anymore.

“Shiiit,” he almost laughs. “Bastard gave you a helluva’ lot more time than me.” His eyebrows tilt down and you catch the way his eyes track along your knuckles. You're standing in front of him, and in this light he can finally get a good look at you. And he doesn't like it. “What'd they do to you, Sunshine?”

There it is. You let out a halfhearted dry laugh and say. “Butch, son of a bitch has a solid right hook.”

“I bet I got better,” He says, lips upturning a bit.

You say. “Oh, I know you do.” And that's it, you're both drawn back into a moment that definitely shouldn't happen. Christ, girl, the man's a vigilante with a truckload of baggage. Stay away. Don't do it to yourself.

You gotta dodge this shit, so you say. “So, what do I do now?”

He gives you a quick once over and pushes himself off the wall. “First, you gotta take a shower, get your mind right.” He stalks over to the hall closet, and starts pulling out random things; a towel, a washcloth, sweatpants, and one of his Rolling Stones T-shirts. He tosses a Then we'll talk, and figure out our next move. over his shoulder and that knocks you back a minute.

Our. Don't dwell on that. Nope, nope, do not do it. You nod, walk over to him, and say. “Thank you, Franky.” Franky’s something only you’d get away with saying, just like he gets away with the whole sunshine thing. It’s weird, you’re weird, leave it alone.

When you reach him he pulls back, giving you this half look between you really okay? and it's okay if you're not. Oh, God, he's gonna have your eyes in the shape of hearts if he keeps this up.

“I'm fine,” You reach a bit more, and he meets you halfway, pushing everything towards you. “You better have hot water though.”

“Baby, you know I do.”

“Mhm, that's what you said last time.”

He says. “Just tell me if it's not hot enough for you, I'll fix it.” And you're positive it's borderline flirty. You gotta occupy yourself with turning on the bathroom light, or else he's gonna see fuuuck written all over your face.

You gotta say something back or it's gonna be one sided, and awkward so you push out. “I'll call you if I need you, Franky.” Low and slow.

Did you just?

Franks mouth pulls up into a grin and he's gotta wipe his hand over his cheek, as if he's just feeling the stubble. Look what you did, you're making him nervous.

Before either of you have a chance to react, the door’s closed and you're pressing your back against it. If you didn't know any better you'd think the man was making a move, but you've got a migraine from hell so you're gonna chalk it up to friendly banter.

You're gonna opt for a cold shower though, just in case.

•

The shower does wonders for you. Your regenerative powers help too, giving your body the chance to heal a bit under the water. You walk out dressed and unstressed with your clothes balled up in your arms, just about to call out Franks name when you hear him say. “Back here.”

You turn and walk into the small bedroom space, just big enough for the two of you. He's laying on his back with his arm thrown over his eyes, looking like absolute sin. Okay, yeah, you're cut off from reading tacky romance novels.

“You can just put your stuff on the table, we'll get em’ washed tomorrow.” He sounds tired.

You walk to the kitchenette table and drop your clothes on top of it, before walking back to the room and saying. “Or we could just get my clothes from my apartment, that's a pretty good idea.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “We could, and, you know what, why don't we go to the police station while we're at it and tell them about the bad man named Fisk?”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought we were stating dumb ideas.” He says nonchalantly, before adding. “You and I both know that it's not safe for you to go to your place, or else you wouldn't be here, right?”

He lifts his arm off of his face and looks at you. Yeah, right. You nod and he nods back, covering his face up again. “Right.”

Truth be told, you'd probably still be here even if it was safe. Truthfully.

You crawl onto the bed next to him and the springs groan out something light and metallic. Lay down, face up, be quiet.

“Y/n.” That's not quiet.

“Hm?”

“You're not doin’ this alone,” Okay. You turn your head to look at him but he's still got his arm over his eyes. “Not while there's air in my lungs.”

You say, “It's not your fight.” And Frank finally looks at you. His brows tip and he props himself up on one arm so he's leaning over you a bit.

“Hell it's not, you think Ima’ just let that bastard have at you? Nuh-uh,” He shakes his head. “Sorry to disappoint, but that's not how this works.”

“Then how does this work?” You're not mad, just curious. If this is going where you think it's going, God willing, Frank’s gonna be the one starting it.

He's the one with the brick walls here, so you're gonna let him be the first to break them down.

His eyes drop to your lips and roll over the curve of your jaw. It's sharp and soft at the same time, just like the rest of you. You shift, catch his eyes, and his sight slips off to the wall.

“I, uh.” he rolls onto his back and clasp his hands on his stomach. You're making him nervous and he's the one doing all the work. Jeesus, one of you do something. This is embarrassing.

“I don't wanna die.” What? You-pfsshhh. Yeah, okay, start there.

Frank has to blink that in, but he's still too chicken shit right now to look at you. So he asks. “Why not?”

For the love of God.

“Why not?” You repeat, frowning at the ceiling. Frank squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head, backtrack.

“No, not-” He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and gives himself a second to get it. He doesn't, so he just nods and says. “Yeah, okay why not? Why don't you?”

You sit up and turn to look at him. He's circulating between frowning at you, and the ceiling, and the door, so when his eyes hit you on their third rotation you say. “I don't wanna die, because I'm not ready yet.” Simple.

“Says the girl who went all Annie Oakley on a mob boss tonight.”

“It was his henchmen-”

“-henchmen?”

“-and that's not the point.” You ignore him. “The point is I'm scared. I thought I could do it tonight, but I didn't and now look at me.”

He does. In the weak light from his bedside lamp he can see all of you. The bruise forming (and healing) under your eye, and on the bridge of your nose. The scratch along your neck that dips just below the collar of your-his shirt. It's a lot. You're a lot.

He shifts and pushes himself up a bit before opening his arms. “Come here.”

Then your head is pressed against his chest, with your hand resting on his abdomen. Fingers curled in. You can hear his heart beating, thu-thump. Thu-thump.

His arm wraps around you and you can feel his fingers brush against the middle of your back, right at the dip. A train's horn blares in the distance and suddenly you feel really mortal.

This is it, Kid.

You've finally hit fuck it, because now you're lifting up and kissing Frank Castle. You half expect him to push you off, but nope, his hand pushes straight to your hips, your shirt hitching up around his forearm.

There's no awkward is this okay kisses, nope, you're both just diving for it. You push your hand up to his shoulder and-oh okay, yeah you do that- slide your leg over him, so you're halfway straddling him at least.

You push both of your hands to his neck, thumbs pressed against his jaw, and lean in. It's an awkward approach, something he wasn't exactly ready for this time because your teeth collide, and you're about to pull back and apologize when he reaches down and grips your ass.

Oh-Kay. He tugs you back up toward him and this time you're both ready. Especially you, because your tongue dips into Frank's mouth and he's just here for it.

After a while of just that, you lift up and press your hands against his chest. His other hand scoots up to your hip, and he starts rubbing up and down your thighs.

“Y/n-”

“Hold on.” You scoot so you're really on top of him and sit back a bit, feeling him rub against your clit. He lets out a sharp exhale of a groan and you lift up, before sitting back again and grinding against him. Frank tugs off his shirt and you follow suit, pulling yours up and over your head before tossing it off to the side, and Frank is on you.

You’re not wearing a bra, so he just dips his head down to lick your nipple into his mouth. He reaches up to gather your other breast in his hand, and you bring your hands up to his shoulders just to hold onto something. You bury your face in his hair, shift, and kiss along his head.

Frank starts peppering sloppy kisses across your chest before biting down on your other nipple.

“Shit,” you whisper. “Frank.”

“Mhm,” He’s got a vice grip on your hips, and then he’s bucking up into you. Slow and steady, and meticulous, and—Jeesus. His tongue swirls and bites, and you’re tilting your head back. Eye’s closed just feeling him.

Okay, you gotta-hold on. You push against Franks shoulders and his mouth comes off of you with an almost obscene pop. He starts to ask what’s wrong when you dip your head down and catch his mouth against yours. It’s slow and nasty and good, something almost too sensual to be Frank, but it is. It’s just you and him.

He mumbles. “Com’on.” Against your lips and rolls you over so he’s pressed on top of you. You’re rubbing your hands up his arms and over his shoulders when he —oh Christ, okay—reaches up to grab each of your wrist pinning them over your head. This is more of what you expected, you’re not gonna stop him though.

He peppers kisses along your jaw and down to your neck, before sucking.

“Fra-ank.” God you’re whiney right now, and Franks sucking hickies into your neck, so who the hell cares?

“What’s wrong, Baby?” Frank is an A-1 goddamn tease. Before you can get an answer out he pushes against you. Languid downward rolls of his hips, catching against you and pushing your body up juuust a bit with each thrust. “Hm?”

Your mouths open in an ‘O’ shape, and you’re positive you're not gonna be able to make clear sentences, so you lock your ankles behind him and drag him closer to you. He groans out a breathy ah, shit and pulls his head back up to kiss you again. When he lets your arms go he’s quick to get back on you, sucking and biting his way down your body, and you’re still too dazed to really get what’s happening until he says.

“Y/n.”

He’s sitting up, leaning back a bit onto his legs, with his hands resting on your hips. You prop yourself up on your forearms. “Yes?”

His mouth tips up into a half smile and he says. “I said you gotta lift up,” His fingers tap the waistband of your sweatpants. Oh, yeah, okay. You lift up your hips and he starts tugging your pants down, fingers hooked in your panties too. You lift up your legs and then he’s got everything up and off of you.

He settles back down, onto his stomach, with his head between your legs and looks up at you. You’re still propped up onto his shoulders, and you’ve got a pretty damn good view of him. He dips his head down and starts kissing along your thighs, and again it's strangely intimate for him. Out of your peripheral you catch a car's headlights move past the window, and you think to say something when you feel Frank slide his hands to the back of your knees and fold your legs back on either side of you towards the bed.

You feel him blow cool air against you and you gotta take deep breaths. Scoot, shift, and his face is right between the junction of your thighs. Your hand is in his hair when he drags his tongue up your pussy and over your clit. Your head hits the pillow and you push your other hand into the other one next to you. Gripping.

“Frank,” You breathe for no reason other than it’s just him. “Oh, God, Frank.”

He moans into you and that’s enough to get your back arching a bit. He starts in earnest, jumping between circling your clit, and looong strokes up your vulva. You start to wonder if he’s spelling his name down there, when he pushes his tongue aaaalll the way in until his face is practically buried inside of you. His tongue is pressed flat against your labia and then he’s licking inside you. There’s a pause while you gasp out a ‘Fra-a-ank’, before he starts tongue fucking you. You’re not sure what your sound limit is here so you’re doing your best to keep it to a minimum. Rotating between a string of Oh god, Yes, fuck, and Fraa-aank-just to be safe.

And then he plants his mouth over your clit and sucks, pushing a finger inside of you. Your back is almost full rainbow, pushing your head into the pillow, and your moaning out a loud. “Ooooh, fuck, Frank!”

He hums, and, without missing a beat, his tongue starts circling your clit, and he adds a second finger. Languid and intinse. Faster, tighter, you’re really pushing the sound limit here. He’s still working you to the edge, but has enough time to say. “Come on, Y/n. Come in my mouth, baby.”

You groan. “Oh shit,” But he pulls his fingers back a bit, curve, and he’s finger fucking you against your G-spot. He’s an angel.

You’re loud. Like-you’re voice is probably gonna be strained in the morning- loud. Frank pumps into you, tongue circling tightly, and gets just a little rougher with it. “Ah, fuck, Frank. Please-God-please…” He latches his lips around your clit and sucks, and it's gotta be biblical the amount of times you’ve said God’s name tonight. He presses against your legs and tucks his fingers, moans against you. Your jaw drops and you squeeze your eyes shut, pushing your other hand down to the back of Frank's head and pulling his face into you.

A strain of ecstasy pushes its way through you and you just can’t get out fast enough. “Frank-frank, oh GOD AAaaahhh!!” Your chest has a slow rise and fall to it, and Frank is back to being sensual. Kissing around your still sensitive clit and up your thighs. He lets go of your leg and pushes both of his hands onto your hips, you can feel your wetness on his fingers.

He pulls himself on top of you and this kiss is rougher, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He props himself up onto his forearm and reaches down to push off his sweatpants, throwing them off to the side with the rest of his clothes.

“You ready?” His voice is wrecked, something you’re really not used to hearing from Frank. You think, and push up on his shoulders before wrapping your leg around his hip and rolling so you’re on top. Franks got this dazed smile on his face, and lord he is cute. Really, Frank Castle is cute.

He grabs onto your waist and lifts you up with almost ridiculous ease, before shifting his eyes down and watching as you wrap your hand around his dick and slowly guide yourself down onto him.

You press your hands against his chest and raise up, just to grind back down, and Franks gotta focus on his breathing or else he’s gonna cum way too fast.

You go like that for a while, a slow and steady rock, but Frank’s been sporting a hard on since you laid next to him so he’s not as patient as he could be. He adjusts his grip on your waist, hikes his legs up so he’s digging his heels into the mattress, “You ready, baby?” and starts to buck up into you. And you thought you were leading the show.

You’re panting out little ah’s with each thrust, and you gotta brace your hand on the headboard for some kinda leverage. Frank pulls you down onto his chest and kisses you full, mumbling a string of “You like that? Huh? Ah, fuck.” against you, before wrapping his arm around your waist. You grind down and meet each of his thrust and he’s done for. He pushes his face into your neck as he starts pistoning into you, lips mouthing at your neck. His thrust start getting sloppy, uncoordinated, and he moans out. “Com’on, Y/n.” Before reaching down and circling your clit.

And it's building and building and you rasp out. “Frank, I—”

He bites down on your shoulder and Oh, okay, yes that. You dig your nails into his shoulder and he’s forcing every ounce of himself not to scream. “Y/n!” Low and breathy. He still does. His hips stutter as he cums, and you pick up your pace, fucking him through it. His hips eventually stutter and he bucks a couple of times before sighing into your neck, spent.

You both just stay like that for a while. Breathing in each other, enjoying the come down. You can’t help but let your mind drift to thoughts of Frank outside of this. Domesticated, and lovely. He just came inside of you, so the idea of having his kids passes through briefly. You’ll deal with that tomorrow. He coaxes you off of him and onto the bed, sliding the sheets onto the both of you. Sliding his arm under your back he pulls you into his side and closes his eyes. You rest your head against his chest, hyper aware of how intimate this is. Neither of you are sure whether or not you should dwell on that or not.

He, Christ, reaches down and plants a kiss on your forehead before laying back and saying. “You’re not getting your card punched, not while I’m still here.”

Does he know what he’s doing to you? You just nod, because you’re not really sure if you believe him or not, and he sees that.

“Hey,” He says, nudging you a bit. You sit up and look at him, and he’s got this look in his eyes. Something like worry, and hope, and so much love for you it almost breaks your heart. “I’m serious, I’m not letting him or any a’ them get to you.”

You’re the closest thing this man has got to a friend, hell even a family, so yeah. You believe him. You nod and lean up to kiss him, before laying your head back onto his chest.

Thirty hours.

A/N: I'm actually obsessed with this man. Y'all please leave comments letting me know if you liked this / what you think. I wanna hear back from you! Have a great day, beautiful.

#I love writing so much what a great outlet #frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x female reader #frank castle fluff #the punisher #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel fic #kash writes

262 notes · View notes

tubbytarchia · 4 months

Text

Actually I'm gonna need a little insanity thread for all the rancher things I love as I watch their POV for the first time. I'll publicize this when I'm done with ep5

TLDR: Heavens, it is a long list. I cannot tldr this

Them running around in circles, completely lost after their first deaths whilst also not expressing even the slightest bit of anger (esp Jimmy because you know)

Them expecting the other to know how to build but neither of them can

Tango building a box of a house and Jimmy being absolutely smitten by it continuously

Tango praising Jimmy with full genuinity for bringing back... a bucket of water

Them cradling one little chicken like its their offspring before they can get more

Jimmy standing behind the door, calling for Tango in order to surprise him with cows.... god help my heart

Tango declaring them as team ranchers to immediately admit he might not be a very good rancher. This is good and cute because I love to see them struggle yet have unbridled support towards each other

Jimmy being cornered by Joel and Etho so Tango leaves to save him (or so he says at least!)

Jimmy ushering Tango into their house as Tango yells for help due to his hunger and being chased by mobs, and then Jimmy giving him two melon slices because that's all he has (They are so pathetically poor which only accentuates the wholesome and cute factor)

Jimmy accidentally picking up Tango's baked potato and then handing it back to him so they can eat together while Tango basically foams out the mouth because he's so hungry

"Welcome home honey"

Them celebrating being able to feed themselves to any degree

Tango all "I built that wall, it's ugly, continuing the trend" only for Jimmy to immediately proclaim that he likes it

Jimmy catching on that Tango can be a great builder actually and confronting him about it like he's just been cheated on

Tango blocking their entrance to prevent more cows from leaving for Jimmy to then admit that he was the one that broke the door, oops

Tango watching Jimmy escort two goats from a distance "he's doing great"

Them in total confusion wasting way too much time trying to figure out how to get goat horns as they're huddled in their house with said goats strolling around (and them continuing to get butted casually as they go about their normal activities) before eventually choosing to waste much more time by trying to do the same thing outside

Unrelated but Pearl of all people being the first person to come to them with genuine help rather than to fuck with them like everyone else

In the face of all their struggles, the thing that seems to bring the absolute most joy to Tango and Jimmy by this point is obtaining a silly little goat horn

The fact that they both got the exact same goat horn!!!

"I need stuff for tools, and I need stuff for Jimmy"

Tango defending their base's looks despite proclaiming to be a bad builder, because god, I want him to be doing that just because of how much Jimmy praised it

Nobody replying to their goat horns, but THEM replying to each other!! (They also toot at each other later when frantically looking for each other agh!!)

This time Tango interrogating Jimmy as if he's been cheated on because Jimmy went into the deep dark without his approval

"The R survived"

"Tango snap out of it; Tango's having a moment" *Tango yelling and groaning and grunting and laughing continuously*

"Tango, Tango, let's think about this. Let's think about this!" "Hold me back" "Tango, listen to the horn" Jimmy calming his deranged husband aw

Tango burying his head in a corner refusing to look at his beautiful ranch in complete ruin even as Jimmy coaxes him

Jimmy and Tango kind of begrudgingly accepting Scar trying to be nice but Jimmy still valiantly defending the foot tower before it burned to the ground

Their son/daughter :( (Tango refers to the Warden as a she one episode and a he in another. Their child was an icon...)

Tango expressing that he's proud of Jimmy for having stayed alive so long and Jimmy replying "It's all down to to you. Hey, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you"

Maybe Jimmy really didn't have a water bucket on him but it was so funny of him to casually turn to Tango whilst on fire and go "can you put me out?"

Jimmy being comically kidnapped??? (Actually being put into gay baby jail instead) And asking Tango to help save him

"You're still here? It's over. Go home. Go." (insert a bunch of crying emojis)

Other stuff: I think by virtue of Jimmy being a real tall guy, his character is usually depicted as taller than Tango's if not significantly so. As such... Tango calling Jimmy "little man" tickles me greatly and sounds like a very fond pet name

Briefly brought it up earlier but goddd. I will absolutely hc that Tango only became proud and defendant of his work because of how much Jimmy liked what he built. And Jimmy always being there and calming Tango in his crazed outbursts <3 Tango is such a goddamn creature isn't he

And the uhh... Tango dying quickest out of anyone because of a creeper, to then express that he was proud of Jimmy for doing well even though he got them killed the first time around, and then Jimmy unceremoniously dying to an Enderman to end their series for good... As funny and poetic as it is, god, the canary curse fuckin hurts!! And yet there were hardly times that Tango showed disdain towards Jimmy, and then never genuinely. He knew their series could end quick with Jimmy as his soulmate and even when their positivity faltered, their support towards one another never did

For having read all this (or maybe just glancing and scrolling)... some unfinished rancher doodles just for you that I made while watching their POV

#team rancher #rancher duo #I am not okay #trafficshipping #blabber

252 notes · View notes

notroosterbradshaw · 4 months

Text

slow dancing in a burning room - seven

word count: 6k

warnings: nsfw 18+, language.

part of: The Boyfriend Experience universe

a/n: no man's land. I hope you enjoy it. thanks to those who read, reblogged and commented on previous chapters. you’re doing god’s work. I truly appreciate your effort to show your support and if you like it… please comment and reblog it! x

You’d be lying to say you hadn’t been distracted all morning… not in the best frame of mind, half heartedly urging young teens, “Just another 50m, you got this”, because God knew, you certainly did not have this.

But you were just so tired. You hadn’t been sleeping well, you were just eating enough to say you were eating. You just felt average and it made you so angry how much you’d tangled yourself with Bradley. Self-care had taken a backseat to bury yourself in the pool’s redevelopment, you weren’t bothering with your morning ocean swim - and of course, it had nothing to do with bumping into Bradley on his morning run.

Nothing at all.

Annie was on your case to pull yourself from your funk where you continually reminded her you were not in. You were in fact quite productive. Between the work, pool and constantly moving things around the apartment (you wished you'd never started to be honest because you just couldn’t make things work as well as they did before you nearly moved), your days were pretty full and you went to bed exhausted.

You’d just finished the early session when the first text came in. Shivering at your desk and wrapped in a sopping towel, just wanting to release the wet, tangled bun on top of your head and a hot shower to dechlorinate your irritated skin after teaching all morning, you knew protecting your peace was going to be difficult today.

Today, Bradley was to be arraigned.

It had been a beast of a process for him. The last year his life had been so tumultuous - from deciding to move back to California, the highs of falling in love with each other, deciding to take that ridiculously quick step of moving in together. He gets the keys to his parents' villa and renovates it to build a life and a family. Everything he’d wanted for so long, to Maverick’s return. The only family he had that had destroyed all his hopes and dreams, was the Dagger mission… and subsequent crashes. His injuries, forced leave, and his mental health shattered to you leaving a man who didn’t know how to cope and not giving him the benefit of the doubt to try and help more. Your guilt crushed you in ways you’d never imagined you could ever put on another person.

You bent in every direction for him, and it still wasn’t enough.

But the hidden truths. Your trust in him was shattered, and protecting yourself, something you were always taught, what we’re all taught but sometimes unable to walk away from someone who can’t change… but Bradley needed more help than you. And when he was put on forced leave, that was the final straw because…

Because he almost died and when you found out through all the mistruths, he broke you. Maybe he didn’t mean to, maybe he wanted to protect you, protect what you had, but the world was bigger than what is redacted at the end of the day.

But without honesty, what the fuck did you have together? Very little, it turned out. Sex wasn’t going to save you, nor the way your heart found a new rhythm when Bradley was with you. Or how safe you felt in his arms, the way his big hands snuck under your shirt and wrapped around your soft tummy to pull you closer to his strong chest -

Natasha Trace: He has been found not guilty. Don’t ask me what miracle or deity is on his shoulder, but to be released on Article 92 is wild!

And you were so relieved and not just because you couldn’t compartmentalise didn’t mean those who were overseeing his case couldn’t. That was their job. Their job wasn’t to love Bradley unconditionally and feel the hurt you did for him… with him. Alone.

It must have felt revolutionary. Your fingers found the characters to reply somehow. You were shaking, your phone trembled in your hand. Where were your glasses?!

You: How is he? Is he okay?

Natasha Trace: Disbelief. Absolute disbelief. Relief. He’s okay.

You: Thank God, thank you for letting me know, Nat.

Natasha Trace: Of course. We’re going for a celebratory drink. Do you wanna join us, or is that still the stupidest question in the world?

You: The dumbest.

You: But thank you.

Natasha Trace: Can I tell him I told you?

You: I don’t think he will care, but ok. Tell him I’m happy for him and hope he’s excited to get in the air again.

Natasha Trace: I think he will get orders pretty quickly…

It sure seemed like a hint. Talk to him now before you lose him for months on end again.

You: I’m sure he’s very excited about that. MEDHOLD?

Natasha Trace: Awaiting TBI and psych assessment but he thinks he’s pretty close.

You: Don’t tell him I’m crossing my fingers for him.

Natasha Trace: …no, never 😉

After showering and dressing with a little more pep in your step thanks to Bradley’s good news, your brain got the best of you and you thought maybe it’d be nice to send him a small, “I’m really happy for you. I hope you enjoy getting back up in the skies” message.

Retrieving his number that was no longer your ICE, no longer the top of your Favourites, and unblocking it made your body quake, and like it was a warning, the barrage of texts you’d not received overwhelmed you.

One by one, begging, pleading for your notice, the raw, the anger, the language.

He had given you a few days of quiet before the texts started.

Bradley 🐓: Love, are you sure this is what you need? I can give you anything, let’s just please try and make this work. I’ll give you some time, whatever you want x

Bradley 🐓: I got a Not Delivered back. You’ve blocked me?

Bradley 🐓: You’ve blocked me. Shit.

Bradley 🐓: Okay, I get it, you want space, I’ll give it to you.

Bradley 🐓: Hey you… checking if I’m still blocked.

Bradley 🐓: YEP.

Bradley 🐓: Gotta say, I didn’t think you’d ever block me.

The thing is, you never thought you’d ever have to block Bradley and as you eased back in your chair, your inherent need to nip something irritating to him made your fingers itch.

Bradley 🐓: Okay, if this is what you want, I’ll leave it to you to come back to me.

Bradley 🐓: I’m so fucking sorry about tonight. I hope the door didn’t hurt you too badly.

Bradley 🐓: Still fucking blocked. Ok. I won’t bother again. You've made your point. On me for stupidly not believing we are at this place.

You had to wonder if it was even worth sending one of your own. You couldn’t match his tone, his anger and disappointment. The congratulations text just didn’t seem to cut it but before you knew it, the “Natasha told me you’ve been acquitted. I am happy for you, Rooster. Enjoy getting back to work, I know you’ve missed it” text had written itself but it didn’t mean it was as easy to hit the send button.

And it felt colder than it sounded. You hoped he was sitting on his phone and ready to respond but when you were still waiting the next day, you had to admit you weren’t very surprised. Like he cared that you were happy for him, he deserved to move on and not deal with you and your bullshit in his life anymore.

You desperately wanted to block him just like before, heart not prepared to see his name in your notifications again.

You hit send before you could think anymore and hoped maybe you were blocked on his end too.

“Knock, knock. Favourite granddaughter is here,” you announced, the tiresomeness in your voice evident after the barrage of Bradley’s texts weighed heavily on you as you walked into your grandparents' home for a cheeky late lunch later that day. Washed and primped (washed and in your activewear, naturally. You were a swimming teacher, not a goddamn office drone), you wandered past the photo wall to find Grandpa and… Maverick in the kitchen. Well, fuck. Your luck was the worst.

There wasn’t a midlife crisis motorbike parked out the front… this would teach you to turn up unannounced.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Grandpa smiled, raising his arm for you to fall under with a hug in greeting. “Whatcha doing here?”

“I, uh…” you tried not to stammer. “Lunch. Thought I’d come over and say hi.”

“Do you wanna sandwich or something?” Viper said, jumping into gear. “Can make a tuna melt - ”

“That’s okay, I’ll go,” you started making excuses. You didn’t want to be around Mav and your brain didn’t have the tolerance to try and fight anymore today. “I didn’t realise you had company…”

Viper caught the gist and nodded slowly. “You gotta eat.”

“I have food at home,” you told him but kind of waited for Maverick to take the goddamn hint to get the fuck out. This was your safe place; you didn’t need it tainted by Pete Mitchell.

“I should probably make a move anyway,” Maverick said, knowing fully well that the discomfort in the kitchen was all because of him. How self-aware, you thought glumly.

“No, you stay,” you tried so hard to be polite, but the tension that bubbled in your bloodstream sort of made you kind of want to curse the day the Navy dragged him yours and Bradley’s way again.

“No, it’s ok – ”

“Don’t Mav. I’ll leave. You stay,” you tried to bite back your exasperation but it certainly didn’t appear that way.

“Hey,” Viper warned you. He wouldn’t expect you to talk to anyone like that.

“Look. I’m real sorry, kid,” Maverick tried, and gee, age had worn him.

You tried to remain passive, but the frown seemed to speak volumes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why were you so angry at him? Did Mav even know the impact he’d had on your relationship? How Breadley would come home like a bear with a headache, angry, snide. And for that, you just couldn’t seem to disconnect your past from the present and it only made you seethe further.

“I know I should have done this before because I know I'm the catalyst of a lot of Bradley’s problems. And in part, that burden fell on you.”

You wanted to tell him you didn’t know what he was talking about, to forget it, but as every emotion you had bubbled under the surface, you hissed back, “Well, it’s all very convenient now, I suppose. You get your kid back; you both get back up in the air and live happily ever after.”

“That’s fair,” Maverick just seemed to take the lash of your tongue in his stride. How pathetic.

“Hey,” Viper said again, a little more warning in his voice.

“Grandpa, Mav almost got Bradley killed,” you said finally.

Viper’s gaze drifted to Mav. “I know the whole story, sweetheart.”

Taken aback, you look at your grandpa. “What?”

“Bradley came and told me the whole thing.”

You were slow to respond, probably because your brain was overprocessing Grandpa’s reply and the sting it caused. Because Bradley came here when he couldn’t come to you? Because even though he loved you, he felt he couldn’t share this, so he came to Grandpa.

And he couldn’t come to you?!

“Jesus, what did you do so right to get some honesty out of him?” you retorted.

“He was scared, kid. Bradley has already lost everything. He’d lost you. He thought his career was gone too. He needed someone to talk to.”

“I was right there, taking care of him when no one else was able to,” you could feel the rage build within you. “I was right there and he didn’t tell me until he was told - ”

“Because you were the hardest to tell, sweetheart,” Viper told you, the evenness in his voice riling you more. Why wasn’t your blood as furious as you were?! “The person who means the most in the world, who may or may not already have a vendetta against the Navy. How was he going to tell you?”

“How was he going to keep it a secret? When he wakes up screaming with nightmares every night?” you demanded, and Viper nodded slowly because he knew – you remembered vividly the nights you heard Grandpa wake screaming and Nana begged him to calm for your sake. “He’s had PTSD from the Navy since he was four and he still thinks it’s the only place he belongs.”

He belongs with me, you wanted to scream but thankfully managed to bite back.

“He will always have something to prove. With you, without you,” Maverick said your name evenly. “Regardless of anything that ever happened. He barely knew his old man and for a while, he got away with no one knowing Goose Bradshaw was his old man - ”

“So, what… now he’s got more to fight against?” you muttered.

“In a way, yes.”

Oh, you could fucking punch him and resisting it was becoming futile. You turned to him. “Please don’t say another word,” and there was so much threat in your cautioning. You felt feral, every emotion you’d been pushing down since everything exploded was waiting precariously on your tongue and in range was the one who it all centred around.

Maverick nodded and for a minute, you thought he’d respect your decision… but nope. “I know him so well. It’s what he hates most about me. I knew his father better than he ever did and Rooster is just like Goose. Always bred for more. Always striving for that next part.”

“If you never came back, he’d still be with me, and we’d be happy. Since you walked back into his life, you unapologetically ruined him again after he fought for everything he has now. And I was there. Trying to fix him when he didn’t know how to fix it himself. But it fell on deaf ears because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me - ”

“He trusts you, kid,” Maverick told you evenly. “You are the only one he trusts and that is what makes it worse for him.”

It was like a car accident. Bradley’s hand was so close to knocking on the weatherboard of the Metcalfe residence and hearing you, the absolute venom in your tone as you lashed Maverick inside. Bradley had never heard you like this, even when you fought with him, your voice was never as cool and callous.

“I loved him. I wanted my future with him, and it was taken from us.”

“There’s still time - ” Mav tried and for a moment, Bradley stopped breathing because if what came next from your lips gave him the slightest piece of hope, he was going to walk inside and take you in his arms, right where you belonged and make you see reason if it was the last thing he ever did.

“There isn’t - he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’s got plenty of other options out there, Mav,” you hissed. “You think I’m stupid enough to think he hasn’t moved on? When I saw him at the bar a few weeks ago, he looked right through me. Then his date - whatever she was - followed him out. Trust me, I’m aware Bradley has moved on.”

The men remained quiet, because they knew Bradley hadn’t moved on. Bradley was not thinking about moving on. Bradley was only thinking about you.

“You didn’t get to Viper’s and invite him for a drink?” Maverick asked a while later, cold beer in hand and sliding another across the bar to Bradley, free Bradley, Bradley who was ready to get up in the air again and get his life back on track after one of the worst periods of his life.

And shit, he’d had a lot of them in his short time on the planet to compare.

He gave Mav a wary side-eye. “No, by the time I got back from the gym, I thought it was rude to pop over around dinner time,” Bradley lied spectacularly, and he knew Mav could see right through him. He'd watched his godson from the moment he walked in, rigid, terse and for a guy who had the world at his feet again, Mav knew something was still troubling him.

“Talk to me, Bradley.”

“Mav, I heard her.”

“Heard who?” Mav was clueless to Bradley’s less-than-subtle hints. Who else was she?

Bradley sighed, easing against the sticky bar as Javy came past, shaking his shoulders happily. “Congrats, brother. So fuckin' happy for you!” he exclaimed as Bradley gave a sheepish grin in reply and Javy said he’d be back with drinks shortly.

“Bradley,” Mav got his attention again.

He sighed, sipping his beer to wet his throat. “I heard her yell at you, at Viper and I almost didn’t recognise her voice because of the anger laced in it. And it was because of me she was that heated.”

Of course. Bradley had come to invite Viper for a drink and caught your vitriol instead. Mav sighed, contemplating his next words. Because even though he’d just got him back in his life, he knew his fractured relationship with Bradley was going to take time to heal fully. Knowing what he knew about Bradley, if he pushed too hard, he would resist. He was so headstrong, and at times, unable to see the forest for the trees, but Mav persisted carefully anyway. “Something tells me, like you, Bradley… she��s had this vendetta lined up for a while. Viper, her old man, now you, and probably me because of my involvement in the last few months... years, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t give her the right to take it out on anyone,” Bradley reminded him.

“She probably never has, and that’s why this smarts so much. You’re more alike than you think. Allathis,” Mav motioned around them at the Naval paraphernalia hanging around the bar. “It’s all you both know. She hasn’t felt the joy from it you do. She lost her faith a long time ago. And for now, you are collateral damage from years of turmoil.

When did this motherfucker get so smart? It left a bitter taste in Bradley's mouth he could be receiving such frank advise from MAv after everything they'd been through.

"But if it told me anything, son, it's that woman loves you and that’s what is making everything so much harder for her.”

Staring hard at the older man, Bradley guzzled the cool beer down his throat and for once, didn’t know what to say, so Maverick continued, “If anything, have faith that she is still crazy about you. And it’s not over, but it will take time. And it’ll need to be the right time.”

“When’d you start dishing out all this maturity?” it was all Bradley could find himself saying as Mav broke into a smirk that was almost permanent on his face as a younger, much more careless man. The years had matured him. Gone was the flashy, wide unbeatable grin that was constantly in competition with Ice for the biggest ego and accolades, replaced with a softer version, one that had listened and learned from the auxiliary noise around him.

One of Mav’s biggest regrets was never settling down and having a family. When it didn’t work with Charlie all those years ago, and it took so long for him and Penny to see eye to eye on where they wanted to be in life, he knew he had to step back and re-evaluate how to get where he needed to. And that didn’t always mean fighting for it, it sometimes meant to take that step back and let fate take its course.

When Goose died, Mav tried to step in to be the father that Bradley had lost, and for a long time, Bradley let him try and fill that void of a father figure. But it only took one betrayal on Mav’s behalf to become Bradley’s enemy and the resentment that Bradley had for him shook Mav to his core. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take again. He knew better and would do what was needed to support his family the way they needed it. This time, he was going to be everything Bradley needed even if it was to his detriment.

It was only a few days later after your showdown with Mav that you’d gotten word Bradley had flown out, and you were free as a bird to leave the house and see what the outside world had turned into while you’d turned your back on it. Why, you wondered at this time, you’d bothered, was another thing.

“So, if you don’t have a boyfriend, why can’t I buy you a drink?” the young officer asked as you chewed your tongue and could swear, you tasted blood. What was it with these Navy fuckboys who thought anyone was fair game after a few drinks? Not all that much had changed, not even the quiet seething Bob displayed a few seats up, prepping himself to step in.

What was wrong with you to think coming here was a good idea… at any time… anymore?

“Because I have a drink,” you explained quietly again, showing he couldn't take no for an answer, your glass. “I don’t need another. I appreciate the gesture, but no.”

“Come on, just one.”

“Holy shit – ” you finally snapped but you felt his body heat behind you before you could get the words out. You’d know it anywhere. When did he walk in? …how much had he seen? He wasn't supposed to be here!

You stiffened and maybe more agitated than you were before.

“Lieutenant,” the young pilot straightened, and it all but confirmed you knew Bradley Bradshaw, who was supposed to be on a boat somewhere in the middle of the big blue was behind you. You were going to kill Hangman. Kill him.

“Nice to see you, Rhodes. Heard you got blown out of the sky today…” Bradley said, the amusement in his voice paramount but you didn’t once let your guard down. You didn’t need him to fight your battles for you.

“Uh, yeah…” the meekness in the young officer’s voice was obvious. You didn’t always realise the command Bradley had over others. Of course, you knew how people were drawn to him, but seeing him with a subordinate was infatuating, to say the least. You didn’t often see him in a position of real power, and it would be shameful to admit, it was sexy.

“And by Hangman no less,” Bradley laughed quietly, that amused chuckle that you knew had a whole other hidden meaning. “Would probably be a good idea to stop drowning your sorrows and prepare for tomorrow, huh?”

“Guess so…”

“And apologise.”

“Look, I didn’t think you guys were dating anymore – ” Rhodes tried but didn’t offer an apology.

“What difference does that make?” you snapped, confidence growing in Bradley’s presence. You felt him stand a little closer, his heat prickling your back, behind you you wondered if he noticed it too.

“If you think that is what this is about, your ego is more outta check than you’re letting on."

You heard Rhodes mutter, “I’m sorry,” while he skulked away, and you finally breathed as Bradley stayed quiet behind you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” you heard him mutter as he joined his other friends.

“You okay?” Bradley asked gently.

“I’m fine,” you reassured him, the slight snipe still in your voice. But you didn’t dare turn to face him, because if you looked up at him, that would make this whole thing real - that he was right there with you. You weren’t surprised when your stool was slowly spun towards him and his friendly, impish smile graced his handsome face… his beard was well grown in and manicured to the navy’s specification, his sun-kissed curls a lot longer than you’d ever seen on him and you swear, he’d never looked more handsome. “Hi.” you managed and God, he looked desperate to be kissed. You missed those plump, beautiful lips.

“Hello,” he replied, holding your gaze. Not hard, just… tender.

“Thanks. You didn’t need to… do that.”

“I know I didn’t. And I know you’re perfectly capable of standing up for yourself. I just wanted to make sure that little pissant knew what he was getting himself into if he went ten rounds with you.”

And you couldn’t help it as you bit back a giggle, hiding your burgeoning laughter behind your hand. Because if he knew one thing about you… it was that you were the dirtiest fucking fighter around and that poor kid would have been laid out with your lash of the tongue alone. “Well, you’d know…” you admitted as he licked back a smirk of his own and hummed. “Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?” you offered softly, and you weren’t sure he’d even heard you in the commotion of a Friday night. You barely heard the sound of your voice from the raging heartbeat in your ears.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking back at the fellas… all of whom were keenly watching on. Unabashed and gawking. Fuck those guys, he rolled his eyes and came back to you. “I shouldn’t…”

“Get her a drink, you goddamn pussy!” Hangman mouthed viciously and Bradley pretended he couldn’t read his wingman’s lips. He wished he couldn't.

“Yeah, okay. The least you can do is buy me a beer.”

“Hangman has a tab,” you informed him, that devious glint in your eyes shining.

“Top-shelf whiskey,” Bradley replied confidently.

You gave the order and times it by two, Bradley raising an interested eyebrow. You stayed together in a strange silence for a while, both waiting for your drinks to whet your palette and bring up the courage to say something that was simply… kind… to the other. God knows your last conversation was anything but.

Taking your first thankful sips, you both laughed as the exact same line came out to the other, “How have you been?” you both dropped your eyes bashfully, uncomfortably and you tried asking him again.

“Not too bad,” he admitted.

“I was told you had shipped out.” You would still kill Hangman.

“Checking up on me?” his upper lip twitched as you ducked your head. “Phoenix?”

“Hangman,” you corrected him as he chuckled quietly.

“Dick,” he muttered shortly. “They extended my medical leave just another few days. Paperwork.”

You looked at him, he looked right as rain.

“And you were right about the shitty shrink stuff,” he pointed to his head while he read yours. “PTSD.”

Well, yeah, you wanted to say it was the least shocking thing he could tell you. “Oh. Oh, Bradley,” you said delicately.

He nodded and shrugged. “Please don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve seen that whole look my whole fuckin’ life, I just can’t stand you looking at me like that too. This is what I’ve been trying to avoid from the get-go.”

“Then you’re gonna really hate me after this,” you gently touched his ribs, knowing their previous injury and left your hands to skim his cotton tee before wrapping him in your grasp, the muscles tense under your touch. “I’m sorry, Bradley,” you murmured into his chest, and he sighed, his breath against you shuddered. Your shampoo invaded his nostrils, and goddamn, if he didn’t miss that fuckin’ perfect scent and how it lingered.

He couldn’t fight it if he tried and he wrapped his arms around you, trying to desperately not lose it and do all he really wanted to do – cry. Cry for him, cry for you, cry for how badly you’d both fucked up. And he’d be lying to say that being in your arms felt so good. He missed the warmth of your curves, maybe a little less than he remembered, and he breathed you in, his love. And the hardest thing he ever had to get over.

Because, unlike his other losses, who left his life, wholly? You were there every day while he tried to make it without you. That sting of trying to get over you in every facet of his life and he just couldn’t move on from you. And that made it worse.

“It’s not all bad,” he said, lips so close to your ear. “A long story short, I did get clearance and I’m out in 48 hours. Just for the record. The counselling has to continue weekly.”

“Just like me,” you said, a little sing-song.

Bradley scoffed, humoured. “Yeah… just like you. A pair a’ damaged goods.”

“Jesus Christ,” you exclaimed, breaking the revelry as Bradley’s arms were covered in cool liquid and he figured, so was your back.

“What the fuck?” he pulled back, alarmed as he looked at some of the younger officers getting into each other’s faces, glasses hitting the floor, drinks flying. It was broken up as quickly as it escalated, Bradley pushing you gently behind him to avoid getting caught in the fracas. “You okay?” he asked over his shoulder as you were reaching for the napkins on the bar just out of your reach. He moved before you and retrieved them, helping you dab away whatever had - yep, drenched you, the back of your hair dripping and the back of your dress sopping.

“Yeah, just a drink or something,” you sighed.

“Lemme help,” he said, carefully turning you around and tenderly mopping up the bare skin on your back. And he’d be lying to say that if he just reached a little lower, he’d be able to kiss that freckle behind your ear, but blinking that image away, he knew this was not the time to be fantasising about the woman whom he fantasised about every night.

He sighed and removed his shirt, white V-neck underneath. “Take this,” he said your name a few times over the commotion in the bar after the almost fight.

Raising your hands, you told him not to worry. You’d just take off and get a shower. “It was a bad idea coming out tonight. You know when you feel it’s not the time?”

“Well, you did think I had already flown out, so you probably should have trusted your intuition.”

And you stared up at him, watching him biting back a grin and as he wrapped his shirt over your shoulders, watching you slip your arms into the sleeves, all he wanted to do was pull you in tight again, kiss your hair and tell you how he was still so in love with you that it was keeping him awake at night, that it was you that he still jerked off and willingly spilling into his hand and all over his stomach to. He imagined you riding him, giving him the messiest head like only you knew how, kissing him while he made love to you, and he held your arms trapped above your head as you trembled beneath him, as you came around him.

“You sure you’re okay, kid?” he asked, chewing his lip, and fixing the collar on the shirt. But you were so swept up in his smell that lingered, and as you tightened it around yourself, your eyes changed just for that flash that told Bradley that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just him who was feeling the way he was. “Can I drive you home?”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. I know you have things to do tomorrow - ”

“Come on,” he offered gently, nudging his head towards the door and as he collected your bag and urged you to wander out before him, you knew it was going to take all your strength to just allow this to happen. “Lemme get you outta here.”

And who were you to argue? Because honestly. You’d follow him anywhere. The man you loved, the man you’d hurt so badly. Nodding gently and seeing that sweet gentleness in his honey-coloured eyes, you let him usher you ahead, his strong hand easy on your lower back, just like it was any other night, the way he’d guide you through the masses, softly, securely, protectively.

You wriggled as the cool alcohol pressed into your back, and Bradley flinched, thinking you wanted his hands off you – when it couldn’t be any further from the truth. He took his palm away and opened the door as you exited. “You really don’t have to drop me home,” you told him. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“It’s fine, really. I had, like, two drinks. Probably best I call it a night and make sure I’m organised anyway,” he replied, leading you to the Bronco. He unlocked your side and naturally opened the door, offering his hand to help you step in.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking his offered warm palm and he helped hoist you in with the slightest of assistance. Buckling up, your eyes followed him to the driver’s side, and he just looked so handsome. You were surrounded by him with his shirt and cologne filling your senses. It all felt too familiar and that scared you terribly. He was fiddling with the keys before popping in and hopping into the seat. He gave you a small smile as he buckled up and gunned the engine, unsurprisingly Al Green low through the stereo.

It was a quiet trip towards your apartment, keeping your eyes on the passing coastline, scared if you looked at him, you’d do something stupid and just revelling in being the closest you’d been to him in months.

“You see they demolished that old villa near Penny’s place?” he mumbled.

“Yeah, how ridiculous,” you said to him. “It was such a gorgeous home. I think they’re dozing it for apartments or something,” you continued the small talk as you passed his villa. You noticed the ladder out front and scaffolding around the roof. “How’s it all going here?”

“Ahh, okay,” he shrugged, trying to focus on the road. “You know, a lot to be done still.”

“I can imagine,” you agreed, studying his face. His profile was completely different with his neat beard, but the rest of him was bigger and stronger. He’d laid countless hours into the gym while on leave and you could see the proof. Your eyes travelled over his tanned biceps and the way the white tee sleeve strained over them, following the vein to his inner elbow and wrist, hand clutching the gear shirt, long fingers wrapped around it. “Thanks for the lift home.”

“Anytime,” he replied, peeking a look back at you and a small smile crept to his handsome features, knowing he was sprung. But alas, so were you. “What?”

You shook your head gently, mortified inside that he caught you checking him out. But what were you to do? He was always so incredibly handsome, and you just missed being near him, being around his warmth, even if it wasn’t something you could bathe in like you used to.

As much as he made you nervous to be in this proximity again… you felt incredibly content just being with him. His quiet calm always had a way of reassuring you, even before you started dating.

A few more moments in relative silence aside from the stereo, Bradley pulled into the apartment carpark and put the car in park.

Ask him in, your brain screamed.

Kiss him, it added.

Fix this, your brain had officially melted down.

And when all you muttered was a “thanks” for driving you home, for giving up his shirt, for being the bigger person to be able to do both… you sunk into a funk that you just weren’t expecting tonight. Because even though the night was a happy accident, there was so much unsaid.

“No problem,” he said, hands gripping the steering wheel like if you tried to kiss him, he would let you, like if you asked him in, he’d willingly follow. He was anticipating your next move but you didn’t know what it was.

“Bye,” you unbuckled and opened the door, scooting out before you made more of a mess of everything than you had to now.

“Night,” he said, sadly lips pursed together as you gently closed the door over and refused to look back as you went to the stairs and forced one foot then the next to continue climbing the flights until you were safely at your door.

With one last glance back, you weren’t surprised to still see Bradley’s Bronco parked and you waved timidly, not willing to see if he returned the gesture before finding solace in your apartment.

You tossed your bag on the bench and made a beeline for your bedroom, spent. Mentally, your brain was fried. Physically, all you could think about was Bradley and how he could amp you up with very little attempt on his behalf. You wrapped his shirt tightly around you, taking in the Acqua di Gio that lingered.

You missed the way the scent drifted around the apartment and how much it truly reminded you of him. You carefully slipped it off and folded it just like he would have if it were him removing it before unzipping your damp dress, the alcohol stinging gently against your skin and discarded the dress in a pile at your feet.

Needing a hot shower, you rinsed yourself of the mess of the evening but as you hung your towel up after your evening skincare, Bradley’s cologne wasn’t lost on you in the small room. His smell overwhelmed you and as you moved towards the shirt again, bringing the collar to your nose, you knew the time had come to fix this.

To fix you.

To fix him.

And to fix you back together.

masterlist.

Big thanks as always to @sometimesanalice for helping me get this fic over this line when this chapter really needed it! x

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

190 notes · View notes

lover-of-mine · 1 month

Text

Hi, hi, hello, here I am again to sound insane about buddie. First, is this speculation? A meta? A canon adjacent fic idea I don't have the skill to execute? Wishful thinking? All of the above? I'm not sure, I just saw a pattern and my brain came up with something very elaborate that I will now tell you about. Also, maybe read this first because that connection is the one that pushed this into place, and if you want more thoughts on Buck and death.

So, if you're new here, I live in a delusional land called they casted Ryan with a plan that recently added a neighborhood called did they tell Ryan Eddie is Buck's endgame? so I'm always looking for something to prove me right because I refuse to believe someone accidentally set up what could be the slow burn to end all slow burns, and I found an interesting pattern after watching Abandon ‘Ships and things escalated.

But the thing is that Buck and Eddie's relationship is tied with the concept of death. Both of them have very intricate relationships with death individually, but together too. I was thinking about the “we might end up real close” as the very dark joke Buck was actually going for, with the way if that grenade had gone off, there would be no telling them apart in the blast, but it got me thinking about the way Buck is signing up to die with Eddie. They both walk into that ambulance knowing they might very well not walk out, and the fact that they did, is what makes them bond. The wording of “you can have my back any day” is very interesting to me because Eddie is not saying “I will take care of you” he is saying “I trust you to take care of me” and that's a real intense thing to say to the coworker who was picking a fight with you half an hour before. But they bonded over a promise of keeping each other alive that they were forced to keep over and over again.

And a lot of major changes in their relationship start with a deadly situation. They could have died pancaked on that building after the earthquake, and after that Chris got introduced into their dynamic. The truck explosion had Eddie reversing into being a medic to treat Buck even though it made more sense for him to be using his strength to help lift the truck. The tsunami started the realization that Buck loves Chris like he is his kid, and also had Eddie explicitly affirming the trust he has in Buck. The well made Eddie change his will. That warehouse fire on Buck Begins, Eddie is the first one to Buck's line and he's also waiting for Buck after he gets checked out. Buck saved Eddie's life during the shooting, the will reveal also established how well Eddie knows Buck. They got held at gunpoint together and Buck's automatic reaction to the gunshot is to run towards it because Eddie might be in danger. Buck broke Eddie's door down to help him after his breakdown that was triggered by death, and Buck also had a moment where he thought he would be finding Eddie's body. And Buck actually gives Eddie hope after it all by giving Eddie a good thing about the situation that led him to get shot.

We established this pattern, but I want to talk about the lightning in more detail because, unlike any situation before, Buck actually died. Eddie doesn't hesitate to go up what's basically a wet lightning rod to get to Buck after the strike even though he had been thrown off the truck, Eddie also performs CPR even though he was driving the ambulance, and it is Eddie shocking Buck that gets his heart beating again. It's almost as if he was, I don't know, welcoming him back to the world of the living? (Ba dum tss lol this is mostly a joke but please keep this in mind)

So we have Eddie literally bringing Buck back from the dead. But Buck is not ready to deal with the consequences and implications of what happened to him, which is understandable, I guess, with his relationship with life and death, but Buck not dealing with it makes it so Eddie won't fully deal with it either.

Buck is a passively suicidal savior baby and Eddie is a widower. If Daniel didn't get sick Buck wouldn't have been born and Eddie is the last one standing. And that's a lot about how they deal with death. Buck acts as if he's not looking for death but doesn't mind if death finds him and Eddie is burdened by the people he couldn't save. And the thing with Buck's death is that Buck realized that he does care if death finds him and Eddie thinks that since Buck is alive, he doesn't get to feel the grief for the time Buck was dead, not fully at least.

So they were at a very interesting point where Eddie is constantly around Buck, and is the place Buck runs to when he gets overwhelmed, and Buck is extremely off balance over the fact that he did die this time and he's not sure how to feel about it. But since Buck wasn't ready to look at everything about his death, how he felt about it, how it affected the people he loves, how it took away his coping mechanism when it comes to being in danger since his reaction was always “but I didn't die” or “I didn't get the worst of it” because he did die and he did get the worst of it, so Buck finds a safe place to hide where he can look at his death through the eyes of someone who wasn't affected by it.

I was always curious about why the cemetery scene happened in a cemetery. Why Buck and Eddie are visiting the grave of someone who didn't die on their watch. Why a conversation about Buck's feelings about death and wanting to forget it happened, happened in a cemetery. And the location of the conversation ties the conversation to the concept of death in the broad sense that keeps tying Buck and Eddie together. Not considering the breakup aspects of the conversation, the cemetery scene is actually about Buck running away from the way death made him feel, he is drawn to this person who thinks death is cool, so he won't have to see his death as a tragedy and now I also think there is a layer about making Eddie realize he needs to let Buck accept what happened before he can help Buck past it.

In the locker room, Buck is talking about death as something that got boring since it was all Natalia ever wanted to talk about. We will never know the original plan for that relationship, but considering the focus on her being a death doula, I feel like that was always the point, put Buck in a space where he can look at death as something that's not scary anymore. But the scene also ends with Eddie welcoming him back to the world of the living. Eddie has ridiculous survival skills, Buck survived a lot, yeah, but Buck always ends up in these life-or-death situations by accident. He choked on bread, the bomb wasn't aimed at him, the blood clots were a very unlikely complication of the surgery he had on his leg, the odds of getting caught in a tsunami are ridiculously low, and he got struck by lightning. Eddie was out at war, he was targeted by a sniper, he saved his own life on the well, and he tries to pull people out with him. He has now learned to live with the way everyone he saved on that chopper died, but he even blamed himself for the one guy he couldn't save that time. Eddie is not afraid of death, but he is afraid of being the one left alive. Buck on the other hand is almost afraid of what it means that he is alive. So Buck's passively suicidal tendencies, something that Eddie deeply understands about Buck “you act like you're expendable” are something that scares him. Because pre-lightning Buck doesn't really care if he is alive. And since Buck wasn’t ready to talk about what dying did to him, Eddie doesn’t know that Buck now may want to actually live. He doesn’t know that Buck chose to come back, that he fought for it.

But if death is now something boring, Buck can actually do something about being alive because he wants to. He can actually be in the world of the living because he wants to be, because he believes he has the right to be. He can actually find a place where he doesn’t believe his life matters less.

And when it comes to Eddie, with the focus on Shannon that we got recently, he can also find a space where he’s not trying to find her. Accept that she was a big part of his life, accept he will always miss her, and find something new.

Oliver and Ryan have been talking a lot about vulnerability and Buck and Eddie leaning on each other, and with the locker room conversation, their relationship with death individually and together, the fact that the cruise disaster is on the horizon and while we know Buck and Eddie were filming in cruise and out in the sea they are barely in the promo of it, my own Buck will drown speculations (you can read about that here), and the general they will be in danger on the cruise feelings, I think that could mean Buck and Eddie are moving to a place where they could be a couple that works. There’s a lot of talk about the friendship aspect of their relationship and we’ve seen that a lot in the first episode already, but they are chilling in this space where they can talk to each other freely, and getting Buck to a place where he wants to be alive for himself not for what he can offer other people and Eddie to a place where he accepts the people he couldn’t save without it narrowing the way he deals with his relationships. I talk a lot about how Eddie overcorrects, and one complaint Shannon had was that he wasn’t all the way in with her, so he goes too fast with Ana and might be doing the same with Marisol because he’s trying to fix that mistake with someone else, but accepting that what he has with Buck is its own thing that works, and all he needs to do is be open about what he wants could be the push that puts him in the path of loving Buck fully, the same way Buck just goes along with things because he mostly believes he shouldn’t be alive, so why should he want things, so to have Buck get to the place where he realizes that he has what he wants right on his reach, he just needs to ask for it is ideal.

I made this edit not that long ago, and it’s almost a poem, about how Eddie doesn’t think what he has to offer is enough, so he won’t say what he means, and Buck thinks he needs to settle for what he’s offered, so he won’t ask for more, and how that’s an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force, and they need to move off that impasse for that relationship to work. And being in the world of the living together and finding the little things that make them happy along with all the tragedy that surrounds them, can put them on that path.

Their whole relationship is about keeping each other alive, Eddie straight up offers Buck a reason to live, why can’t they just find a way to make each other feel alive?

I said up there about how Buck signed up to dying with Eddie by going in that ambulance, and with everything about Buck, Actually (i recommend you read this for Buck actually thoughts about buddie) and how he latched on to the way Thomas and Mitchell died together after hearing about the life they had together, it's important for Buck to realize that point is not to die together, but to have the life together, and I feel like Buck is in the path to understanding that, and Eddie is ready to be happy, this could be it.

They could be learning to be alive together and finding out they want to be together.

As always, if you read this, I love you 💜

#911 meta #911 spoilers #911 speculation #911 #buddie #buddie thoughts #this came to me as i was trying to sleep last night lol #but yeah #i hope this makes sense

104 notes · View notes

atinylittlepain · 8 months

Text

Atlantic City

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

Hungry Hearts masterlist

wordcount | 6.2K

warnings | smut, angst, the usual

a/n | hey y'all, we have reached the penultimate chapter. we're in for a little angst, but i promise i make it better with a whole lot of goodness. as always, i'd love to hear what you think, drop me a line, i'd love to chat. also, if i could offer a song specifically for the young joel sequences, it would be Downbound Train by Springsteen (who else?) alright, that's all.

..............................

gif by @santigarcia

..............................

“She had a little oatmeal and a little applesauce, I think more of it got on her bib than it did in her mouth, though.” Tiny hands gripping at his shirt, he winces at the first sign of her impending meltdown, that small whimper of hers that always seems to come out in the mornings like this.

“Alright, Joey, that’s okay, I’ve got her.” Except she doesn’t, not yet, because Sarah is still clinging to him, tears starting to heat and dampen the side of his neck where her face is pressed as Deedee tries to coax her out of his arms. He’d like to cry too.

“I have class until seven, but I gotta run to the store too to get more formula. Shouldn’t be later than eight, ma.” It’s near herculean to finally untangle Sarah from him, a particularly loud cry striking through his ears as Deedee finally manages to scoop her into her arms. He’s learned that he can’t loiter, can’t look at her too much like this, because then that slick curl of guilt will take root and furl up his throat. So it’s a quick goodbye, a kiss to the crown of Sarah’s head and a lowly murmured love you, babygirl before he thanks his mother, who acts offended that he even tried to thank her in the first place.

He can still hear Sarah crying when he gets back in his truck. Deep breath, just one to smooth out the shake in his hands. And then his day can begin. The same day he has been doing for the last five months. They’re building new apartments off the highway toward Austin. Good work, honest work, at least that’s what people say when he tells them what he’s doing these days. He’s not sure where they get the good or honest from. Mostly, it’s sweaty and sore and simple. But it is good money, and lord knows that’s exactly what he needs right now.

She, no name, he’s been practicing no name for her, making the fact of her disappear from his life so it won’t be a problem when Sarah gets older, so just she. She left when Sarah was three months old. Not a word, not a note. Fine by him, because while they were certainly a mistake, Sarah isn’t, at all, not to him. So he’s working, making money, and in the evenings, chasing after a degree that promises something better for the both of them.

Traffic is stupid this early in the morning, crawling lights along the highway in the dusk still burning itself off with the hazy sunrise. He sighs, slumping back. He can sigh and slump now, no one watching, small relief as he rolls toward the job site. Another sigh when he sees that cars are even more jammed up because of an accident on the shoulder of the highway. He’s not one for the radio these days, much more interested in saving up slices of silences in between all the crying and sighing, though he still starts to flicker through radio channels, nothing better to do anyways.

“With us this morning, an up and coming author whose first novel has garnered a great deal of attention this year.” His hand stills, spine straightening out when the radio show host says her name. Her real name. And then it’s her, thanking the host for having her with an easy laugh.

The last time he heard her voice, he was standing in the front office of Thatcher’s with a phone to his ear and a hand held over his mouth to silence the quick sobs shaking his body as she spoke, as she apologized, as she said goodbye. The same and different. So very different. His ears rush with it, mind in a thick fog as the host says something about best selling, and new project, and some award that he hasn’t heard of before. And Cherry takes it all in stride.

She did it. She really did it. He can’t help the broken laugh that flutters up his throat, a quick burst of it that feels good only because it’s been so long since he’s had something like that, felt something like that. But it’s a quick radio segment, and she’s already thanking the host again, and they’re already taking a break for some commercial. Gone again. Sigh, slump.

Good for her, he thinks. Proud of her, he thinks. Did the right thing for her, he thinks.

And finally, traffic starts to crawl again, just another day.

…

“Yeah, uh-huh, I’ll have it ready to be sent by Friday. Look, I told you already that I’m not going to rush this one, okay? The first draft needs a little more time, just to Friday.” Often, when she takes phone calls in her office, she imagines what it would feel like to pick up her computer and smash it through her window. It’s a helpful thought exercise, keeps her from cursing out her agent at times like this.

“Alright, and– no, I saw the concepts you sent me and absolutely not. I don’t know how you can already be sending me cover art when you haven’t even read the fucking thing yet. I don’t care what kind of rush you’re in, I’m not going to accommodate it because, quite frankly, it’s fucking ridiculous.” Well, at the very least, she tries not to curse out her agent.

“Friday, no earlier and no later. And please, do not call me before then, because if I’m talking to you, then I’m not working, and if I’m not working, this fucking thing is going to take even longer. Okay? Great, thanks so much, bye.” Click, sigh. She has also imagined chucking her cell phone through the window, but that is a much less satisfying vision, so she settles for shoving it away in the bottom drawer of her desk.

“Mom?” She’s quick to stretch out of her slump at the sound of Ellie’s voice, swiveling around in her chair as she smooths out her scowl .

“What’s up, babe?”

“Is it cool if I go to the mall with Dina?” Dina, the center outfielder, right.

“Oh, yeah, do you want me to drop you off? I can–”

“No, that’s okay. Dina’s mom is gonna pick me up and take us.” Guilt starts to flicker between her ribs. This happens whenever she’s entrenched in writing. She blinks, and can’t seem to figure out where the time has gone or when the last time was that she and Ellie spent real time together. And though Ellie rails against it with a dejected groan, she can’t help but get up and pull her into a quick hug. Missed you, sorry. Love you, sorry. Ellie squirms a little, but still squeezes her back.

“Well, be safe, okay? And call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah, okay, I will.” Normally, this would be when Ellie bounds away before Cherry can get an I love you in edgewise, but instead, she stays standing in front of her, a small pinch between her brows.

“Are you, um, like– okay?” Cherry sighs. This again. This new thing again. Something that Ellie has started to do at the most unexpected times. Something that started after that day at the ballfields when their car got stuck in the mud and she and Joel shared some choice words.

“Els, what’s this about you asking me if I’m okay, huh?” She tries to say it light, with a small laugh, but really, her stomach is starting to sicken, because this is supposed to be her job, mom job, and clearly, she’s failing at it.

“I don’t know, I just– how come Tommy is the one working on the porch now?”

“Uh, well, I mean– Tommy and Joel are business partners, so they, you know, share jobs with each other.” It comes out stilted and stuttered, and she has to stop herself from wincing at the lameness of the excuse. For her part, Ellie doesn’t seem to be satisfied with that answer, brow still scrunched and mouth screwed up like she tasted something funny.

“But why isn’t Joel working on it, like, at all?” That all holds a lot more meaning than it should, and Cherry can’t help the sigh that slackens through her chest.

“I know what you’re getting at, and you have to understand that, well– we– Joel and I– there’s a lot of history there, Els. And it’s– well, it’s very complicated.”

“Do you think you guys are gonna work it out though?” It surprises her, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say that there’s a hopeful tilt to Ellie’s question and raised brows.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want you worrying about that, okay? Whether we do or not, I’m gonna be just fine, so long as I have you.” Mom brain, she can’t help herself, stealing another hug that Ellie rails against with a mom that sounds like she’s being accosted it’s so despondent.

Saved by the bell, or the car horn more like it, Ellie wrangling herself out of their hug with a quick bye, love you as she bounds through the house toward the front door. Sigh, slump, Cherry shuffles back over to her desk, steading her palm on the edge of it as she brings her other hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

The thing is, she is pretty sure that they’re not going to work this out. And that’s what she wanted, isn’t it? She’s not sure anymore. She’s not sure about a lot of things. For starters, why she really decided it was a good idea to move back here. Yes, New York was becoming no good. But then, forty-odd other states she could have chosen from. And no, too late to back out now, because Ellie has already made friends, somehow already managed to settle before school has even started. And there’s the house, and now this fucking porch.

“Hey, Cher?” Speaking of which, snapping herself back out of her slump.

“Hi, Tom, how’s it going out there?” The first time she saw him again, she was shocked by just how much Tommy Miller grew up and filled out. Joel mentioned something about him serving in the military, and it shows, she thinks. A little more serious, a little presence in the set of his shoulders. A far cry from the brash, bold, bumbling boy she remembers. The passage of time, and all that.

“Just got done with the finish, actually, if you wanna come take a look?”

“Oh really? Like, it’s finished finished?” It is, and it’s frustratingly perfect. Wood polished and still glossy, plenty of space for a table and chairs. She should be happy, or at the very least satisfied, so she isn’t sure why all she feels is a petty curl of anger rising like bile up the back of her throat.

“Wow, yeah, it looks– looks really good, Tommy, thank you. Is it alright if I pay you now? I just need to get my checkbook.” She’s already walking back toward her office, but Tommy doesn’t follow, rubbing at the back of his neck with a weak laugh.

“The thing about that, Cher, is that I’m under very strict, very aggressive orders to not take any money from you.” That anger flares at his words, a scoff in her throat as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Oh, is that right? And just which hardass are these orders coming from, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I think you’re, uh, pretty familiar with said hardass.”

“Uh-huh, right, I suppose I am.” She’s not going to let Joel win this one, turning on her heel to continue her warpath toward her checkbook, Tommy having no choice but to tentatively follow after.

“Cherry, seriously, I can’t. He’s gonna rip that check up the instant he gets his damn hands on it.” She doesn’t listen, dashing off her signature on the six thousand dollar check, though when she tries to hand it to Tommy, he tucks his hands deep into his jeans pockets, a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Tommy, I don’t know what kind of stupid game your brother is playing, but I refuse to participate. You did a job for me, and did it perfectly, and now I’m going to pay you. I don’t– I can’t have this hanging over my head, alright? Just take it, please.” She hates the warble that please comes out on, a thick flush of tears starting to thicken in her throat.

“It wouldn’t be hanging over your head, Cher. You know he ain’t like that.”

“Oh, do I? Because, honestly, I’m not sure what I know about him anymore.” Silence falls, a flash of something passing over Tommy’s face that she can’t place. He clears his throat before he speaks again, and when he does, it’s shockingly quiet.

“I still remember the day you left and didn’t come back, you know. And no offense, but it’s not because we were particularly close or anything.”

“Gee, thanks, Tom. I’m not sure what that has to do with anything though.” She regrets the sharpness of her words instantly, Tommy letting out a long sigh as he shuffles his feet in the doorway to her office.

“I remember because Joel came home that night. And back then, you’d be hard pressed to get him home unless it was Sunday and ma was ready to drag him by his ears over for dinner. But it was a Tuesday, and he came home that night, and he cried.” There’s no stopping the tears now, not when Tommy’s voice breaks, covering it up with a clipped laugh and a swipe of his knuckles under his nose.

“I don’t think I had ever seen him cry that hard. Jesus, he couldn’t breathe, and it– it just wouldn’t stop. At the time I was kinda pissed, to be honest, because he wouldn’t shut up, just wailing like a little kid.” All she can do to sit down in her desk chair, taking a shaky breath as Tommy toes his boot into the floor, trying to hide the crumple of his brow on his downturned face.

“And he kept saying the same thing over and over again, like he was trying to convince someone, maybe himself, I don’t know. He kept saying I did the right thing.” Her whole body shudders, sniffling back snot as her vision swims. She doesn’t know what all Joel has told Tommy, whether he knows just exactly what happened that summer. But the way that he’s looking at her now, frown slipping heavy down his face, earnest, honest, she thinks that he knows enough, has seen and heard enough to be giving her nothing but the truth.

“Not that I’d admit this to him, but I love my brother, really, I do. But, Cher, he can be a fucking idiot about stuff like this. And I know that he doesn’t deserve another chance for the shit he’s pulled, but I just– you gotta understand how much love he has for you.” What could she possibly say to that? For a moment, it’s quiet, both of them taking stuttered inhales and exhales, trying to breathe in the fact of what was just said.

“Tom, where is Joel working today?”

…

“You have to read this book. I’m about halfway finished with it and it’s so good.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think I’ve heard of that author before.”

“That’s because it’s her first book, I think. But seriously, she’s totally a genius.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to check it out then.”

He keeps his smile hidden behind his palm, elbow propped on his desk as he listens in to the conversation between the two students in the row ahead of him. It’s her book, he caught a glimpse of her name on the spine of it. It both buoys and batters him, a strange feeling settling in his stomach as his evening class begins.

Something his boss recommended to him. A degree at the community college that will supposedly open up all these doors for him. At least that’s what he tells himself when he slogs over to the campus after work every night. Another year to go and then, and then. Something good, he hopes. For him and for Sarah.

The same thing every day. Get up at five, if there’s sleep to be gotten up from in the first place. Get Sarah sorted and driven over to his parents’ house and then get to work by seven. Work and work and work, a good seven or eight hours before he has to book it to class. Then class, something he never enjoyed, and especially doesn’t care for now, working hard at it only for the sake of getting out of it sooner.

Last week, Deedee had tried setting him up on a date with the daughter of one of the women she plays Euchre with every Wednesday. She even offered to take Sarah for the night, a smile so steeped in hope that it had made him feel a little sick. He had sighed and made a half-hearted joke, something about a date getting him here in the first place. A distraction getting him here in the first place.

Night is creeping in by the time he gets out of class, streets going dark save for the syrupy glow of house windows, of families sitting down for dinner. And he’s never late, always at his parents’ house when he says he will be, so just this once, just a little late. He goes to the store a little further away because he knows there’s a bookstore a block down from it, lucky that it’s still open this late.

And everything gets saved that doesn’t have to be spent, so just this once, something for him. They have her book on display in the front of the store. Exactly what he was hoping for, her picture on the back of the dust jacket. The same and different, all grown up.

He buys himself a copy, but he doesn’t open it, not yet, keeping it in his lap the entire drive back.

…

Maybe a little crazy, driving her minivan through an active jobsite, men stopping in their work to tilt their hard-hatted heads at her when she parks in the midst of gravel and sawdust right in front of the half-built house. But she’s too hell-bent on the task at hand to care much, marching right up to the nearest man and asking him where Joel Miller is.

“Sorry, ma’am, who are you again?”

“Who am I? Who am I? I’m someone important, buddy, that’s who I am. Now if you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll just start wandering all over this place and probably land you with an OSHA violation. So if I were you, I’d make this easier for both of us and just take me to him, thanks.” She can hear a murmur of snickers and yips from the other men working around them, and it seems like enough to get this guy moving with a muttered okay then.

She acquiesces to putting a hard hat on, something about an actual OSHA violation, before following the man into the bare bones of the house. Some walls are put up, and some are still only frames, saws whirring and nails guns firing all around her, a perfect swirl of work and the smell of cedar that she tries to skirt around as the man leads her further into the fray.

When she sees him, she thinks to herself that it’s not fair, the way he looks with a tool belt slung low around his hips, his t-shirt clinging to the shifting planes of muscle in his back as he leans over a workbench to look at a scroll of blueprints. No, not fair at all, her throat going dry with just how not fair at all it is.

“Boss, there’s a lady here to see you.” Boss, right, he’s the boss. Fan-fucking-tastic. Joel’s head whips around, immediate confusion scrunching up his face when he sees her.

“Cherry? What– what’re you doing here?”

“What?” It’s nearly impossible to hear him over the incessant sound of work going on around them, though Joel is quick to usher her away from the thick of things and into a half-finished room that she guesses could either turn into a bathroom or a closet judging by its size. It’s a bit ridiculous that Joel closes the door to the room given that one of the walls still hasn’t been put up.

“Why– how did you find me here?” She’s just a little annoyed at how inconvenienced he’s acting, his hand on his hip and his knee jutted out as he raises his brows at her. It’s enough to get her angry all over again.

“Tommy finished the porch today and refused to take my check, so I asked him where I could find you and tuck this fucking money into your hands myself.” She punctuates her words by taking the folded-up check out of her pocket and shoving it into his chest, but Joel doesn’t accept it, the slip of paper falling to the ground when she pulls her hand away. What he does next is far more infuriating though, not breaking eye contact with her as he bends down and swipes up the check between two fingers before promptly ripping the thing up far more times than it needs to be.

“Don’t try to write me another one, Cher, I’ll just do the same thing.” A bitter laugh slips up her throat, and before she knows what she’s doing, the heel of her palm is shoving into his chest. Except he’s bigger now, broader, so what once would have made him stumble now only makes him sway a little. All the more reason to do it again.

“You– fucking– ass– Joel Miller!” He’s still unmoving under her ministrations, each of her words coming with an admittedly weaker shove until finally, Joel says her name, a quiet plea. And she wasn’t supposed to cry, that’s what she told herself on the drive over here. Under no circumstances was she going to cry. Yeah, right, big blubbering streaks running down her face already. Her hands fall limp at her sides as she shakes with it, whatever it is. Easier to call it anger, but she knows that’s not what it is.

“Cherry, please don’t cry.” She wants him to reach for her, wants to feel his palms smoothing that shudder, and for a moment, it looks like he will, but his hands just hang suspended between them, like he has thought better of it. She wishes he hadn’t thought better of it.

“I can’t– I can’t do this. You make this so hard, Joel, do you know that?” His face falls, feet shuffling closer until the toes of his boots are brushing against her sneakers.

“What can’t you do?”

“This– this– I want to be with you so badly, but I just can’t.” She hates what a relief it is when he finally reaches for her, his palm resting along her jaw, the calloused pad of his thumb collecting stray salt.

“Why can’t you? I– I’ve been wanting you for a long time, Cher. We could do it, I know we could.”

“I’ve heard that before, Joel. And it didn’t end well.” She can’t look at him as she says it, her stomach sinking with the words. Because it’s true, after all. He sighs, a long, dejected sound that makes her tear up all over again.

“Will you look at me, please?” She doesn’t want to, and isn’t sure if she can right now, but he shows her how, his knuckles crooking under her chin, a soft please that she folds to, finally meeting his eyes with hers.

“I can’t change what I did in the past, Cherry. And it kills me that I hurt you, but I was trying to do right by you. I don’t know anymore if I did, and I don’t know anymore if it even matters. But what I do know is I never stopped loving you. And if you’ll have me, I’ll be yours until the day I die, and probably then some, to be honest.” A laugh at that, thick with snot, feeling good in the midst of all these tears. She curls her fingers around his wrist where his hand is still cupped along her cheek, a tug to come closer so she can rest her forehead against his, though there’s a small shuffle first, both of them pushing their hard-hats off, paying no mind to the clatter of them when her nose brushes along the line of his.

“Don’t make me a promise you can’t keep.” She says it quiet, almost reluctant, but Joel just smiles.

“Not a promise, just the truth. Reckon I’ve been yours my whole life. And I’ve been hoping you’ll be mine too.” Something blooms inside her, relief in opening up, in allowing even amidst that still-there grip of fear. Because he’s here, and so is she, and there’s plenty of time to prove that fear wrong, to get it right, now, here, in the present.

She doesn’t answer with words, just closes the space still between them, the easiest yes in the way her lips press against his.

…

He knows he needs to go in. Needs to gather up Sarah and get back to their shoebox apartment so the whole routine can start over tomorrow morning. But quick, he can be quick, sitting in his truck with only the faint slant of clarity from the streetlight to brighten the pages. He steals the first chapter just like that, quiet, mouth moving with every word. And it’s a peculiar feeling, like pride, though he knows he has know business letting that swell in his chest with the way things ended between them. It’s good, of course it’s good. Not that he’s some well-seasoned reader, but he knows good when he sees it, and she was always so good, he thinks.

He’s only twenty minutes late when he finally knocks on his parents’ front door, and though Deedee makes nothing of it, he still feels that guilt sickening and skittering up his spine, trying to tamp it down with kisses pressed into Sarah’s curls.

By the time he gets them home, Sarah is indignant, fussy coos humming in her chest, ready for a bottle that he still has to make. Muscle memory, auto-pilot, he heats it up with her in one arm and the book held in his other hand, plowing through half of chapter two before he finally has to set it down to feed his girl. His girl, his perfect girl. He has enjoyed doing this from the very start, one of the things he always felt he could get right, at the very least. Simple and sweet, all the motions of bedtime, a small mercy that she goes down easy tonight because he’s still thinking about the book he left splayed open on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t sit down, just simply leans over the counter to keep reading under the light above the stove.

Sarah begins to cry about an hour and a half later, and by then he has already finished half of the book, careful to mark his place before checking on his girl. His hands still shake sometimes with the reality of holding her, something so small and careful that he has to roll his shoulders back a few times after every diaper change, every close cradle, like his whole body braces for her, trying to be big and enough for her. And he should get some sleep now, he knows that. But he reasons to himself that he’ll be waking up in an hour or two anyways for her, so, might as well.

Just like that, for the rest of the night, back and forth between Sarah and his close huddle over the kitchen counter. By the time morning is starting to blush that pale blue through the curtains, he has read the whole thing.

And no, not his place, and no, he has no right, but he is proud of her. Proud that she got out, proud that she did it. And relief too, that maybe he did the right thing after all, even though it hurt so very much.

…

Maybe a little crazy, the both of them. She’s pretty sure she heard a few wolf whistles when she led Joel out of the house and back to her car, but she doesn’t care, and she doesn’t think he does either judging by the way he keeps rubbing his palms down the front of his jeans in the passenger seat, both of them sweeping their eyes over the half-finished lots of this new neighborhood, searching for the same thing.

“Wait, right there.”

“Right where, Joel? There aren’t any–” She doesn’t finish that thought, a gasp high in her throat cutting it off when Joel reaches across for the wheel and veers her car right off the street and into an empty lot. The only reason she doesn’t press the brake is because she’s too stunned to move, letting the car roll into a thick copse of trees. She’s only snapped out of her stupor when Joel huffs out a right here, stop, stop, Cher, bringing the car to a stuttering halt. It’s all she can do to laugh as she looks around at the perfectly secluded spot.

“You always did have a talent for finding places like this.” He grins crooked at her, still leaning over the console with his hand on the wheel.

“Yeah, well, you– just c’mere.” Not pretty, not at all. A little greedy and a little desperate, her elbow beeping the horn as she scrambles over the console, Joel groaning when her knee lands a little too close to his crotch before she finally settles in his lap. He holds her by the hinge of her jaw, opening her mouth with his and taking everything she has to give. And in turn, she seeks out more however she can get it, one hand in his hair tugging when his teeth nick her bottom lip, her other hand bunched into a fist in his t-shirt. And it should be good, except it’s all so scrunched up in the passenger seat, and her legs are bent at such an angle that when she tries to grind her hips down onto his, she ends up with a mortifying cramp in her hamstring.

“Oh fuck.”

“I know, Cher, me too.”

“No, I mean, my– my leg is– I need to get up, it’s–” Joel finally seems to get the hint when she lets out a hiss of pain, quick to open the passenger side door so she can hobble down off his lap, tenderly trying to stretch out her leg in a graceless hop. Luckily, it seems to sort itself out, though Joel still gets out of the car, making her heart do something strange when he holds onto her hip with one hand as he rubs out the muscle in her leg with his other palm, squinting up at her and murmuring a question, that better?

“Y-yeah, thank you. We could– the backseats go all the way down.” He’s a sight, eyes big and blown out, lips parted in a swollen little pant as he looks at her.

“Right, let’s– let’s do that then.” She makes quick work of cranking open the sliding door of the minivan and folding the backseats down, plenty of room to assure that there won’t be anymore cramping crises. When she turns around to usher him into the back, Joel is quick to stamp a hard kiss to her mouth, a breathless laugh punching out of her lungs when he pulls away.

“Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, Cher.”

“Well, if you liked that, just wait until I put the seats back in place.” His smile splits, all boyish in the way his eyes crinkle up. And it’s all graceless fumbling from there, both of them crawling into the back, leaving the door cracked to let in the late summer breeze, though she can already feel sweat sticking her shirt to her back. Not that it matters though, not when they’re both making quick work of each other’s clothes.

Her want wills, and he answers in kind, letting her press him back, bare for her, heart beating for her as she settles between his legs, already taking him into her mouth, salt and sense, all him making her hum low in her chest.

“Jesus, look at you– so fucking pretty like this, Cher.” He’s one to talk, she thinks, chest flushed to blaze all the way up to his cheeks, his eyes heavy and hooded looking down at her as she laps at his leaking tip before taking as much of him as she can into the heat of her mouth. Though he doesn’t let her work him over for long, a petulant hand curling around the nape of her neck and a breathy baby, baby, c’mere coaxing her up, both of them sighing when the swollen ache of her cunt grazes along his length.

“Like this– I want it like this, Joel.” Her lips drag the word up the arc of his throat, sealing them with her lips slanting over his.

“It’s all yours, Cherry. I’m all yours.” They move together like they never stopped in the first place, all quiet communication in the press of their foreheads, eyes turned down to watch as she sinks down onto his throbbing cock, a high sound stopping itself in the back of her throat as her hips settle against his. For a moment, just this, the tight peaks of her nipples grazing his chest with each broken breath, palms smoothing along skin only to grab greedy handfuls where they can. And then the quiet murmur, good? Yes, so good. Moving with so good simpering up and down her spine, a moan breaking in her chest with the first pass of her hips against his.

He lets her find the rhythm first, his mouth hot and open against the side of her breast, all coaxing, all consuming with the way his hands grip at her ass. Everything turns hazy and humid in their close press in the back of her car, skin slick and sticking, chests fluttering with hard pants.

Not so young anymore, either of them, getting a little ahead of their own pleasure because she can already feel it snaring and snapping in her pelvis, that liquid languor that turns taut so fast. And of course Joel can tell, bringing his hand to curl around her hip so he can drag messy circles against her clit, mouth open and pleading against hers.

“That’s it, Cherry, take it for me. Fuck, I wanna feel it, just like that.” Her breath catches in her throat, that searing snap that slackens everything else, his name on her next exhale as everything melts down around her. Just him, and the close grind of his hips up into hers that’s snarling on the edge of too much, cracked whimpers with each thrust that she bites back, wanting his pleasure just as much as she wants her own.

“Baby, baby, so good like this. Want it so bad, want you so bad.” Her lips slide against the shell of his ear, crooking into a grin when he groans at her words, his grip on her tensing and tightening as he comes, warmth spreading and sating.

All tangled up, their bodies slacken and slump, splayed out in the back of her car as they both catch their breath. Joel’s head tilts up when she huffs out a laugh, breath fanning over his chest where her chin is resting.

“I don’t think that was the smartest way we could’ve started this new relationship thing.”

“I think we’re pretty far past new relationship, Cher.” She hums at that, no real argument, settling instead for a kiss pressed into the bare patch in his scruff.

“You know, Ellie asked about you.” Joel’s eyebrows shoot up at that.

“Seriously? Thought that kid hated me.”

“Mm, I think you won her over with the diarrhea joke.”

“Well it certainly worked on you.”

“Unfortunately.” He huffs at her dig, laying a mean squeeze to the crease where her ass meets her thigh.

“Unfortunately, none of that, Cherry baby.” Ease, all ease in their shared smile, settling back down around each other with a sigh. They’ll have to untangle soon, leave soon, back to reality soon. But for now, this time with him, all the time to say what she wants to say to him.

“I never stopped, you know. I think that’s why I came back, at least partly. I was hoping that you hadn’t stopped either.” Her cheek rises and falls with his breath, Joel trailing his finger along her jaw to coax her eyes back up to his.

“I didn’t, Cher. Even when I didn’t wanna admit it to myself, I was waiting for you, hoping for you too.”

................................

taglist: @spookyxsam @libbylou223 @angel-in-beskar @starstruckunknown-princess @casa-boiardi @tieronecrush @swiftispunk @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @amanitacowboy @pr0ximamidnight @wannab-urs @jksprincess10 @suzmagine @everything-isfucked @lanabobana @kittenlittle24 @sarap-77 @officerrrfriendly @val-srz @bitchwitch1981 @redwoodsanddaffodils @themothersmercy @romanarose @lost-inhawkins @youcancallmeelle @hollywoodcaligirl @harryleatherfit @fifia-writes @brighttears @lokanda @hardlystrictlystarwars @sarahxxo3 @harriedandharassed @anoverwhelmingdin

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller story #joel miller series #joel miller au #joel miller fic

229 notes · View notes

kookygranger · 15 days

Text

And He Was

Ghost!Steve Harrington x Witch!Reader

Series Masterlist

900 words

“This is crazy!”

Steve barrels into the apartment after you.

You’d spent the rest of the train journey staring at each other as Steve held on tightly to the hand that stroked his arm. It wasn’t until a grumpy late-night commuter walked passed the both of you with a muttered get a room, that his attention was lost.

They could see him.

He tested out the waters of this new revelation with every person you passed on the way back to your apartment. Smiling and waving at the ticket attendant barely paying attention, leaning down to pat a dog belonging to a disgruntled runner that was forced to stop, opening the door for a woman who lived in your building and telling her to have a good night even through her suspicious look.

Steve Harrington could be seen again. He could greet people and help them through doors. He could touch things.

But he hadn’t bothered to touch you in the 23 minutes since he’d discovered this new development.

“Yeah it–“

“I mean what the hell?!” He paces franticly around your apartment. Smiling giddily at the feeling of your records under his fingertips, chuckling when he can pick up your teapot. “Want me to make you some tea?”

“Maybe later.”

His face falls at the lack of excitement on yours.

“What’s wrong?”

Why haven’t you jumped at the chance to touch me? You kept trying to when you couldn’t, doesn’t it matter anymore? Will you leave now that other people can give you attention?

“Nothing.” You shake your head, motioning to the teapot in his hand, “I’ll take care of that. Although I don’t think it’s gonna do you much good.” You walk towards him, “Whatever this is still doesn’t change the fact that you’re–“ He stops you from taking the pot with a hand on your arm, and you swear you still feel a zap even when there isn’t one.

Steve looks down at his hand and smiles softly when he feels the warmth of your skin under his moving thumb. He puts the pot down on your table, his now free hand moving to your waist. He leans in slowly and you can feel the inhale of his chest against your arm, that can’t be right, before his lips leave a soft peck on your cheek.

You're burning fiercer than you ever have under his gaze.

“Hi.”

You barely get the reply of a h out before he’s shifting you in front of him properly, one hand enveloping the side of your jaw while the other squeezes your waist as he presses his lips to yours.

There’s a shiver that runs through your whole body at the contact, like stepping into an ice bath, but then it’s all warmth. That familiar tingle spreads through you as his lips move against yours with a desperate pull. You flinch back before you’re lost in the feeling altogether, eyes shut and head shaking.

“I feel like this is crossing a line of delusion. I can’t be kissing a ghost! This is insan–“ Steve cuts you off with another deep kiss, hands confident in their attempt to ground you.

“You worry too much.” He mumbles into your mouth and you open your eyes, breaking your lips apart.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried? Steve, you're dead.”

He smirks, “Which means I have nothing left to worry about. Besides,” your lips click as he presses quick, sweet kisses to you between talking, “I don’t feel like I’m dead. ‘Cause I can feel again, you know?” He leans back, hazel eyes searching deep within your own, “I feel things when I’m with you.” His thumb strokes your cheek softly, “I can touch you for god’s sake.” He laughs in disbelief, “Babe, you’ve brought me back.”

You frown under his gaze of awe, “Steve that’s not possible.”

“Okay, maybe not back back, but you’ve done something.”

“I haven’t used any magic I swear.” You shake your head.

“No, not with magic. I think it’s just you.” He smiles, before licking his bottom lip, “I was content with my death when it happened you know. I got to say goodbye thanks to your friend, and I saved the people I loved with my sacrifice. Then I met you and I knew I couldn’t go. That it wasn’t really my time because I would miss out on a life with you.”

“Steve.” You whisper, eyes stinging.

“I’m serious. I don’t think it was an accident that led me to you. I think it was fate.”

“I don’t believe in fate.”

He frowns, “Isn’t that a witch thing though? You read tarot cards.”

“I use them more as guidelines on what to look out for. How to avoid bad things–”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” He shakes his head, before squeezing your hip again. “I know. You’ve done this to me.”

Tears are threatening to spill over your lash line now.

“I’m sorry.”

Steve smiles at the whisper that leaves you, “Don’t be. Best thing that’s ever happened to me. Gave me no choice but to find a way to be with you forever.”

You let him lean his body into you, giving up on fighting against your own when his lips find yours again, melting against him when he licks into your mouth. Steve Harrington was still dead, but his form appeared entirely real. How? At this moment you did not know, but you couldn’t find it in you to question it.

Because, well…you’d fallen in love with a ghost.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things au #ghost!steve harrington #witch!reader #Spotify

55 notes · View notes

vivwritescrappythings · 3 months

Text

And They Were Roommates

modern!Hobie Brown x Reader

My first ever fanfiction posted online.

TW: afab!reader, she/her pronouns, drinking, bad writing?, very OOC Hobie, didn’t write the accent or slang please don’t come for me.

Word Count: 12.9k

masterlist

——

The apartment is cold when you wake up, the crappy heater barely able to keep up with the frigid air outside. Getting out of bed takes some coaxing on your part, the quilt warm around your limbs. But you are determined to have a good day.

You emerge from your bed with tangled hair, clad in panties and a shirt you had stolen from your roommate. It was soft and a little faded from its times through the spin cycle, and it was all the better for it.

It’s already 11 in the morning by the time you start making coffee. The smell of the grounds revive you as you measure the portion out, carefully leveling and scooping like it was second nature. You can hear the floorboards creaking, the building settling.

“Cold?” Hobie asks from behind you, though you’re not sure when he snuck up on you during the process of waking up. He moves his arm around your shoulders and gently pulls you to lean on his chest. As far as roommates went, you existed in an odd limbo between roommates, friends, and lovers.

“A bit,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep. You tuck your nose against his arm. His skin is so warm it almost feels like it burns you as you set the coffee to brew.

“You’re lucky I’m so warm,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head. It sounds like he wants to say something else. That’s the thing with Hobie, he’s always been great at keeping his secrets.

You can feel him smile against your hair, the curve of his lips something between sweet and mischievous. “Or maybe I’m lucky to have you here,” Hobie says, his accent deep and lilting over each word.

You roll your eyes at his affections, your mind snapping back to being kept up late into the night by his recent escapade. “Did that girl you brought home last night already leave?” you ask bluntly, watching the coffee drip into the pot. The fact that he brought a girl home yesterday makes you have a bitter taste on your tongue. But, honestly, you have no right to be upset with him over it.

“Yeah,” Hobie says after a moment’s hesitation, shrugging. The nonchalance he is trying to brush it off with seems practiced. “She was nice…” he trails off, seemingly leaving things out. “Why?”

“Just asking,” you say, still watching the drip drip drip of the coffee maker, “or you wouldn’t be out here sucking up all my warmth.” A last ditch effort to try and lighten the mood to save the morning.

He scoffs and tries to sound indignant, “Like I’d want to suck up your warmth.” But he’s smiling and still keeping your shoulders trapped against his chest.

“Mhm, whatever you say,” you murmur, idly tidying the kitchen counter in front of you as you wait for enough coffee to brew. Hobie shifts, pressing his own cold nose to the back of your neck.

The warmth of your body against his and the feeling of Hobie’s lips and nose on the back of your neck sends a chill up your spine. Even if neither of you admit it, you both know that you mean more to one another than just roommates or even friends. It’s in the way he holds you, always with a sense of gentle ownership and care. When Hobie is around, he wants to keep you safe and warm, and you love to let him.

You almost melt into Hobie’s touch, but the memory of running into that girl from whatever concert he went to comes back. She was in the bathroom you shared, using your makeup wipes and expensive lotion. You manage not to stiffen in his embrace, but you start to shift to execute your morning activities as though Hobie isn’t hanging off of you like a human sized backpack.

As you look for your coffee mug in the pile of clean dishes, Hobie’s free hand moves to gently tuck some of your hair behind your ear and stroke your back. It’s a gesture of comfort and affection, so natural that sometimes you wonder if Hobie even considers what he’s doing. You feel the tension in your muscles ease and relax despite your best efforts. You can’t stay angry with him, he’s allowed to flirt, allowed to sleep with whoever he wants. You aren’t in a relationship. You should want him to find someone, to be happy, but the idea of it makes your heart ache.

You huff out a breath through your nose, frustrated by your own train of thought. You look at the clock on the stove, it’s already approaching noon. Some days being Hobie’s roommate was harder than others, and today is already shaping up to be one of those days that hurts.

Hobie kisses the back of your neck softly and leans even closer to you, adjusting so his chin is on your shoulder and his cheek is against your hair. The feeling of his skin against the curve of your shoulder is like a warm and soothing balm—but it also makes your stomach twist with disappointment.

Guilt washes over you even though it has no reason to. You want to turn around and look at him, you want to feel his even gaze burn into you. You want to tell him everything you desire—everything you need. But your voice is stuck in your throat.

Not to mention, he doesn’t even know you want it. The wall between your rooms is thin, you’ve heard countless “I don’t want anything serious”, “just was messing around”, “no labels” conversations that Hobie has had with the women and men he brings to his bed. Sometimes you want to go talk to them on their way out to commiserate in the heartbreak.

Your heart lurches as Hobie’s words run through your head. All the time you’ve lived together, how many times has he said that speech to someone? You want to deny it, to tell yourself that what he tells them is different than how he feels about you and what you’ve done together. But you heard it with your own ears.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push away the feeling that he means it. He means it every time.

“What are your plans for today?” you ask, realizing that you and Hobie have just been in silence for the past five minutes.

Hobie looks up at you, you can see a slight weariness in his eyes at your question. It’s moments like this that you think this is it. Time to ask or just drop it and move on. His eyes fix on yours and you can tell he’s searching for something to say.

“Nothing really,” he says, shrugging. “I was probably just gonna stay in. Read.”

You extract yourself from Hobie’s arms, moving to the dishes you had left in the kitchen sink last night. You start to run the water, waiting for it to warm as it flows over your fingers. “Are you finally gonna read the book I loaned to you a few months ago?” you ask, he moves to stand beside you.

Hobie’s eyes harden with slight annoyance, but he takes a moment to respond. “Not yet,” he murmurs. His voice is cautious and even lower than usual. He doesn’t like conflict, nor does he like the feeling of being cornered—especially not by you.

“What are you up to later?” he asks, giving up on that path of conversation. It was a safe move, a way to distance himself and avoid any possibility of a serious discussion. He’s good at this sort of thing. Hobie has always been difficult to catch.

“Do you remember what day it is?” you ask, any hope that Hobie actually knows what day it is dissipating quickly. Your hands are soapy as you vigorously clean the bowl in the sink. You have cleaned it twice already, but you need something to do with your hands.

Hobie sighs at your question, making you deflate even further. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot,” he snaps. It takes him everything to keep his tone somewhat even and measured. There seems to be something in his words, some hint of frustration that you suspect has to do with you.

“But—look, I’m sorry, but I told you I wasn’t looking for…”

“It’s my birthday, Hobie,” you snap, “not some stupid fucking anniversary of us moving in together or something.” The anger comes out of you like a whip. You had to interrupt him, he knows that you would never bring that up, not again.

Your words cut through him like a red-hot knife. “I—“ he starts to say, his voice gentle once more. Hobie reaches out to you before catching himself. You can see the apology on his tongue and the regret in his eyes. It’s in there, barely peeking over the surface. There’s something he wants to tell you, you know there is, but he’s afraid he can’t make the choice.

“Yeah… figured you forgot,” you say, your voice small. “Well, my friends from school are throwing me a party tonight, at Club Wolf. You’re invited if you want to come, but I know it’s not your thing.”

“You know I’m not great with crowds,” Hobie says, his tone light and joking. You hear the desperation in it. He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to disappoint you. You bite your tongue, wanting to remind him that he is fine with crowds, just not nightclubs with dance music.

“But,” he says a second later, “I wouldn’t miss your birthday party for the world.” The lightness in his voice disappears as he offers a lopsided smile to you. Maybe a genuine smile. Maybe.

You glance at him over your shoulder, surprise coloring your face. You rinse the bowl you had made your own birthday cake in last night and set it on the rack to dry. “Well, just see how you’re feeling later. It starts at 9.” Hobie has made promises to show up before, you’re not going to hold your breath this time.

You turn to pull the cake out of the fridge and find the tubs of frosting you bought in the pantry. You set the cake on the kitchen table, pausing to wonder if baking and decorating your own birthday cake is sad. What does it matter anyways?

“I mean it,” he whispers softly. “I’ll be there, I promise.” He sounds sincere—or maybe that’s just what you want to hear. You feel yourself wanting to believe him. You know you shouldn’t, but deep down you hope you can.

His head dips to the side, his eyes scanning you warmly up and down in a familiar way. His gravity defying wicks move with him as he tilts. You always forget how beautiful Hobie is when he looks at you like that. You can’t blame him for anything right now.

“Okay.” You look at him briefly before turning back to the cake. Hobie is too beautiful to look at directly in the morning light, it felt almost like staring into the sun.

You dump globs of white frosting onto the cold sponge, spreading it smooth with a spatula. Hobie’s eyes study your measured movements. It takes you ten minutes to lopsidedly frost the cake, but you manage.

You move to the cabinet to search for the sprinkles you’d bought ages ago. Hobie moves behind you and watches your search, his gaze taking in both your back and profile in the reflection of the glass cabinet door. His focus remains on you for a moment before he breathes softly.

“I don’t want to go,” he mumbles, just barely loud enough for you to hear. He’s nervous. He’d be lying if he says he isn’t. The party means a lot to you and he doesn’t want to have to mess up the evening; or worse, ruin it completely,

“You don’t have to,” you say, your heart twisting in its disappointment. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“But… I want to for you,” Hobie says even quieter, you almost don’t understand him. He presses up against you again, arms wrapping around your middle. His body is warm and his breath is hot against your skin, making you shiver for a moment.

You feel a hesitation from him, like Hobie wants you to turn and face him and ask him for more. It’s like he’s waiting for you to say it, to validate and confirm things that he knows in his heart —and you do too.

But you can’t do it, you have put yourself out on that ledge before only to get struck down. It took you a long time to get back to this level of comfort with Hobie, dancing between friendship and something more. Unfortunately, you prefer being stuck in limbo than not having Hobie in your life at all.

You have to stretch on your tiptoes to reach the sprinkles on the top shelf. Hobie must have moved them while hunting for the stale candy bars that lived in the back of the cabinet.

Hobie chuckles and puts his hands on your waist, pushing gently until you put your heels back on the floor. You look back at him, seeing him smile the kind of smile that is sweet and soft and more genuine than anything you have seen in a long time.

“Here.” He hands the sprinkles to you. You have to stop yourself from melting into his arms.

You look away from his smile, your heart aching at the sight of it. “Thank you,” you murmur, clutching the plastic container tightly in your fist. The sprinkles are shiny spheres in your favorite colors: purple and pink. You have always been a sharp contrast to Hobie’s riot of blues and reds paired always with black.

“Anything for you,” he murmurs, his voice sweet and gentle. You can feel his gaze lingering on the sprinkles in your hand for a moment longer before he looks up at you again.

“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, not bothering to hide his trepidation anymore. You can see his worry, the way his eyes keep straying to your neck, your hands, your face. Hobie seems afraid he’ll scare you away. You know he means more than just the party.

“Yeah, you’ll see me.” You offer him a half smile as you turn away from the press of his hand on your hip and to the frosted cake, perfectly white and crisp. You dump the sprinkles unceremoniously on top, tarnishing the pristine finish as you press them in to stick on the sides and top. The sprinkles spill over the edges of the plate, getting stuck in the nooks of the table settings.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he whispers, his eyes soft and searching when he approaches your side. That look is always enough to send your heart racing. You’re afraid you’ll do something wrong, something stupid that will push him away.

He places a hand on the table and leans in close, careful not to disturb the cake. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” Hobie’s small, gentle smile breaks through again and, for a moment, the world stands still.

You’re scared to move, to send this house of cards crashing to the ground. That’s how Hobie and you always feel—like a balancing act. At times he is cloyingly sweet and stuck deep between your molars, but he can turn in a flash to something bitter and sour.

“I can’t eat this whole cake by myself,” you finally say after a moment’s hesitation. Hopefully it is a wise choice.

Hobie smiles even wider at your response. “No,” he says, “no you can’t.” He reaches out for the sprinkles, his hand almost touching yours before stopping. The electricity that builds between the two of you feels tangible for a split second. The touches that Hobie finds intimate are so minor compared to those that he doesn’t. Holding hands and kissing on the mouth are too much, but almost everything else is casual.

His eyes search you again, and you remember all the times you have had this exact moment with Hobie before. You wonder if you’ll get used to it and lose the feeling of intimacy altogether, or if it will always be this way.

“I’ll help you eat it,” he says, finally.

“Perfect, cake for breakfast is a birthday requirement, after all,” you say, turning your gaze away from the intensity. You place the mostly empty container of sprinkles on the table, letting out the breath that has been stuck in your chest.

You look on the counter for the Polaroid camera you like to keep around. You had won it in a raffle in college and used it ever since. “I need to grab my camera, I promised my mom I’d take a picture of it before I cut it,” you say as you pad out of the kitchen with your bare feet. It’s in your room on your desk, you grab it by the strap and return just as quietly as you left. You stand over the cake, careful to get only it in the shot, the cracked porcelain plate and sprinkles strewn across the table completing the imperfect memory.

“You still have that silly camera?” Hobie asks from behind you. His voice is light and his tone is teasing, but you can hear a hint of genuine interest lurking in there as well. You can feel his eyes scanning your body—just for a moment, but you can. That slight shift in his gaze and the way he lingers on your legs almost makes the camera shake in your hands.

“Yeah,” you say, waving the photo a bit so the ink sets. You quietly contemplate how you can take a picture of yourself with the cake without asking Hobie to do it, for some reason that feels too silly. Last year Hobie didn’t even wake up until 4pm, so you had all the time in the world to take self-timer photos over and over again without embarrassment.

“I like the way the pictures turn out,” you explain, flipping the photo on the table over to see the image of the pink and purple cake developing. “They feel like memories from when you were a kid or something.”

“You’re right,” Hobie whispers. You can sense the sincerity in his tone and even see it in his expression. It’s one of those rare moments where all of his walls drop and his emotions break through just beyond that rough exterior he hides himself in.

You look at the photo again, the sprinkles are haphazard and the plate is cracked but it looks cozy rather than imperfect. You can see Hobie’s shadow in it, streaking across the table and intersecting with yours. You pick up the pen that you had left on the table earlier and scribble the date on it along with the number ‘21!’ and a big smiley face.

Hobie’s shadow looms over you as you write. He’s closer than you expected him to be, and there’s something different about him. His warmth has been replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable. There’s a softness in his dark eyes—and a look of almost longing.

You cross your small, cluttered kitchen to set the Polaroid on the countertop. “You don’t need to be in this, but my mom likes to have pictures of me with the cake. She has a whole box of photos of me on my birthday morning.” You peek through the viewfinder to see that the cake is centered, a chair on either side.

You readjust the shirt you are wearing to cover a little bit more of your bare thighs as you set the timer, walking to the nearest chair with sure steps. Your kitchen table is a little crooked and small, the chairs mismatched. “You’ve got ten seconds to figure out what you want to do,” you murmur to Hobie as you try to fix your somewhat tangled hair and plaster a bright smile on your face.

He watches you on the other side of the table, drinking in your form as you prep for the photo. What he wants to do is easy: hold you. Hold you close and make sure you never leave him again. He’d be a fool not to try—and maybe that’s enough to shake him out of the looming fear that holds him back.

But what if you rejected him? His heart sinks just thinking about it. He’s not sure he could handle it, not in a moment like this.

He watches as the counter hits five seconds, not sure what to do.

“You don’t have to linger in the corner like a ghost you know,” you say through your teeth, still holding your smile as you stare into the lens of the camera. Your fingers twist in the soft fabric of the t-shirt in anticipation. You can’t help but wonder what he’s going to do.

Hobie’s eyes scan you again, taking in every detail. The way your hair falls against your collarbone, the way the shirt that belongs to him has started to slip from your shoulder. He leans against the table, resting one hand against the back of your chair.

You can feel his gaze on your neck, on your chin. His presence is warm against your skin as you hear him inhale and exhale. You want him to do something. You need him to.

One second left.

“Hobie?” You ask, your voice pinched as the one second warning beep goes off. He still rests half in and half out of the frame.

That soft word is enough. You feel the electricity between the two of you, that strange and beautiful tension that builds between two people when they are on the verge of something. Hobie’s fingers curl over the back of your chair, bringing himself closer. His eyes never leave your form—just the thought of you is enough to make him tremble.

He leans into you as he sits in the other chair, his breath hot on your cheek. Hobie places his hand on the opposite side of the cake, his shoulder close to yours. “Smile for me,” he mumbles, his voice barely loud enough for you to hear.

Your heart thumps and you can feel your false picture smile twist into something… different. The flash is blinding, the sound of the shutter solidifying the moment in your memories as the camera prints the photo. The apartment is quiet except for your breathing and the sound of the Polaroid printing the photo.

“Thank you, my mom loves getting pictures of me,” you say, your voice a little higher pitched than usual.

Hobie doesn’t say anything as he gets up to pull the photo free from the camera. His gaze scans you again, taking in everything in a moment. His eyes linger on the neckline of your shirt that’s slipped. He returns to where you sit at the table, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. His fingers brush against the top of your arm lightly as he smiles down at the photo. You look beautiful even with your tangled hair and the sprinkle-covered table settings.

“Did it turn out alright?” you ask him, not able to look at it yourself. You can’t acknowledge the permanent memento of whatever malformed relationship you have with Hobie. You stand, slipping out from under his hand as you grab two plates, forks, and a knife.

“Yeah,” Hobie says wistfully, and you can tell that he means it. It’s not the best photograph, but who cares—it’s a memory that he’ll hold onto and cherish for the rest of his life. He’d be a fool not to.

He can’t help himself and he wraps you in a hug, one arm around your waist and the other planted on the counter next to you. He places the photo down in front of you as he pulls you into his embrace.You fit together perfectly. He presses his cheek against your hair and inhales deeply, loving the way you smell.

You inspect the photo, leaning down slightly to see it better. You had worn his only colorful shirts to bed last night, the mustard yellow shape taking up half of the picture, the pink and purple cake between you, and Hobie swathed in dark blue and black. He was looking at you instead of the camera, and even in the photograph you could see the tenderness in his gaze. You were looking straight at the camera, what had originally been your photographic smile twisting into something genuine.

“Can I keep this?” he asks softly, his voice still raspy from sleep and his emotions. He still has a firm grip on you, his arm wrapped around you securely. He wants this moment to last and he’s not quite sure how to make it happen.

He looks down at you, his umber eyes studying every inch of your face. You can feel warmth radiating from him, and the way his body tenses—almost like he’s too nervous to breathe fully.

“Sure,” you say breathily, a little caught off guard. “I just need to grab a picture of it to send to my mom first.” Your heart is thundering in your chest, you’re trying not to think of a million scenarios about the deeper meaning behind him wanting to keep the photograph. You grab for your phone on the edge of the counter, taking a quick photo of the Polaroid before handing it to Hobie.

You can’t help but lean into him as he leans in close to you. He’s so gentle when he holds you, your head fits perfectly against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat is loud in your ears, steady and calming as he rocks you slightly back and forth in a hug. He smiles down at you, his eyes warm but his expression cautious. He’s not sure what to do next and it shows. He looks at the photo in his hands and back at you again.

“You hungry?” you ask, pushing the moment forward. You see his gaze drift down to the picture in his hand. “I can cut you a slice.” You look at him over your shoulder.

Hobie smiles again, but it’s a bit brighter this time. “I’m starving,” he says, his tone light and borderline teasing. He reaches around you, pressing his arms close to your body. You can feel his fingers against the shirt that you still wear, pressing up against your skin. It’s almost too much.

“Well you’ll have to free me if you want me to cut the cake,” you say with a soft laugh. You feel almost lightheaded from the attention. His hands are large, his fingers splayed against the yellow t-shirt and bunching it up slightly.

He laughs before pulling you closer, burying his face in your hair and breathing you in deeply. His fingers slip under the shirt and he presses himself against you again. You’ve never felt so close to someone—and you’ve never felt this vulnerable.

He’d be a fool to ruin the moment, and you’ve never seen a moment more perfect than this. No one ever told you love might feel like this: warm and dizzying, exciting and scary, and almost too good to be true, but here you are.

It still feels too good to be true, there is still the underlying anxiety that Hobie will change his mind and remember his no consistency no labels mentality.

Still, you giggle when you feel his large, calloused hands palm your bare waist and pull you impossibly closer. These are streets you’ve walked before, when Hobie lets himself into your bedroom on nights he comes home alone. You realize that Hobie is the sun, and you think you’ll forever be stuck in his gravitational pull.

That’s what scares you about Hobie. He’s always one breath away from running. He’s made you comfortable and close but not permanent. At the same time, he’s the most welcoming and kind person you’ve ever known and when he touches you—when he holds you close—you feel like you might just be home.

That’s what makes you keep coming back, too. You’ve never felt this comfortable or welcomed before and you’d kill for it to not be a dream.

“Are you just going to hold me against the kitchen counter all day?” you ask, your tone light. You manage to keep your secret inside, the fear that once this moment ends you won’t get another one looming in the back of your mind. You think back to the birthday picture, the messy cake on the table. The impending party your friends were throwing on the horizon.

Your mom told you the first time she met Hobie after you decided to be roommates that you would fall in love with this boy, and she was right.

Hobie’s smile falters slightly at your words. He’s not sure he’ll ever want this moment to end. Holding you and seeing your face—even if you’re not looking at him—is all he really wants to do.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone light as he pulls you closer and pushes your hips against the counter. His hands are still under my shirt, warm against your soft stomach. Maybe this moment is all he wants too.

But then, he takes a deep breath and smiles and the tension eases out of him a tiny bit.

“C’mon, you won’t deny sharing cake with the birthday girl, will you?” you say softly, leaning back into him to feel his strength.

“I wouldn’t deny you anything if I could help it,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. His fingers dig into you, holding you close in case he loses you forever. He presses his lips against your hair again and inhales deeply.

The world around you fades, every worry erased, replaced by the sensation of Hobie’s breath against your skin. Even if the moment ends, you’ll hold it close like the Polaroid he’ll soon keep in his wallet.

He moves first, releasing your waist slowly, letting the stolen shirt fall back down over your hips. You bracelet his wrist with your fingers, pulling him to the small kitchen table. You stand to cut the cake, plating you both thick slices. Your fingers are sticky with the excess frosting and sprinkles and crumbs. You take a measured risk and lick the knife clean.

“Do you want tea or coffee?” you ask, it wouldn’t be hard to put the kettle on.

“I’d love some tea,” Hobie says as he takes a seat at the table. He watches you with a soft smile as you cut the cake, your fingers sticky with frosting. The icing streaks your face from nose to cheek and he can’t help but smile. This is one of the many reasons he believes he’s falling in love with you.

“You’re so messy,” he chuckles. “Let me get a napkin.” His eyes scan over your form before he averts his gaze. You have no idea just how much your messiness makes him swoon.

“Did I get something on my face?” you ask, trying to brush it away and only succeeding on getting more frosting smeared onto your cheek. You watch Hobie’s lanky form retreat, smiling and shaking your head as you lick your fingers clean.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his tone amused and loving, “you’re just covered is all.”

“Here,” he says, a napkin in-hand, “let me get that.” He dabs the frosting gently away with the napkin, his fingers brushing against your skin. He catches your eyes for just a moment when he does, but he quickly averts his gaze.

“You must think I’m ridiculous,” you say with a giggle when you see just how much frosting he wipes off your face. There is a soft blush on your cheeks as you put the kettle on before pouring yourself a cup of coffee. The mug you use is lumpy, one of the only things that survived the kiln from the pottery class you took last summer.

You pour him a cup of tea, adding the right amounts of milk and sugar before handing it to him. “You’re not ridiculous at all,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. He smiles again, reaching for his tea and gulping it down. You can tell you’re making him shy.

“You haven’t tried the cake yet,” you murmur as you sit down, a full slice sitting in front of Hobie still.

“Oh, you’re right,” he says, setting down his tea. “I actually forgot to try it.” He reaches for his fork and cuts himself a piece, taking a bite. You can tell he likes it by just how big his smile is.

“Oh my God,” he says, “why didn’t I try this earlier? It’s amazing.”

You smile, your turn to feel bashful as you sit across from him. You’d celebrated 21 birthdays with cake for breakfast, but this one is your favorite by far. “I’ll make you one when your birthday comes around. I can get black sprinkles or something,” you say, your voice holding a hint of vulnerability in it. Of the two of you, you were always doing things to make Hobie’s life easier, be it collecting his laundry or leaving him leftovers for lunch. You’re willing to add baking a birthday cake to the list.

“I hope you do,” he says, his voice soft and sweet. There’s a small light in his eyes, but he averts his gaze quickly. He’s clearly trying to play it cool, and he’s doing a piss poor job of it.

“I can’t wait for mine,” he says, taking another bite of cake. “If this is what your baking is like, I think I’m going to insist we have an early birthday for me.” He grins when he says it, even though you know he’s not joking.

You smile, taking a bite. The pink and purple sprinkles crunch as you chew. “Well, your half birthday is coming up,” you say, a little sheepish that you remember the information so readily. “Maybe I’ll make you one.”

Hobie’s expression softens, his free hand fidgeting with a cloth that is on the table. He takes another bite of his cake to hide how flustered he is.

“That would be lovely,” he says after a moment. You can see him trying to play it cool, but he can’t stop his eyes from following you. He wants to watch you as you move. He wants to study you. He wants you. He can feel it in his gut.

You take a drink of your bitter coffee to offset the sweetness of the cake. His gaze is almost overwhelming. Even when his eyes trail away, you can feel his presence like a weight on your shoulders that you can never ignore. A blush crawls up over your face and you find yourself looking away, hoping the heat in your face will die down a little bit.

Then you decide against that, your gaze returning directly to meet his and you never want to look away again. His eyes almost melt you. He makes you forget to breathe, but you can deal with breathlessness for a little while.

You’re forced into shyness by the memory of the last time you felt this way, Hobie’s soft, even voice rejecting you filling your ears. You close your parted lips, redirecting your focus to the photo of just the cake with your loopy, girly handwriting beneath it that still sat on the table.

His eyes follow your gaze as you focus on something else and he can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He doesn’t like losing your attention. He leans back in his seat, propping his feet up on the other chair and taking a slow sip of his tea.

You catch his gaze again, and again he averts it. He knows that if he looks at you, it’ll be all over. He’d be pulling you around and pressing his lips down hard as he shows you just how true his feelings are.

You finish your breakfast, and you find the cake cover after digging in one of the cabinets under the counter. You cover it and place it in the fridge, having to squeeze some of Hobie’s beer out of the way to make space. Hobie remains seated, watching you move around the kitchen with his measured gaze.

Your phone ringtone blasts through the silence of the morning, which now was drifting into the afternoon. You jump, rushing for your phone. Your mother’s contact flashes on the screen.

“It’s my mom, she probably just wants to wish me a happy birthday,” you say, looking at Hobie as though you’re asking permission to take the call. You don’t want to ruin the intimacy you had been sharing, fearful you’ll never get it back.

“Yeah,” Hobie says, his voice soft and gentle. “You can take the call.” He knows how important family is to you and he’d hate to keep you from a call with your mother.

He leans back in the chair and takes a final sip of his tea before he sets the mug down. You see his eyes linger on yours for a beat or two before he looks away. He wants you to be happy—he always does. Even if it means he might have to sit in the background.

“Thank you, for the lovely morning,” you murmur, giving him one last look before you hit the ‘answer’ button and go to your room. Your mom is already screaming about the picture Hobie and you had taken. Her shrieks of glee make you giggle as you shut the bedroom door behind you, not without sparing one last look at Hobie as he sat at the kitchen table.

Hobie watches you leave and he fights against everything his body is telling him to do. He’s dying to follow you, to wrap his arms around you and kiss you like he wants to. He’s dying for you to look at him one more time. But he doesn’t.

He fights against his demons instead. He’s always had trouble with commitment and giving himself to someone makes him nervous. It scares him. It worries him.

He doesn’t want to lose you. But he’s terrified of loving you.

The rest of the day progresses without event. You only run into Hobie once in the short trek from the kitchen to his room, mumbling something about how his friend Miles needed his advice. You were watching Twilight to kill the time, something Hobie would have never agreed to do even on your birthday.

The production of getting ready feels monotonous as you shower, do your hair, and apply your makeup. It feels like a fugue state as your favorite playlist fills the silence, you can’t help but wonder if Hobie will bother to show up or not.

By the time your friends come to retrieve you in the Uber, Hobie still hasn’t emerged from his room since your brief run in. You are wearing a dress that glitters when you move, paired with black platform heels and a small black handbag. You let your hair loose down your shoulders in meticulously done beach curls. No matter how much effort you’d put in, it felt like a waste of time when you looked at his closed bedroom door.

“I’m leaving for the club!” you call out to Hobie, waiting momentarily for a response you don’t receive before you shut the front door and rush to the Uber.

Hobie’s on his bed when he hears your voice, his expression darkening. The room’s curtains are shut and all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing. It’s hot in his room and he wishes for a fan. It’s quiet—too quiet.

He wants to follow you, but he can’t. The thought of another step towards commitment makes his head spin. He wants you but he can’t do this, not without being sure. That’s the problem though. He’s never sure of anything aside from the dizzying panic you make him feel.

The club is busy when you arrive, your friends from college having congregated for the event amongst other miscellaneous club goers. You are plied with congratulations and shots upon arrival, along with a silver sash that says ‘Birthday Girl’ in looping script. You nearly cry, the effort and love you feel overwhelming you a bit as your friends place the sash over your head and adjust it perfectly in place. It’s such a stark contrast from the morning, but still feels less satisfying.

The alcohol lowers your inhibitions and ignites your blood, you feel like you can dance for hours. The club is sweltering and the music is loud. You finally manage to find a lull to escape to the bathroom for a moment, promising your friends that you will make it okay on your own. You hide in a stall, taking a moment to catch your breath. You pull your phone out of your bag hopefully only for it to deflate when you see there’s still nothing from Hobie.

The alcohol lubricates your jumbled thoughts about Hobie as you look at your text thread. The last thing he’d sent you was a photo of the small bar crowd his band had played in front of a few days ago. You bite your glossed lip, teetering on the edge of a decision.

You open your camera app, angling your phone so you can see just enough cleavage down the front of your dress and the toilet is out of the frame. You take a selfie, suddenly realizing you look drunk but you don’t care. You are drunk and it’s your birthday. You consider that to be permission granted as you send it to Hobie, typing ‘miss u’ in all lowercase letters after it.

A notification pops up on Hobie’s phone as he’s lounging in bed, his headphones plugged into his cellphone while he listens to music. He’s not doing anything productive when the notification comes up, his finger tapping along to the rhythm of the song before he unlocks his phone.

A jolt of shock courses through his body, his breath catching in his throat as he sees your photo on his screen. His eyes go wide and he quickly replies, “I miss you too.” His breath catches in his throat and he bites his lower lip.

You squeal audibly when he texts back, thankfully the music and the other women in the bathroom cover the sound. “U do?” you reply, leaning against the wall of the bathroom stall. You look at the photo you had sent him again. God, you look so drunk.

“Of course,” Hobie replies quickly, his pulse quickening at the thought of you being drunk. He loves when you’re a little tipsy—your words get sweeter and your harsh edges get a little smoother.

“How’s the party? Missing you right back.” He looks at your photo with a little jolt of lust. You might look drunk in the picture, but you look hot. Your hair is mussed and your eyes are glassy and unfocused as you pout softly at the camera.

“Club’s not the same wirhout u.” You type, not even noticing the misspelling. You hit send, knowing you really only have a few more minutes before your friends come to find you. A birthday girl can’t leave her party for long.

He’s not expecting you to text back so quickly and as the notification chimes in his phone, he sits up in bed to look at it. He has to resist the urge to text you again in fear of being too clingy. In his eyes, he’s already a little too clingy.

He decides to wait for another notification. You might have just said the club is boring without him, but you at least sent this message. Your words and that picture of you will have to be enough for him tonight.

He stares at his phone for the next few minutes.

Your friends come to collect you, making you forget about the moment for a little. They call your name as they enter the bathroom, yelling something about how your song is being played and you are desperately needed on the dance floor.

Twenty minutes pass before you think about Hobie again. You were handed a shot of Jäegermeister—your favorite and Hobie’s worst nightmare. You decide to take a video as you take it. Normally, you would rather die than record yourself in public but liquid courage courses through your veins. The lights are pulsing around you, the sequins on your dress lighting up as you raise the shot glass to the selfie camera and knock the shot back.

You watch the video loop as you contemplate it. Your cheeks are flushed, makeup is a bit messy, and you shine with sweat. But, fuck it. You send it to Hobie anyways, typing a quick ‘cheers 💕’ to accompany it.

You can tell that Hobie’s not doing much of anything because he responds within half a minute of you sending your text, his fingers typing up quite a long message for Hobie.

“God, you’re so cute.” He stares at it for a bit, watching the video on loop before he texts back again. “Also, that dress is gorgeous on you. Can I see it up close?” It feels scandalous the way he texts so forwardly to you, you rarely communicated your desires to one another.

You blush when you read the text, the alcohol and Hobie’s implication making your head spin. “Tried to catch u before I left the apartmenr :('' you send back, again littered with errors. You think about how you called out to him as you left, not getting a response or a goodbye.

“Wish you did,” he replies. Hobie smiles and he takes another look at your photo. Your dress clings to you in just the right places and your makeup is smudged in the perfect way.

“I love your hair like that,” he texts before he takes a breath and adds, “and the way you look at me makes my breath stop. I want to kiss you so bad, but I can’t.”

You can’t hold your excitement at his text, getting the attention of those with you. Your friends notice, the girls looking over your shoulder at the thread. One confiscates your phone, typing before hitting send without showing you the message.

You look at your phone when she gives it back. “Club Wolf, come get her. We want to make sure she gets home safe,” your friend had sent. You roll your eyes, knowing that you were nowhere close to being wasted enough for Hobie to have to come save you.

Hobie doesn’t hesitate to respond to your friend’s text. “I’ll be right there.”

“Oh my god!” you screech when you get the text back, grabbing your friend’s shoulder with excitement. She takes your phone for the rest of the night, putting it in her bra. After a few moments you let it go, getting convinced to dance with them more as one of your favorite songs starts to blare through the speakers.

Once he’s up and dressed, he downs a few shots for courage before he takes off towards the club. When he gets there, he takes a moment to stand outside the building as he takes a deep breath; his heart’s in his throat, his palms are sweaty. He’s here for you. He knows that. But he’s also going to have to face the fact that he dropped everything to run to your aid.

“Let me buy you a drink?” a random man that had come along to meet some of your friends asks you. In your state you eagerly agree, assuming he is being kind to the guest of honor. You follow him to the bar, scanning the room to see if Hobie had showed up yet. You order another of your favorite drinks and sip on it while chatting idly with the man. He’s decent, but you’re not paying much attention to the conversation as you sip your drink and look around the club.

Hobie walks through the club, his eyes darting around. When he sees you with the random guy, he frowns before he forces himself to push forward. He’s only slightly jealous. You don’t owe him anything. He just knows that he doesn’t want you with anyone else.

He pushes past a wall of people before finally reaching you. He taps the other guy on the shoulder before gently grabbing you by the elbow and pulling you away from him. He doesn’t say a word to the guy, only glaring at him before he leads you away.

“Hobie!” you exclaim as his hand closes around your elbow, already completely forgetting about the random man. The liquid swirls in your glass as you go up on your tiptoes to loop an arm around his neck and pull him into a hug. You have to do that even in heels.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” you say, your voice slightly slurring as you release him. You take another sip of the drink, wiping a bit of the alcohol off the corner of your lips with your thumb and licking it off.

“I couldn’t resist,” he replies, hugging you close and planting a kiss on your cheek. One hand finds its way onto your hip as the other reaches up towards your hair, fingers running through the ends of your hair—he just had to touch it. It seems like a crime to keep your hair so far away from him.

“I almost didn’t go in because I saw you here with this guy.” He gestures to the random man you were just talking with and his lips curl up in a scowl.

You frown for a moment. “Screw that guy,” you say loudly, the alcohol letting all your feelings simmer just under the surface. You can feel your friends watching like hawks. You look Hobie up and down, realizing that he was dressed in black on black on black. But he looked good, he’d put on chains and his chunky silver rings and smudged eyeliner around his eyes in the way you liked. His leather vest settled nicely on his shoulders, covered in studs and patches for bands and pins.

Not to mention that his hand on your waist made you feel grounded for the first time since you had shared breakfast together.

His other hand finds your waist, pulling you close to him and his lips fall to your ear. “You look beautiful,” he breathes before he whispers, “and you smell even better.”

His lips skim just above your neck, his mouth breathing warm breath on your skin. He can tell that you like it. The way your head tilts back, the way your eyes flutter closed. He knows you like this. A lot of time spent with one another gave him the upper hand in knowing all of your tells.

“Oh now you’re just being nice because it’s my birthday,” you murmur, blinking up at him sweetly. The light reflected off your dress in different colors, throwing patches of pinks and blues onto Hobie’s body.

He shakes his head, his lips still hovering just above your neck as he whispers, “no, this is just me being truthful.”

Even as he’s saying this, he’s not sure what he’s planning to do. He wants to kiss you, he wants to hold you tight and keep you close to him. But he’s never been so vulnerable. He can’t just take you from the club. He needs to know what you want.

“You smell of vanilla, and jasmine,” he adds, his lips finally finding your skin and kissing it. You shiver when he kisses your neck, the feeling of his lips igniting a fire on your skin. His lip ring is cold as it presses into the delicate skin, but you don’t care.

“I-I used that body wash you like,” you say like an idiot, your voice coming out before you even had the time to process what you were saying. Your free hand found the smooth plane of his shoulder as the other still held your drink. You took another gulp of it in an attempt to calm down.

His hand tightens around your waist, pulling you back into him. His tongue lightly brushes against your skin, exploring the lines of your neck as he kisses you again and again. You sigh into his touches, your hand curling around the back of his neck. Even drunk, you’re careful not to touch his hair.

“I didn’t get to give you a present,” he teases before whispering again, “and I know exactly what you want.” His hands move up from your waist and towards your hair, fingers wrapping around strands of it before he grips it tightly and plants his mouth on yours.

You gasp initially, melting into his arms. You nearly drop the glass you’re holding, but somehow Hobie has the good sense to pull it from your hand and place it on a table next to him; his lips never leaving yours. Your eyes slip closed as your fingers wrap around the collar of his vest and you pull him close to you. Hobie tastes like peppermint and a hint of rum, which makes you want him more.

You can feel his grip tighten, Hobie desperate for you; desperate to have your touch. His tongue dances as he kisses you with all the passion and love he’s thought about giving you. Your hands grip him and push him closer into you, your body pressed so tightly against his that you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

His breath is warm on your lips as he continues, trying to kiss you harder as if he can transfer the feelings that are growing inside of him onto your body. He only wants you.

You can hear your friends cheering over the club music as you part, your lipgloss is smeared onto his lips. You laugh, wiping away the sticky substance with your thumb. “Can you take me home, Hobie?” you ask softly, still holding him close with your other hand.

Hobie’s breath catches in his throat as he hears your friends cheering you both on and he looks over his shoulder with a sheepish smile before he turns back to glance at you.

For as shy as he is with your friends, he’s not afraid to stare at you. Your eyes look like they’re almost glowing beneath the lights of the club as you ask him to take you home. He nods without hesitation. Nothing could stop him from spending time with you tonight. Nothing should.

Your friend hands you your phone back as you lace fingers with Hobie. So many firsts in one night, for all the times you’d slept together in the past you had never kissed or held hands. He tugs you gently out of the club as you pound the rest of my drink and leave it on the bar.

The night air is cool and brisk, but it still isn’t enough to sober you up completely. Thankfully it’s a short walk. You kick off your heels, your feet pressing against the dirty pavement. You had put on stockings under your dress to beat the cold, so they provide a thin barrier but nothing that actually will keep you clean. You are a bit of a messy person anyway, Hobie knew that.

Hobie’s mind is racing as he walks out of the club with you, your fingers looped with his own. He’s trying to decide what to say and do as he walks beside you. He can see you kicking off your heels and stepping on the cold pavement with your barely covered feet; a part of him wants to tell you to be careful, but he doesn’t, he can’t. He's too deep in his mind, he’s past the point of making rational decisions. He’s too far gone.

Hobie guides you back to the apartment, walking at a slower pace so you can keep up. “Wow, no telling me to be careful?” you tease softly as you walk, the breeze whipping your hair and dress around. You’re on cloud nine, the feeling of Hobie’s fingers laced with yours feeling like victory.

He bites his lip to stop himself from telling you to be careful; he wants, no, he desires to tell you how much he cares for you. He wants to say all the words that are dancing on his tongue. The words he’s been dying to say to you.

He wants this moment to never end. He just wants to stand right here, right beside you, with your fingers laced into his.

But he doesn’t do anything. He’s scared, scared he’ll mess something up. Scared that you don’t see him that way.

“Hobie,” you whine softly, recognizing that look on his face as he spirals into his thoughts. You stop walking, even when he softly tugs your hand. He turns to you, his brow furrowed in confusion.

You reach up, tapping your fingertips in the center of his forehead. “You’re stuck up here, come be with me,” you whisper, your words slurring a touch as you do.

His heart skips a beat when you tap your fingers to the center of his forehead. You might as well have just hit him with a defibrillator, Hobie’s entire body jolts with surprise.

He looks down at you with eyes wide. It takes him a moment to process what’s just happened. “Huh?” he asks, his voice barely more than a hushed whisper. He feels like he’s on a bad first date; he has no idea what the right move is and is almost afraid to make any move at all.

You smile at his confusion. “Good, you’re back.” You start walking again, this time you take the lead as you zigzag drunkenly to your apartment. Your black strappy heels dangle from the hand that isn’t holding Hobie’s. “You haven’t said a word since you whisked me away from the club,” you say, looking at him over your shoulder momentarily before continuing to walk. Your feet were starting to feel the cold.

“I… uh…” Hobie takes a long, deep breath before he continues, “I don’t know if I should say anything.”

He glances down at your bare feet and frowns. “Your feet are going to be cold,” he mumbles before he looks up at you again. “Should I say anything?” He asks again, “Or… should I keep my mouth shut?”

You have no idea how much he’s dying to say something to you. He’s so close, he’s practically begging you to give him the push.

“Hobie, I never want you to keep your mouth shut,” you say, stating it as if it’s an obvious fact. You can see your building approaching at the end of the block.

His angular features bloom with surprise at your answer and he can barely hold in the smile that’s trying to break out on his face. “Okay… okay good. Glad to hear it.” He swallows in lieu of saying anything else.

Your apartment is so close, he’s tempted to rush to get there. He’s trying to distract himself by finding something else to talk about. Anything else but his own feelings.

“Where’d you get that dress? It’s beautiful on you.”

You snort softly, “you don’t remember? We went shopping together. You bought your Dead Kennedys patch that day.” You look up at Hobie’s face, still walking a little ahead of him. You hope your eyes convey what you’re wanting them to, the alcohol still feels like it’s setting you on fire.

Hobie is about to say yes, he remembers without even recalling the memory before he remembers what happened that day a few weeks ago. It feels like something out of a dream, a distant fantasy. He remembers having you pressed into the corner of the dressing room with a hand over your mouth, but not the dress you bought.

His eyes dip to study the pavement, his voice slightly deeper than it usually is. “I remember.”

He can’t help it. The thoughts have been brewing in his gut, making his stomach ache like a sore tooth. He’s sick of waiting and wants to just get over it.

“I’m in love with you,” he tells you, his voice barely above a whisper.

His voice is almost quieter than the wind, but you hear it. You nearly stumble before turning to face Hobie. The excitement is there, your heart feels like it’s leaping out of your chest. Your brain short circuits as it processes what he said, not sure what to do with the information. You finally manage to spit out: “I’m in love with you, too.” Albeit you’re much louder than he is.

Hobie looks almost overwhelmed by your response and he opens his mouth to say something and closes it again. His heart skips a beat and the words that were about to cross his lips are long lost to the wind.

“You’re in love with me?” he asks, his voice still barely above a whisper, “like… in love with me?”

“Yeah, Hobie. Wasn’t it obvious?” you say, fidgeting with the heels you were still carrying.

He’s silent for a moment, trying to take in what you’re saying. “No,” he responds, “it- it wasn’t.”

“I just—“ he starts before he shakes his head. Words are failing him and it’s getting on his nerves. He doesn’t want to say anything stupid.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Look, this is going to sound dumb, and I’m only asking because I have to know…” he pauses and swallows, his eyes trained and focused on yours, “… can I kiss you?”

“Didn’t you kiss me already… at the club? As my birthday present?” you ask in a teasing tone, stepping closer to Hobie on the sidewalk. His sweet nature makes you smile widely. Your feet are borderline hypothermic but you don’t care, you won’t dare ruin this moment.

It takes all of his willpower to not lean forward and press his lips to yours. He can feel his heart thumping hard in his chest, like it’s fighting to tear itself out of his ribcage, desperate for freedom.

“I want to kiss you again. Just one more time. Just for me.” He looks at you with pleading eyes, trying to tell you with a look what he’s unable to in words.

“Well it better not be our last time kissing, Hobie Brown,” you say, reaching up and curling your hand around the collar of his shirt. Where he is shy, the alcohol in your system makes you bold. You yank him down, stretching on your frozen tiptoes to press your lips to his.

Hobie’s body jolts in surprise but it doesn’t stop him from leaning into the kiss. He wraps his arms around your back and presses closer to you, his body shivering in response.

Your lips are cold, but they send sparks through his entire body, causing his fingers to clench around you with a strength he didn’t know he had. His lips move against yours with passion, he’s unable to control himself. It’s you. It’s always been you for him.

You pull away after a few moments, grinning at him. “Now can we get back to the apartment before they have to amputate my feet due to hypothermia?” you ask, “I promise there’s more kisses for you there.” Your gaze flickers over his face. You feel electric, the song and dance you two have done for the past years settling into something new.

Hobie smiles back at you before he glances down at your feet. The skin looks like it could be frost bitten and numb already.

“We really should get you inside,” he says, “you can warm up your cheeks and feet.”

He turns and starts walking forward, but then he pauses again and turns to face you. His eyes drift down to your lips before he leans toward you once again, but this time it’s not a slow, romantic kiss—it’s a desperate one. And he’s not stopping at your lips.

“Hobie!” you exclaim as he kisses from your lips down your neck all the way to your collarbone. “Now if I freeze out here on my birthday I’m blaming you!”

"I take responsibility," he breathes against your neck before he plants kisses along your shoulder, "because this will be the best birthday you've ever had." His hands travel along your hips before he gently pulls you into him.

Your body is finally warmed by the heat of his lips and he holds you, his fingertips tracing the curve of your hip and lower back. He's so lost in the moment he nearly forgets to breathe.

"It's all I want for you," he tells you again and again, his lips moving to your collar bone and throat.

Someone in a car driving by wolf whistles, making you part. You’re shivering as you look at each other as though you were seeing each other for the first time. Your teeth chatter in the wind. When you put on this outfit you had imagined taking a cab home after the party.

Hobie glances over his shoulder at the driver who catcalls you and he rolls his eyes. "Come on," he urges, "your feet can still freeze, let's get you in."

He wraps his arm around you as he walks, his fingertips pressing gently against your skin and trying to warm you up. Your hair whips against you and you can still feel the warmth of his lips on your skin. His other hand rests at your side, close enough for you to take if you wanted.

You do, your other hand holding your shoes as you finally climb the steps to the apartment. Hobie pulls out his keys swiftly and unlocks the door in a fluid motion. The heat from inside makes you sigh contentedly.

He leads you inside, and as soon as the door closes behind you, the cold is gone. A rush of warm air hits you, almost like stepping outside after being on a plane.

He closes the door and locks it behind you. “Thank God,” he mutters, “I was afraid you’d freeze your feet to the sidewalk.” His eyes drift down to your shoes and he sighs. “Go put them in your room.”

He gestures toward the door but doesn’t say another word. Instead, he watches you, his eyes glued to your movements.

Usually, you’re combative when drunk, but something about the affection in his voice makes you listen. You briefly look at yourself in the mirror. You look a little worse for wear, your hair is a little tangled and your makeup is smudged. You wipe some from under your eyes and try to untangle the bigger knots before going back into the living room.

Hobie waits for you in the living room, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 2 a.m. and he’s exhausted, but his heart is too full for him to sleep. You come back looking like a drunk mess which would usually make him laugh, but he’s too lost in you.

He’s still staring at you, his dark eyes studying you and finding everything about you that he thinks is beautiful.

“Help me unzip my dress,” you say to him quietly, turning and pulling your hair over your shoulders. You have the soft, stolen t-shirt of his in your hand. You’re aching to put it on.

Hobie doesn’t say a word, he just takes himself over to you, stands behind you, and starts unzipping your dress. The fabric slips down your back, exposing the skin of your shoulders. Your hair drapes over your back, still damp with sweat and alcohol. He takes in your beauty.

He smiles at you again as he pulls the dress down your arms. When he finishes, you stand in nothing but your bra and underwear and he looks a little flushed. “I think you might want something a little warmer,” he says, his tone light and teasing.

You roll your eyes, pulling Hobie’s large t-shirt over your head. Plus it wasn’t like anything under your dress was new to Hobie. “You are such a momma hen,” you say to him, turning around with a smile. The contrast is interesting. There is still glitter all over your body and your hair is still curled as you wore his faded, ratty t-shirt that really should have been tossed.

You’re an absolute mess and he can’t help but stare at you. In that moment he realizes just how hard he falls for you, and for the first time in his life, he’s not afraid to fall.

“You’re drunk,” he says with a chuckle.

“I know,” you say, laughing back. “I probably look like a crazy person.” You run a hand through your hair, getting stuck at a knot, “hopefully you’re still attracted to me.”

His eyes light up when you say that and he shakes his head. “I’m very attracted to you,” he replies, his tone flirtatious and playful.

He reaches out and pulls you into him, embracing you tightly. You feel his warmth through his T-shirt. “I’m more than attracted to you. You’ve taken up residence in my head.” He kisses your cheek before he pulls away, smiling again.

The alcohol is starting to wear off and he’s starting to notice you shiver again. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

You nod complacently, surprised when he starts pulling you to his room. All the times you’d slept together in the last had been in your bed. You can’t even remember a time you had been inside his room.

He pauses outside the door and turns to you, his voice quieter than before.

“I need you to know something, and I don’t want you leaving this room until you do.”

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, you can see how much this moment means to him.

“You’re more than just my roommate.” Your name falls softly from his lips, his accent curling around it like a blanket. His eyes hold yours, almost like he can see your soul. “You’re everything that’s worth fighting for, every day that makes the world better, every beautiful moment, every laugh. You… you are my home.”

You feel too many emotions flood your mind as you look up at him. “God, I wish I wasn’t drunk right now so I could think of something beautiful to say to you,” you say, laughing softly.

“I do love you Hobes, I have for years.”

He smiles at you as you laugh. You look so beautiful, so amazing to him. And you don’t even need to say anything for him to know what you feel.

He pulls you inside his room, closes the door, and sits down on his bed. His hands are on your chin, his fingers tracing the contours of your mouth. Your eyes, your cheeks. He releases you to stand in the center of his bedroom. You are looking around his room, taking in all of the things that make Hobie Hobie. He has two guitars mounted on the wall, there’s some laundry on the floor. His walls are littered with posters and paint and memorabilia, and he has two large bookshelves on the side of this room that are nearly full.

“Come here,” he rasps. “I want to kiss you.” His voice brings you back to the present as you make your way toward him, standing between his legs as he sits on his unmade bed.

He can see the spark of excitement in your eyes as he guides you to stand between his legs. Your face is at the perfect height for him to kiss you again. He lifts your chin and pulls you close. Hobie’s hands travel over your back and shoulders, the backs of his fingers trailing along your skin.

“Close your eyes,” he sighs, his voice hoarse, and his mouth collides with yours, soft, gentle, and eager. He holds you close, embracing you like his life depends on it. You interlock your fingers behind the nape of his neck to ground yourself with touch. The kiss is needier, your teeth knocking with his on occasion as his nose presses along yours. The ring through his nostril is cold, tickling you occasionally.

“God, I love you so much,” he says into you. The few shots of alcohol have worn off and the words spill out of him so quickly.

The glitter shimmers on your skin and the light from his lamp caresses your body. Hobie breaks the kiss and gazes at you, his lips still tasting like yours.

You open your eyes as he pulls away, a smile blooming on your face. The alcohol is still strong in you; if anything, its warmth has worn off but the buzzing in your head still continues. You nuzzle into his neck, pressing your cold nose to his skin. “I love you, Hobie.”

He runs his fingers along your arm, his touch gentle and loving. He leans back and looks at you as he rests his weight on his hands.

“Can I ask you something?” He raises a brow, “and I mean really ask you something?” He sounds nervous, anxious.

“Yeah,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek at the tone of his voice. You feel your brows knit together in concern as you look up at him, my ears still ringing from the nightclub.

“What are we?” He looks at you, still nervous but determined. You may have had some drinks but your eyes are bright and focused on him.

“Like—“ he swallows back the lump in his throat before he speaks again. “What are we doing? Are we friends? Are we something more? Are we even in this at all?” He laughs nervously, looking away.

“You’ve gotta be the one to make that choice, Hobie,” you say softly, your brows still pinched together as you look at him. “The last time this happened…” tears well in your eyes as you think about it, the alcohol bringing the emotions to the surface. “You shut me down. Said you didn’t like labels or consistency. So now you have to choose.”

Hobie swallows hard as your eyes well up with tears. You look so beautiful in that moment, the alcohol on your skin sparkling in the light from the bedside lamp.

Hobie hooks his hands under the backs of your knees and pulls you to his lap in a surprising show of strength. His calloused fingers wipe your tears away, and part of you knows if your makeup wasn’t ruined before it definitely is now. “If you’re gonna break my heart, you may as well do it now,” you whisper, laughing softly through the tears. The ridiculousness of the situation gets to you.

Hobie laughs aloud, relieved to see you laugh. “Darling, there’s no way in hell I could ever break your heart.”

He looks at you, his eyes holding yours, his fingertips caressing your skin. “I’m in love with you.” His eyes dance with moonlight slotting through his window. “I can’t promise you the world. What I can promise you is that when I walk out the door, I’ll come back to you, because you’re home to me.”

“Promise?” you whisper, holding up your pinky for him to take. Pinky promises are stupid, but you are a strong believer in them. Hobie knows that.

Hobie chuckles and he holds up his pinky, intertwining his finger with yours. His hands are rough from playing the guitar, but his touch is soft and gentle right now.

"I promise."

He pulls you into him, his arms wrapped around your body. "No matter what, I’ll find my way back to you. You’re everything that I’ve ever wanted and... you make me happy."

You bury your face in his chest, nodding as my fingers tangle in the ripped shirt Hobie wore. He smells so comforting, like sandalwood and cinnamon. You fit together perfectly, your bodies curved together and your cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

He rests his head atop yours, his arms still curled around you. The two of you sit on the bed, and he can feel the warmth of your body spread through his fingers.

You try to stifle a small yawn, hoping Hobie didn’t hear it. You just wanted to keep talking with him. This all felt like a dream, you being in his room, in his bed. You worry that tomorrow you’ll wake up and you will go back to being roommates like none of this ever happened.

“Oh, I felt that yawn,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy. “C’mon, you can tell me everything tomorrow.”

He tucks his arms around you again and shifts his weight, rolling you to him so he’s now in the big spoon position.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Goodnight,” you hear him whisper your name softly as you drift off.

He’s content to just hold you in his bed all night. As you sleep, his breathing softens and his hand rests on your hip.

#hobie brown x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #hobie brown fanfiction #reader insert #afab reader #hobie brown x you #modern au #atsv fanfiction #spider punk #hobie brown fluff #hobie brown x fem!reader

69 notes · View notes

dameronscopilot · 1 year

Note

Not that you have to give me more content but just an FYI, DBF Santi still haunts me okay thanks love u bye

hi ily here's an unhinged filthy little thanksgiving present xoxo!!

cut the brakes

Dad’s Best Friend!Santiago “Pope” Garcia x f!reader

Summary: The turkey isn’t the only thing getting stuffed this year when you come home for Thanksgiving.

Word Count: 3k

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Content: NSFW, smut, DAD'S BEST FRIEND SANTIAGO, implied age gap (reader is of age), stuffed for Thanksgiving!, dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, mention of oral sex (m!receiving)

Shivering outside in the crisp November air, you gritted your teeth at the feeling of the light drizzle of rain falling from the sky. Couldn’t it at least be snow? You tucked your hands further into the long sleeves of your knitted dress—you’d be fucking damned if you had to march back up to the door of your shitty boyfriend’s house to say you forgot your jacket. No, you’d rather freeze.

At the sight of a familiar black pick up truck rounding the corner at the end of the street, your heart lurched in your chest. There was no fucking way.

And yet, clearly there was, because to your complete and total surprise, when the truck came to a stop beside the curb, Santiago Garcia stepped out from the driver’s side.

Santiago Garcia, the object of far too many of your wet dreams over the years. Wildly inappropriate dreams, given the fact that the man currently standing in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets and a lopsided grin on his face was your dad’s best friend.

In an attempt to avoid busy holiday weekend traffic on the roads, you’d opted to take the train instead to come home for Thanksgiving. And while the initial plan was to spend the early afternoon with your boyfriend’s family before the two of you headed to your dad’s place, a nasty argument had thrown a wrench into the day.

When you’d called your dad and asked him if he could swing by to grab you, it sounded like he’d already had a few drinks, so you assumed one of your uncles or cousins would be pulling up. Not him.

The last time you saw Santiago was at a barbecue at his house shortly before you moved out years ago—after finishing your degree at a local university, you’d chosen an out-of-town grad school. The late summer evening had found you with just enough alcohol buzzing in your veins to corner him in the hallway inside, at which point all of the furtive glances and suggestive conversation building up between the two of you came to a head in a heated, messy, desperate kiss.

A kiss that Santiago quickly stopped between one heartbeat and the next, hands placed firmly on your shoulders as he took in your drunken state.

“Not like this,” he’d said roughly, shaking his head as he led you into the kitchen and poured you a cold glass of water.

You’d left the following week, and you hadn’t spoken to him since. Despite the amount of time he normally spent at your dad’s house, you’d somehow managed not to run into him on any of your trips home in the years since.

Until now.

You face burned in embarrassment as he approached you, and you glanced down at your feet.

“Where’s your jacket?”

Although you knew he was standing there, you still startled at the sound of his voice, and you awkwardly gestured back toward the house behind you.

Santi quirked an eyebrow and shrugged off his dark blue bomber jacket, draping it over your shoulders as he lightly rested a hand against the middle of your back and led you over to the truck, opening the passenger side door for you. You tried not to make it too obvious as you inhaled the scent of his cologne that was wrapped around you.

As he pulled back out onto the road, the cab of the truck was quiet save for the rumble of the engine, the occasional squeak of the windshield wipers, and the lulling pitter patter of raindrops outside.

When a few minutes had passed, Santiago finally broke the silence, “So what happened?”

You shrugged, “We got into an argument.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my relationship problems.”

A huff of laughter left Santi’s lips. “We’ve got a half hour drive, try me.”

And so you sighed, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window and recounting the fight. An unfortunate series of events had led you to finally confront your suspicions that your boyfriend was cheating on you shortly after you arrived at his house, at which point he’d erupted into an avalanche of gaslighting—going so far as to blame you for living too far away. He’d punctuated the whole thing with an off-handed remark about how pathetic it was that you’d clearly tried so hard to dress up for dinner to the point where you looked ridiculous…and so you’d grabbed your purse and stormed out of his house before the food had even hit the table.

You looked at your distorted reflection in the wet side view mirror, frowning. Boots, stockings, and a cozy cable knit dress didn’t seem that out of place for Thanksgiving, but you sure felt pathetic either way as you flipped down the visor mirror, hastily wiping the corner of your eye where your mascara had protested against the tears that had strewn down your cheeks earlier.

“You look great.”

“What?” Although you had been talking to him, you’d somehow gotten lost in your own thoughts as you finished telling Santiago what happened.

You turned to find Santi staring at you as he came to a stop at a red light, and the weight of his gaze was heavy as he repeated himself, “You look great. Fuck your stupid boyfriend.”

—

Despite the fact that you found yourself wholly occupied in the hours that passed after you arrived at your dad’s, several family members taking turns catching up with you to ask about work and your studies, you were buzzing with a constant, palpable awareness of Santiago’s presence in the house.

More than once, you found yourself entirely distracted mid-conversation as you heard the rumbling sound of his laughter from across the room, your heart leaping at the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he threw his head back.

Although he kept his distance, eventually you saw him wander into the kitchen out of the corner of your eye as you opened the oven, bending down to baste the turkey. When you squeezed the bulb of the blaster, you swore you heard Santiago choke, but when you turned around, he was gone.

And perhaps it was a bit over the top, but when he walked by you in the hallway a bit later with a slice of pumpkin pie on a plate, you darted a finger out and swiped a dollop of whipped cream off of it before you could stop yourself. His eyes widened a fraction, and his jaw ticked; he looked like he wanted to say something, but at the sound of your father’s voice calling out to him from living room, he swiftly turned on his heel and kept walking.

You didn’t find Santiago alone again until later, once some guests had begun to leave and the rest were strewn about the living room cheering and groaning as they watched the football game. Slipping his jacket back on, you quietly slid open the patio door that he had walked out through a few minutes earlier.

Eyes scanning the dark backyard, you eventually saw the dull, orange glow of a cigarette off in the corner. You strode over to find Santiago sitting with his legs spread wide as he leaned back in a chair, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Hey.”

The corner of his mouth turned up slightly as you approached, and he dropped the small white stick to the ground, crushing it under his foot.

“Hey.”

The toes of your shoes nudged against his as you came to a stop in front of him.

“Your idiot boyfriend call you to apologize yet?”

You crossed your arms, briefly glancing up at the collection of stars littering the sky. “Nah, I think it’s over.”

Santi nodded, biting his lip. “That’s good.”

You stepped closer, coming to stand between his spread thighs. “Yeah,” you agreed.

Suddenly remembering the guise you’d come outside under in the first place, you began to shrug the jacket off of your shoulders as you explained, “Figured you might want this back.”

Santi sat up and reached out to pull the jacket back up over your shoulders. “I’m fine, you wear it.”

You fought the urge to grab his hands as his fingertips briefly brushed across the bare skin of your chest exposed by the dip in the front of your dress.

“Aren’t you cold?” you asked, bouncing your weight from foot to foot as you began to wish you’d worn thicker stockings.

“I’ve been colder,” he responded matter-of-factly, an assessing look in his eyes as he gazed up at you, running a hand over the stubble on his chin.

Before you could think better of it, you shot a look over your shoulder at the dark windows in the kitchen before climbing right into Santiago’s lap, leaving your legs to hang off of the sides of the chair as you straddled him.

“Does this help?” you asked, voice far more even than it should have been, given the way your heart was rapidly beating in your chest.

Santi’s breath hitched in his throat as he tentatively brought his hands up to rest at your waist.

“Dios mío,” he muttered under his breath. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He was right. You shouldn’t. You were so fucking stu—

But as you went to stand back up, Santi’s fingers dug firmly into your hips. “I said we shouldn’t. Not that I don’t want to.”

Oh.

Something heady fluttered in your chest.

“Kiss me then,” you breathed out.

And Santiago didn’t hesitate to cup the back of your head, closing the distance between your mouths as he crashed his lips into yours.

While your first kiss was lost in a haze of desperation, there was a heated, focused purpose now in the way Santi’s mouth melted against yours, one that left you dizzy as he tugged your bottom lip into his mouth.

When he licked his way across the seam of your mouth, you parted your lips, and you couldn’t help but arch your entire body into his at the possessive way his tongue claimed yours. Even with the chill, heat radiated off of his body and seeped into yours as you rolled your hips against him, and Santi moaned into the kiss at the feeling of your hot core pressing down on his growing erection.

You rocked into him again, whining at the pleasure that crept up your spine at the pressure of his hard shaft insistently prodding your sensitive bundle of nerves.

Santi’s lips detached from yours, and he grasped your left hand, bringing it up to his face. He stared at you as he pressed pointed kisses to the tips of your fingers and asked, “Are you sure you want this?”

Your heart swooped as he drug his lips down the inside of your fingers, stopping to mouth at the center of your palm. He brushed his tongue across your skin before pressing a searing kiss there, looking up at you once more.

“Yes.”

As soon as the words left your lips, Santi’s hands were pushing up the edges of your dress, but he faltered momentarily as he considered your tights. But before you could get up to take them off, he reached into his pocket, flourishing a pocket knife.

Jesus Christ.

You hadn’t woken up today expecting to find yourself tucked into a dark corner of your dad’s backyard, cunt gushing with arousal at the sight of Santiago fucking Garcia cutting a hole in your tights with a goddamn pocket knife. And yet here you were, whimpering and panting as he hastily shoved the knife back in his pocket and engulfed your lips yet again, kissing you deeply as he hooked a thumb in your underwear and drug a finger through your sopping wet folds.

“So fucking wet,” Santi’s voice was rough as he observed how needy you were for him. He had no idea.

Bucking into the feeling of his fingers dragging through your tight channel as he licked his way inside of your mouth, your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his pants. When you finally pulled his thick cock from the confines of his pants, wrapping your hands around it, Santiago moaned huskily into the kiss.

As you began to pump his shaft, Santi pulled away for a moment. “I don’t have a—“

After briefly assuring him that you had an IUD and confirming both of you were clean, you swore you felt Santi’s length stiffen even further in the grip of your fingers as you whined, “Wanna feel you inside of me, Santiago. Please.”

Santi curled the two fingers currently buried in your cunt, and you gasped, squirming in his lap.

“Cariño, you’re so fucking tight. Don’t know if my fat cock is going to fit in your pretty little pussy,” he leaned in to whisper into your ear.

Heat coiled in your gut as his thumb pressed against your throbbing clit. “Fucking stuff it in there, Santi. Fill me up, please. I don’t care. Make it fit. I need you so bad,” you whimpered.

Santi reached between you to take his shaft in one hand, and you lifted yourself so he could line his head up with your slick entrance. At the feeling of his head notched against your fluttering hole, you began to sink down onto him, slowly easing his cock inside of you.

“Just tell me if it hurts,” he said.

“I want it to hurt,” you panted out.

Santi cursed, burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, mouthing at your neck as you both moaned in unison. Your legs trembled as his wide girth split you open, sliding through the thick pool of arousal coating your narrow channel.

“You feel so fucking good, baby. Taking me so fuckin’ good.” Santi groaned, chest heaving as he bottomed out inside of you.

You slowly began to rock your hips, skin prickling at the delicious drag of his length through your sensitive inner walls, your cunt greedily clamping down on the thick intrusion.

“Wanted you for so long, Santi,” you panted as he left a trail of hot kisses up your neck, dragging his lips across the curve of your jaw before claiming your mouth again.

“Don’t think your boyfriend would like to hear that,” Santi said against your lips, nipping at them.

“Ex-boyfriend,” you clarified, writhing as he brought a hand down to toy with your clit.

“Gonna make you forget all about him when you come all over my cock,” Santi growled.

“I used to think about you when he was fucking me,” you admitted, one hand clutching Santiago’s shoulder and the other threaded into his hair.

“Fuck.” Santi moaned, lavishing your mouth with a hungry, bruising kiss. “Was gonna sneak you out of here and over to my place tonight, but you were probably soaking through your panties all night at dinner, huh? Couldn’t wait, so you needed me to fuck you right here in your dad’s backyard?”

Admittedly, this wasn’t your best choice of venue, and you could only hope that the darkness of the yard would give you time to scramble off of his lap should someone step outside. And yet the thought of getting caught sent a thrill of excitement down your spine.

Santi chuckled, feeling the way you clenched down on him in reaction, and the ache between your thighs continued to build as his shaft massaged your inner walls.

He continued, “I think you love the thought that someone might catch me fucking you out here, that someone might see what a good little dirty fucking girl you are, riding my cock like you were made for it.”

If this was the only chance you ever had to fuck Santiago Garcia, let it be known that the memory of his filthy words alone would be enough to get you off until the end of time.

“Harder, Santi,” you pleaded, eager to feel him lose control, to feel the head of his shaft slamming directly into your cervix.

Santiago obliged, hands grasping your hips in a solid, unrelenting grip as he pounded into you with fervor. You shuddered, muscles tightening as the heat pooling in your abdomen finally spilled over, pleasuring rushing through your body in waves. You quivered in his arms as you rode out your intense climax, cunt gushing on his throbbing cock.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Santi’s voice was hushed as he watched you come down from your orgasm and kissed you softly.

As you moved your lips with his, the kiss quickly grew heated again, and Santi increased the pace of his thrusts, You ground down into him, looking down to marvel at the way his cock disappeared into your body each time he sunk back into you.

You felt as his hips began to stutter, and Santi asked, “Where?”

“Inside. Please. Come inside of me, Santi,” you pleaded.

A strangled sound left Santi’s mouth, and he roughly slammed into you, your drenched cunt squelching wetly around his length. You bounced in his lap while the steady rhythm of his thrusts began to dissipate into a desperate frenzy of movement, until finally plunged deep inside of you to the hilt and sunk his teeth into your collarbone, moaning huskily as he filled you with the thick, hot ropes of cum spurting from his cock.

You remained in his lap while he softened inside of you, cum dribbling from your hole as he cupped your face with both hands and pressed his mouth to yours.

He kissed you languidly for a moment before pulling away. “So…is it terrible that all I can think about is driving you back over there to get your jacket so you can walk back into his house with my cum running down your thighs?”

You shivered at the thought. “In that case, it might be all over my lips, too, if I can do what I was thinking about earlier on the drive over here…”

Santi groaned at the thought of having your lips parted around his cock, taking him deep into your throat while his hands tightly gripped the steering wheel.

He pulled his keys out of his pocket with a flourish and grinned.

Part 2 - illicit affair

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» SANTIAGO GARCIA MASTERLIST » OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST

#answers from the cockpit #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfictions #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia smut #dbf!santiago #oscar isaac fanfiction #dee writes

815 notes · View notes

januaryembrs · 1 year

Text

BEST GIRL | Javier Peña x DEA!reader

Request: Congrats on 1k! <3 If I may request a Javier pena x reader, where he insists on taking her home to insure she's safe? Thank you, if this doesn't speak to you, feel free to skip!

description: Javi offers to walk you home when you get stood up on a date.

Word count: 1.4k

trigger warnings: hickeys, mention of a gun, walking home alone, jealousy?

main masterlist

Author’s note: As much as I love doing these singular prompts I keep getting attached to the characters I'm writing and wanting to write fully fledged fits which I don't have time to do. Love the x dea!Reader trope as we all know.

It had all started two weeks ago when you bustled into the office with a hickey on your neck. He’d had a subtle crush on you for the past few months, though he had tried to put it down to lust, but inside Peña knew he was screwed. You were a beautiful woman, smart and witty, amazing at catching narcos. You were possibly the best in the department, at least that’s what it said according to the leaderboard you kept of the number of arrests made this month.

You were in the lead with fifteen, Javi running in close second with thirteen and Steve falling behind at nine. Though in his defence, Carrillo had been grilling him with paperwork to fill out so he didn’t have as much of a chance in the field as the two of you did. But it was clear that when you walked into the office, hair messed and a small purple splotch on your collarbone that your winning total was not the source of your delight.

Sitting at your desk and shoving your handbag under your chair, you moved to make a start on your own paperwork. You felt two sets of eyes burning into your skull, your face flicking up to the offending agents with pride.

“Oh, good morning gentlemen,” Came your smug voice, as if they had been an afterthought in your charm this morning.

“Morning,” Steve murmured, sitting upright in his chair to get a look at your desk, “Where’s your coffee?”

You were a creature of habit, and after working closely for nearly a year with the two men in your unit, they grew to understand that every single morning you brought the same coffee flask, in the same handbag, which you brought to your lips with the same shade of lipstick almost immediately upon entering the building. But today was different, off. Your peachy pink lipstick was nowhere to be seen, a deeper red painted on in its place. And the beverage was missing too.

Javi’s eyes perked up at the distinction in your demeanour, your face going hot at the fact they had known you just that bit too well for you to get away with your little secret.

“Just didn’t fancy it this morning,” You responded, trying to bury your nose into your work. Steve’s pen clattered to his desk in shock. That was certainty new. A job like this meant you had to stuff yourself full to the brim with caffeine if you were to make it through the day.

“No, no,” Javi said suspiciously, “You look different. You only wear red lipstick when we’re going out,” Your eyes shot to his at the remark. An odd warmth spread in your chest when you realised he took notice of your little habits and you hid a scarlet smile at his words.

“Yeah, and your coffee cup is gone because you couldn’t make it the way you like it this morning. Maybe you weren’t home?” Steve finished, raising his eyebrows in an accusation.

You puffed a breath, leaning back in your chair at their interrogation, “Save the questions for the criminals, boys,” They simply stared at you, waiting for an answer. You knew you weren’t wriggling out of this one. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t home last night. I’ve started seeing someone,” You confessed.

“Yeah, we gathered. That hickey on your neck says it all,” Javi teased, though inside he was bitter at the fact he had missed his chance with you. “So when can we meet him?”

Obviously not because Javi wanted to size the guy up or anything. Obviously.

—

Not even three days later, Javi had practically forced you to arrange a double (triple) date with your recent interest.

All you had told them was that his name was Mateo and that he was just so dreamy. He worked at the coffee shop you stopped off on the way home from work (again, getting your fill of caffeine for your guaranteed share of paperwork waiting for you at home). He had been the one to make the move on you, take you out for drinks, kiss you first on his old sofa in the dead of night.

So as the five of you sat in the bar, two drinks down, it made no sense in anyone’s eyes why you were sitting alone.

Steve of course had brought Connie, Javi had brought some girl he owed a second date, Eliza you think her name was. Then there was you.

Mateo was supposed to be here an hour ago, you thought as you wrung your hands in nerves. The conversation flowed nicely as it always did between the three of you. Connie was by far the nicest woman you had ever known, and boy did she give Steve a run for his money with her drink tolerance. And Eliza was nice. She was quiet though, too interested in kissing Javi’s earlobe as he blushed and tried distracting her with something else whether it be shots or a less physical form of affection to keep her away.

She was nice, they all were. But god did you feel like an idiot.

You chugged the remnants of your beer, still glancing at the door in case he made an appearance despite being diabolically late. When there was still no sight of him for a moment, you sighed and stood up from the table. “I’m gonna head home, it’s getting late-”

“You’re leaving?” Connie said, her blue eyes turning sad as she grabbed your wrist kindly, “He still might show up, please don’t go,”

“It’s getting late, I think I’m just going to go home. I have a huge report due for Carrillo by Monday anyway-” You brushed off politely, hating the look of pity everyone sent your way. You were obviously lying, anyone could see you were simply trying to save face over the fact your date had stood you up.

“Y/n, please just wait up, one of us will walk you home,” Steve tried to interject, but you were too fast, already slipping your coat on and stepping away from the table.

“No, it’s fine really. I’m a big girl, I have my badge and gun on me anyway,” You promised, a meek smile clearly masking the embarrassment you felt.

You turned on your heel to head out the door, giving the quartet a small nod goodnight as you left. God, this was pathetic. A woman of your grown age getting stood up on a date still, as if you were a stupid teen chasing an even more childish boy. You willed yourself not to cry out of sheer embarrassment, though your eyes stung with hatred and unshed tears anyway.

That is until you heard your name being called behind you.

“Wait!” You spun around to see Javi speeding to catch up with you, his date left at the table with a new cocktail in her hand and a slightly sour looking face. “Let me take you home,”

“Javier, you’re on a date. I can walk home alone, I’m fine. I don’t need everyone fawning over me-” You started but was cut off when he overtook you and held the door open for you to leave. “Javi!”

“Steve and Connie are taking Eliza home. Come on,” He held his hand out to you leaving no room for an argument. The warmth you felt in the office returned when you saw the way he looked at you, a mixture of pity, pleading and concern in those doe, brown eyes. All for you. “I can’t leave my best girl to walk home alone, can I?”

Because you knew he would do anything for you. The same way he would for Steve, or anyone else in the department. But something about the way he held his hand out, kind and inviting, as if he needed to take you home just as badly as you needed a shoulder to cry on, made your heart flutter like Mateo and his dreamy pick up lines never had.

You took his hand gently, and he began walking the two of you through the cold Medellin night air, pulling you close with a sigh, “Jackass doesn’t know what he’s missing,”

#javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #javier pena imagine #javier pena fanfiction #narcos season one #narcos x reader #narcos fic #narcos imagine #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #javier pena x dea!reader #dea!reader

1K notes · View notes

chaoticbardlady99 · 6 months

Text

Lethal Woman (GN! Reader x Astarion) Chapter 2

Title is inspired by the song Dove Cameron sings. The picture of Astarion is is by @aristenfromwarsaw on Tumblr. Nightmask and Astarion’s tattoo are off the internet, the picture of Rowan is from my PlayStation lol!

Background- You are a Nightmask Death Bringer who was kidnapped by a Nautiloid Ship. Along with 6 strangers, you look for a solution to getting the unwanted tenants in your heads.

Trigger Warnings: Violence, death, mentions of abuse

Story begins in Act 1

(Sorry guys, it's kinda long)

Chapter Two- Astarion

Chapter Three

Blinking awake, Astarion jumps up from the ground in a panic- finding the nearest rock to hide behind. Astarion takes inventory of himself, looking for signs of burning or other injuries. Except… Astarion didn’t feel any burning at all. In fact, he can feel the sun and it feels good. Astarion steps out from the shadows with the anticipation of being burned alive, but again, nothing happens. Astarion feels a massive grin spread across his face. No Cazador. No burning.

It is a miracle and he has the Mind Flayer of all beings to thank for it.

Shadowheart had come across him first as he stood on the beach. She had seen past his false guise and there was a brief tumble between the two before they ultimately came to an understanding. They both had a tadpole in their heads and they both wanted it out of their heads. Astarion hadn’t felt that way at first, but becoming an ugly, tentacled creature wasn’t on his immortal agenda.

Slowly their group became bigger. An unremarkable wizard named Gale joined after Shadowheart so graciously pulled him out of his portal. Then there was Lae’zel, who just barely made the cut (Astarion and Gale had managed to convince Shadowheart that Lae’zel was a valuable asset despite all her bitching). Last, but not least, they played “hero” outside of the Druid’s Grove and met the “Mighty” Blade of Frontiers.

Zevlor had asked Shadowheart if she would assist him in convincing Kagha not to force the Tiefling refugees out. Shadowheart had looked back at Lae’zell wearily before turning back to Zevlor.

“Unfortunately, it’s going to have to wait. We are still looking for one more person from the Nautiloid crash. Their name is Rowan- they haven't happened to come through here have they?”

As Zevlor and Shadowheart talked, Astarion pondered over Shadowheart’s insistence to find them. Astarion could hardly understand Shadowheart’s infatuation with this “Rowan”.

You’re obsessed because she saved you? He scoffed before thinking, pathetic. That is how thralls are made.

However, now that Wyll had led them to this “Devil” he was searching for, Astarion understood the infatuation.

A clash of swords hit the air on The Risen Road. A scream of terror causes Astarion to stop in his tracks as a man comes clambering out of the wood building, tripping over his own feet as he looks behind him in fear. The group takes cover in the nearby brush to avoid detection.

Before any of them could even blink, they watch the individual he is running from emerge from the entrance. They wore black, thick leather rogue armor that hugs their figure- accentuating their feminine silhouette. Their legs are covered in strapped in throwing knives. They hold a short sword and a dagger as they unhurriedly approach the man who is scrambling on the ground. However, the most unsettling part of the person’s armor is the slate black mask with eye holes and a mouth. Eyes glowing red, they menacingly watch their prey through the mask.

“Please! I’m begging you! I- I’ll leave and,” the mysterious stranger tilts their head to the side as the man begs and lets out a slow melodic laugh. The man’s body becomes shaken with a sobs, “please! I don’t want to die.”

“Well Anders,” they say, “maybe you should have thought about that before you attempted to kidnap my companion.”

The man, Anders, goes to speak, but the words die on his lips as your dagger goes straight through his mouth, piercing the back of his throat, and severing the connections between his spinal cord and his brain. Astarion hears Gale take a sharp breath next to him. The man slumps over and the Masked figure takes their dagger out of Anders’ mouth- wiping the blood off in the grass.

After cleaning their dagger, they stand up and take of their mask.. Their eyes went from a bright, crimson to reveal a completely different color- natural and beautiful. Their ponytail is caked in blood and sweat- falling out of its knot in tiny pieces. If they hadn’t just stabbed a man straight through the mouth with the same terrifying eyes of his master- he would describe their appearance as ethereal.

“That’s Rowan!” Shadow Heart whispers.

Gale looks at Shadow Heart as if he is trying to determine if it’s a joke or not. When Shadow Heart doesn’t show any sign of sarcasm, he looks at her with a touch of fear in his eyes.

“You were saved by a Night mask Deathbringer?” Gale says in disbelief, a hint of poison in his voice.

Interesting. Astarion thinks, I wonder if a Nightmask Deathbringer is similar to a Bhaal Deathbringer.

Astarion has very limited knowledge on Deathbringers, seeing as they weren’t the kind of people you wanted to associate yourself with as a Magistrate. Well, and Bhaal Deathbringers were not necessarily known for their kindness or restraint- killing anyone who so much as looks at them funny.

No, you were different- composed and methodical. He admires your handiwork with the dagger- quick and to the point. He can appreciate that.

“I AM NEVER GOING BACK!”

BOOM!

The whole party seems to jump at the sudden noise and he watches as you whip around on your heels. You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“She couldn’t wait like five minutes for me to loot the place?!” You say before pinching the bridge of your nose.

CRASH!

You groan out loud and Astarion flinches as another loud CRASH followed by more flames comes from the building. The destruction continues for another minute until a tall, crimson Tiefling comes out of the building. One horn broken, one horn intact.

“Karlach,” Wyll hisses,”your ‘friend’ is working with Karlach.”

Lae’zel puts her sword out to prevent Wyll from sneaking forward. Lae’zel glares at him.

“Careful, ishtik. They are deadly, but a valuable ally.”

Shadow Heart nods in agreement, “We can’t attack them. We should approach them at their camp. Maybe we can reason with them and then we can fight Karlach together.”

“We don’t even know where their camp is,” Gale says, “we would need to be tracking them and not to be rude, but we certainly aren’t the quietest bunch.”

Astarion perks up- it’s his time to shine.

“No worries,” he states, “I’ll track them and find their camp.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Despite the groups’ reluctance, Astarion was able to track down your camp. You weren’t there, but Karlach was loudly singing while setting up her tent. After getting back to camp, they all mutually agreed to go back at sunset to confront them.

Astarion walks alongside Shadow Heart, offering up some harmless flirting. She asks him about his current “relationship” status, he offers an ingenious response, and she rolls her eyes, annoyed.

“This is what I get for trying,” She sighs.

Astarion rolls his own eyes. Shadow Heart is alluring, but Gods does she have a stick up her ass. He felt like saying he “prefers savory” was funny.

The entire group had decided to go so that, if it came to a fight, you and Karlach would be outnumbered. Astarion argued that he didn’t think it would matter and you would be able to kill them all by yourself. Everyone nervously looked at each other, refusing to entertain the idea that their journey could be coming to a quick, short end. Astarion was very interested in seeing where this rendezvous goes. He has a good feeling. Wyll suddenly puts his hand up to signal for silence. One-by-one, each of his companions creep towards the clearing and peer through the brush.

“Remember that we are here to talk first” Shadow Heart curtly says to Wyll, “we don’t know if they know Karlach is a Devil. They could turn against her.”

“As long as they don’t mess with the blade, they won’t feel the sting.” Wyll says under his breath.

If Astarion was capable of puking, that would have been his cue. Except he was rather busy studying you. Your face being reflected by the fire made you look soft- a stark contrast to the version of you he saw earlier. You have delicate features with scars wrapping around your neck- one of the scars crawling along your face under your left eye. Your hair is in a ponytail with your bangs braided into the rest of your hair- blood and dirt free. The color of your hair is earthy and bright. Your laughter echoes like wind chimes in his ears and he finds himself pitching forward to hear more. Your body is strong, healthy, and lean- your strength evident under your worn camp clothes.

You are beautiful, but your body language suggests that you think otherwise. Your posture suggests a lack of self-esteem and the way you seem to try to cave into yourself tells him you are shy. Maybe even painfully so. This would be easy. He didn’t even need instincts for this- it was Seduction and Manipulation 101.

Well, well, well, I may just be the luckiest Spawn after all.

Astarion is in need of powerful allies- you just happen to meet that need. It would be easy to seduce you with honeyed words and attention. He knows that his condition may eventually be found out and he would need someone to defend him. Not to mention that his sociopathic master is probably searching for him- his master’s favorite toy. He winces at his thoughts and tries to refocus on what he can do to get rid of these obstacles. His brain begins to formulate a plan- the same “plan” he’s used for the last two centuries.

Seduce them, sleep with them, manipulate their feelings, he thinks.

He smirks to himself.. This was child’s play. After he manipulates you into helping him get rid of Cazador and this tadpole, he would discard you and live his life as a free man. He would never be tortured, oppressed, or violated ever again.

Gale interrupts Astarion’s thoughts with a pointed question at Wyll.

“Wyll… I am pretty sure Karlach is a Tiefling.”

Wyll turns around and stares Gale down with a look of confusion. His confusion quickly turned into irritation.

“Karlach is a Devil, Gale,” Wyll continues, “my source is very good and is rarely wrong.”

Venom coats Wyll’s voice.

“Testy,” Astarion says with a shit eating grin.“I, for one, think they would both make excellent allies- Devil or not.”

Wyll looks at Astarion with daggers before turning back around to look at the camp. Wyll freezes and reaches for his blade.

Astarion follows his gaze and to his surprise- the camp is empty and the campfire is out.

Suddenly, he watches Wyll hit the ground with a hard thud. Astarion stares in shock (and admittedly, a twisted happiness) as the empty space where Wyll stood was now occupied by you.

Astarion feels a sense of dread for Wyll as you leer down at him with red, glowing eyes.

“Well hello,” You say sweetly, a smile stretching its way across your face with your canines showing.

He feels a shock ripple through his body as your voice hits his ears. Your voice is soft, but fear mongering. Commanding.

“What’s all this about messing with the Sword and getting the Blade,” your smile becomes a tinge malicious, “it appears you aren’t very good at keeping your word. All you have done is bore me.”

Wyll growls and lunged from the ground towards you. You simply side step him, put your foot out, and he trips.

You smile like a cat playing with a mouse.

“Fighting with emotion will never work for youuuuu,” you say in a sing-songey voice.

Wyll getting up off the ground, wheezing, lunges for you again. This time you manage to flip Wyll behind you on his back by using his momentum against him. You laugh heartily, obviously enjoying yourself. Astarion could hardly look away. You could have killed him by now, but you haven’t. As much as he would love to continue to watch you torment the Blade of Frontiers, he is ready to put his plan in action.

“Gods Wyll,” Astarion says with a bored groan, “have you honestly not learned your lesson?”

A chuckle erupts from behind a nearby tree. Karlach comes around the corner and gently puts her hand on your shoulder.

“It’s okay Soldier,” she says with amusement in her voice, “I think he learned his lesson.”

You roll your eyes and attempt to hide a joking smile with a faux pout, “You really aren’t any fun.”

Karlach gives you a wide grin before she looks at Wyll and the rest of the party. Your eyes wander over the party and they stop at him. If you suspect him to be a vampire spawn, you don’t show it. He gives you a charming grin and you lift your eyebrows in amusement- the corner of your mouth tugging upwards.

Let the games begin.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It had taken the entire party to convince Wyll that Karlach wasn’t a devil. Astarion found it ironic that the supposed hero was so quick to blindly follow someone’s orders- and to kill an innocent no less!

Astarion feels exhausted, but he is struggling to sleep after his nightmare. The thirst, the hunger was unbearable, but he is too consumed with figuring out how to get back to Cazador. The panic is settling in his chest. He needs to get back or he is going to be punished severely. He’s broken the rules and he will pay. Flashes of his time in the tomb begin to appear in his mind.

No, I am not going back. I can walk in the sun. He pauses and comes to a realization. He’s already broken two of Cazador’s rules and Cazador hasn’t been able to keep him controlled since the tadpole had been inserted in his brain. What if he can break other rules?

He looks around camp- his eyes settling on your sleeping form. You may empathize with him..

Earlier in the day, he pestered Gale while you and Karlach set up your tents at the bigger groups’ campground. Shadowheart was assisting you both as she talked with you in a hushed tone. Gale, despite his signs of exasperation with every question Astarion asked, explained that a Night Mask Deathbringer is different from the Bhaal Deathbringers that Astarion has read about. You were part vampire, but you aren’t completely undead. Immortal, fast, strong, and just as lethal as a Vampire Spawn. You can drink blood and you can eat food. You can charm or scare a person with a single look and you can use Ghost Step to surprise your “victims' ' as Gale referred to them. Oh, and you could be out in the sun whenever you want. It may not be comfortable for you on a very sunny day, but you won’t burn alive. He had felt so green with envy when Gale described your capabilities. He would do anything to be able to have all the strength of a Vampire Spawn with none of the unwanted side effects. However, Gale told Astarion he does not know how one becomes a Night Mask Deathbringer as it’s a secret rite within the Guild, but the Faceless have to deem you worthy. The heads of the factions within the Guild bring their “Champions” to the Faceless each year and have them fight to the death. The last person standing gets to become a Deathbringer and take orders from the Faceless. When Astarion pushed Gale further about who the Faceless is, he shrugs.

“Honestly, I have no idea. Elminster never told me who the Faceless is, just that he hasn’t been seen since Deathbringers began to appear to enact his will.”

“So basically fake vampires with all the benefits and none of the side effects,” his voice comes out in a sharp hiss.

“Basically.”

Astarion slowly rises from his bed roll and sneaks up to you. He’s quiet as a mouse. He gently put his arms on either side of you, your neck exposed and ready for him. Right when he thinks he’s going to get away with biting you while you are asleep, you wake up with a gasp and your eyes meet him with a confused sleepiness.

“Shit.”

You get up to confront him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead for real this time.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”

You give him an unconvinced look.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just need some… well… blood.” he says sheepishly.

He peers at your face and he sees your glare melt a bit. You are still guarded, but open to hearing him out.

“I feed on animals! Boars, deers, kobolds- whatever I can get. I’m just too slow right now,” He pauses, “too weak.”

You continue to stare at him, so he continues.

“If I just had a little blood I could think clearer. Fight better,” his voice comes out with more emphasis than he wanted it to, “Please.”

He tries not to wince at how desperate he sounds. Your arms uncross and you put your hands on your hip, eyes narrowing while you look at him.

“So you weren’t trying to kill me in the middle of the night?”

Astarion gawks at you, a hint of amusement in your eyes.

“That’s your question?” he hisses in disbelief.

“I knew you were a vampire spawn right away,” You look at him with a wry smile and point to your canines, “fake vampire, remember?”

Astarion mentally face palms and chides himself for maybe inquiring about your condition too loudly.

Of course you would be able to figure out he is a vampire spawn. You are half-vampire yourself and you heard him bitterly call you a fake vampire.

You sit back down on your bed roll and sweep your hair away from your neck. He stares at you with confusion and wide eyes.

Are you…? No it can’t…. Possibly be this easy?

“Well come on, aren’t you going to drink?”

#astarion x reader #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate fanart #astarion x you #astarion romance #vampire #baldur's gate iii #fanfiction

67 notes · View notes