Professional Geta enjoyer. Here’s where any writings will end up if I manage to post them. I’m gonna blame this on the eyeliner. She/her, 33 Main Blog: @reformedkingsmanagent
Hi, I’m Tara. 33. Pathetic. A daydreamer. Pisces.
I am quiet and introverted. Aloof until you get through my armor, and then I can’t shut up about the things I enjoy to a degree where I’m confident I annoy people and will begin to retreat again. I’m sorry. It’s just how I am.
I am but a humble scribe, subject to the whims of our esteemed Emperor Geta.
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Rules
This is an 18+ only blog. It’s just how it has to be. This is not flexible.
I reserve the right to not fulfill an ask or request if the vibes just aren’t vibing, or if it fills me with dread. Thank you for understanding. It’s never personal, it just sometimes isn’t the right time.
Do not feed my creative works into any AI please. We do this for free. It’s free labor, not an endless content creation mill.
I write for Emperor Geta, rarely ‘Calla if I’m in the right mood, as well as various other Joseph Quinn characters, so far including:
Michael (Hoard),
Sam (Warfare), and
Johnny Storm.
I have also added Tommy (Warfare), as well as Eddie Munson and Prince Paul, but these are mostly for monthly prompts and with rare exception might see other writings added.
I tend to write my boys a bit on the softer side (this feels like a gross understatement). I don’t love being mean, even if it is only temporary. I’m not saying I’d never explore anything else, but don’t expect anything super dark from me.
Summary: A night of drinking leaves poor Major a little worse for wear in the infirmary. A confession leaves you reeling.
Word count: 3.4k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, Major is a sweetheart, brief mentions of drinking and background characters fighting, slight spoilers for Major's real name, reader is a nurse, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(I've been reading Catch-22 and recently finished the mini-series. Given the state of my blog lately, I doubt anyone's surprised that I've written for Major. Forever destined to write for the little guys with next to no audience, I guess.)
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The entrepreneurial talents of one Milo Minderbinder never cease to amaze you. You have no idea how he manages the seemingly impossible, but manage it he does, and that evening, the army base has its first taste of alcohol in months. And not the cheap stuff either, he had explained, but single malt whiskey from Scotland.
"Nothing but the best for our boys fighting the good fight," he announces to the already rowdy mess hall with a broad smile, the sounds of laughter and clanking metal cups quickly filling the air.
Naturally, the infirmary is pandemonium within a few hours.
The tension in the barracks has been reaching new heights lately, especially with the mission count being raised yet again, so it was really only a matter of time before a fight broke out. And then another. And another. Before you knew it, you and the other nurses were run ragged, cleaning up bloody knuckles and icing bruised eyes.
All things considered, this is an easy shift. Everyone's still alive, for a start. You're always grateful for that.
The lightweights begin to trickle through next - although not without some assistance. Some wobble their way in on their own and need to be directed to a bed (or a bucket, whichever is of more pressing need); others are dragged in, draped across the shoulders of their comparatively more sober companions.
Major Major falls decidedly into the second category. He would have fallen through the door too, if the poor man keeping him upright didn't have such a good grip on him.
"Think you got room for one more?" he asks, jerking his head in Major's direction. "I'd bring him to his own bed, but I don't know if I could live with it on my conscience if anything happened to him. Poor fella's way passed his limit."
You finish drying your hands, pointing to one of the closest empty beds. "Set him down over there for me, will you?"
Major goes quietly, his head steadily nodding, as though he's keeping time to a song only he can hear. His eyelids are already drooping, and you're willing to bet he'll be unconscious once his head hits the pillow. Rolling him onto his side and letting him sleep it off seems like the best course of action. Still, best to give him a quick once-over, just in case.
You pull a spare stool up to the side of the bed, sitting down in front of him. Somehow, he's still upright, albeit very slumped. It's impressive, considering how much he's swaying.
"Evening, Major," you say, louder than you normally would. You feel like you've spent most of the night shouting, but the drunker they are, the less they seem to hear. "How are you feeling?"
"Dizzy," he mumbles, and then giggles to himself like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.
At least he's co-operative.
"Can you tell me how much you've had to drink?" you ask, pulling a small pad of paper and a pen from your uniform pocket.
He blinks at you, his brow set in a deep frown. From his expression, you would think you had asked him for top secret military intel. His gaze drops to his hands in his lap, fingers moving as he counts.
"Four," he finally says. "No. No, five. Seven?"
He looks to you to make sense of what he's just said. You're none the wiser.
"Seven what, Major?"
He shrugs then - an exaggerated movement that shoves his shoulders right up to his ears, almost knocking him off-balance. You reach for his arm, steadying him.
"Can you tell me your name?" you ask.
Surely he remembers his own name. It's the same as his last name. And his middle name. And his rank. Poor man.
He frowns again, lips moving silently.
"…Caleb," he finally mumbles.
Well, what do you know. He does have a name. Maybe it's a running joke he and the others have going. You'll dig out his file later, when the chaos has died down.
Leaning in a little closer, you hold your hand up in front of Major's face.
"How many fingers am I holding up, Caleb?"
At the sound of his name, he starts, eyes wide and eerily focused. It lasts for the better part of a second before his gaze seems to cloud over again. He clumsily reaches out to take your hand, and you pull it away.
“No, no, that’s cheating,” you say with a quiet chuckle to yourself.
Major pulls a face at you. It's hard not to laugh when this grown man - and a major at that - is pouting at you.
He might feel like hell tomorrow, but so far, he's not exactly worrying you. Still, you don't want to take a chance on that and send him out on his own. You stand up, gently guiding him to lie down on his side.
"You get some sleep, alright? You'll be back to your old self in no time. If you need anything, you just call for me or one of the other-"
Major shakes his head suddenly, and for a worrying moment, you think he's going to be sick.
"Can I tell you a secret?" he asks softly.
His eyes are wide again. You've never really had the opportunity to look at him like this - he doesn't seem to find himself in the infirmary all that often - and it's a shame too, because he's really quite a handsome man. Brown curls swept back out of his face, and dark eyes that would have you believing they were brown until the light hits them just right. His cheeks and nose are flushed pink from drinking, his teeth worrying at his lip.
He beckons you closer, clumsily waving his hand and narrowly avoiding hitting you in the face.
"I think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he confesses in an awestruck whisper.
You can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and the smell of expensive booze is hard to ignore. His words catch you off-guard, and you find yourself feeling a little dizzy as well. His smile is wide and care-free as he stares up at you. Your heart definitely wasn't beating quite so hard a second ago, was it?
And then, with a few heavy blinks, he's out like a light. As if nothing had ever happened. It's still so loud in here. Did you imagine it?
Dazed, you leave a bucket and some water by his bedside, reluctantly moving on to the other beds that still need your attention.
He's gone the next morning. Most of them are. By the time you were able to catch your breath, it was long past lights out, and you were desperate to fall into bed and sleep the muscle pain off. Major's bed was on the way out the door - couldn't hurt to check in, could it? - but he was still very much asleep as you left.
You've been replaying his confession in your head over and over all morning. Surely it was just a slip of the tongue; whiskey-fueled words that mean nothing in the cold light of day. He could barely see two feet in front of him, and he certainly wasn't able to sit upright without wobbling. Still, the nurses are hardly strangers to lonely guys trying to shoot their shot, and having a girl on base is convenient. You're far from stupid.
But there's something about Major that tells you he's not that type. And of course you'd be lying if you said you didn't have a little crush on him. Sure, he's clumsy, forgetful, and he always seems to be landing himself in hot water at every opportunity - but there's something so endearing about him too. For starters, he's never been anything less than a gentleman to you and the others. And there was that time a few weeks back when he found you caught out in the pouring rain. He'd rushed to your side with all the grace of a newborn deer, and held his coat over your head until you were safely in the mess hall. He'd paused for a second, his cheeks and ears reddening from the exertion, before he'd all but run off again.
In that one second, you'd thought he might kiss you. Hoped for it, even. And if you were truly honest with yourself, you'd been hoping ever since.
You need to snap out of it. You barely know him. Maybe the loneliness of this place is getting to you too.
But then a thought occurs to you.
No one likes to say the Q word in the infirmary. Quiet. The second anyone does, chaos descends immediately. But you aren't being kept quite as busy, let's say, as you were the night before, so you decide to take a peek at Major's medical notes. At the top of the first page, in neat type, is his name.
Last name: Major.
First name: Major.
Middle name(s): Major.
You smile to yourself. His parents certainly had a strange sense of humour.
Something draws your attention further down the page. Another section, just underneath.
Other names.
And there it is - the name he told you last night. Caleb.
Heart racing a little faster, you place the file back and close the drawer.
"Does anyone know which one Major Major's office is?"
You slip out for ten minutes under the pretence that your notes from last night are missing a few details. Muriel had eyed you suspiciously as you left. She's always had an uncanny ability to sense bullshit from a mile away. It's one of the things you like about her.
Finding Major's office was easy. Getting into his office is a whole other story. And his assistant, Sergeant Towser, point-blank refuses to budge on the matter.
"So I can't go in there until the Major leaves," you say, making sure you understand the bizarre system that this office seems to run by.
"That's correct, ma'am," Towser replies.
"And once he's left, I can go in to see him?"
"Absolutely."
This is absurd. Surely Towser must be joking. But one look at his stony expression tells you otherwise.
"Do you want me to pass a message along?" he asks.
You shake your head. "Oh, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure I’ll bump into him at some point."
Towser nods at you with a polite smile as he returns to the novel he's not so subtly hidden behind a stack of paperwork.
Stepping back outside into the hot afternoon sun, you try to figure out what to do next. You could go back to your station with no answers and spend the rest of the day distracted, or…
An idea comes to you.
Rounding the small building, you find what you were hoping for - a window, wide and low enough to the ground that it just might do the trick. The roller blind has been pulled all the way down, obscuring the room inside, but the window itself lies open. If you listen closely, you can hear a familiar voice muttering.
Carefully, you reach under the blind, searching for the cord. It gives easily with a tug, quickly sliding up and out of the way with a sharp snap as it reaches the top. Major jolts in his seat, almost falling out of it entirely in fright. The paintbrush in his hand clatters to the floor, and he scans the room in a panic, before his wide eyes finally land on you.
"Hello, Major," you greet cheerily, resting your arms on the windowsill.
He stares at you blankly, as if by chance you might be a figment of his imagination. Slowly, his gaze drifts to the intricately detailed model boat sitting on his desk, then back to you. The colour quickly drains from his face, and he's up like a shot, all but throwing himself in front of the boat to hide it from view.
"Oh! I was- I was just taking a little break from all of- You know-" He frantically scrambles to find something, eventually landing on a manual of some kind and holding it up. “This. Work. So much work. Gotta get back to it."
He knocks his fist against the manual’s cover, forcing a laugh that makes him sound as though he's been winded.
"Well, by all means, Major, don’t let me interrupt you," you reply.
He nods, a few too many times. You don’t move.
"I just wanted to stop by to see how you were feeling today."
"Me? Oh, I’m feeling much better. Thank you," he tells you, voice quivering.
He still looks a bit peaky, but considering how he was last night, you're surprised he's on his feet at all.
Time to start testing the waters.
"You boys sure had a lot to drink last night. The things I heard," you comment breezily.
Major tilts his head with a curious expression, but doesn’t take the bait.
You try again.
"You know, I thought I'd heard every swear word in the book by this point in my career, but apparently not. Some of you could do with having your mouths washed out with soap."
You shake your head, pretending to be offended, but there's a smile on your face.
"And as if that wasn't enough, I even overheard a few…confessions."
You draw the word out, looking at him expectantly. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but nothing comes out. He reminds you of a goldfish.
"Why, I think I even heard one from you, Major."
At that, his face flushes a bright shade of red. Suddenly, he can’t seem to look at you anymore.
"Is that- No, that can’t be right. I wouldn’t- Surely, I wouldn’t do such a thing." He laughs nervously. "Why, there’s no one here that I- Well, I mean no offence, you girls are lovely, of course, but not-"
His mouth quickly shuts before he says something he might regret.
You drum your fingers along the windowsill, trying to figure out your next move. You thought perhaps he would have cracked by now, surely. Major Major is a notoriously clumsy man, and that includes with his words. He has something of a reputation for blurting things out at the most inconvenient of times - everyone knows that.
Unless he doesn’t remember…
You decide to press on.
"Oh, come on now, you were pitching woo just as sure as any of the others, there's no use in denying it. I remember you saying to…"
His frown only deepens, and you're reminded of how he looked last night, when he was trying to answer your questions. He really doesn't seem to remember anything. You quickly change tack.
"…Nurse Muriel that she’s the prettiest girl you've ever seen."
You hate to throw poor Muriel to the wolves like that, but you can’t possibly face the embarrassment of being turned down by a man with no recollection of what he said. Besides, she’d have no qualms at all with just sending him on his way.
Major looks as though he’s in the middle of figuring out the entire world's secrets. You’ve never seen him so focused. Slowly, he starts to pace the floor, finger tapping against his mouth as he thinks.
"Nurse Muriel? No, now that can’t be right. I mean, she’s a lovely girl, don't get me wrong, but you’re far prettier than-"
He stops abruptly in his tracks, one of his boots scuffing against his floor. His back is to you, but you can see that tell-tale flush creeping the length of his neck, right up to his ears.
"You didn’t- You didn’t hear me say that…did you?"
His voice is barely more than a whisper, and every word sounds so frightened. You're not quite sure if you're faring any better. Between the baking heat, and now this-
You decide to answer him in the only way you know how right now - by climbing through the window. There’s no decent way of doing it, and all you can do is hope that no one walks by.
The sound of your shoes against the wooden frame alerts Major's attention, and almost as quickly as he turned to look, he's facing the other way again, fists clenched and shoulders pushed up to his ears.
You straighten yourself up, fixing your uniform as your breathing steadies.
"I heard every word," you say softly. "In fact, that’s why I’m here."
Major hasn’t moved a muscle. You carefully take a few steps forward.
"I shouldn’t have lied to you before. I was worried when you didn’t seem to remember. But what you said, when you were in the infirmary last night…You said it to me."
You were hoping he would have said something by now. Anything. Normally, it's a feat in of itself to make him stop talking.
"I know you were drunk, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But I need to know." You pause, afraid of what you're about to say next. "Did you mean it?"
The seconds tick by agonisingly slowly as you wait for him to reply. The already humid air feels thicker now, harder to breathe. Slowly, he turns to you again, his eyes darting between you and the ground nervously.
"I meant every word of it," he says at last.
The relief that floods through you is enough to leave you lightheaded. But you can't stop there.
"You told me your name too," you remind him. "It’s Caleb, isn’t it? Caleb Major."
He blinks at you, as though he's just been pulled from a deep sleep.
"Never in my life did I think someone would ever call me by that name again," he says in a small, astonished voice. "I was starting to forget what it sounded like."
His words tug at your heart in a way you don't truly understand. But you're starting to realise that there's more to this clumsy, hapless man than anyone seems to give him credit for.
Words don't feel like they're enough. Without another thought, you close the distance between the two of you, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. He reaches for you as you try to pull away, his hand finding yours.
"Wait-"
His face is such a bright shade of red that you would worry he had a fever if you didn't know better. His hand trembles against yours.
"I can't- I can't just let you go without asking you on a date," he says shyly. "It wouldn't be proper of me. A man of my rank and all."
He pauses then, and you nervously wait for him to continue.
And wait.
And wait.
He seems to be tongue-tied again. He chews at his lower lip, scared eyes searching yours.
You take a little breath, gently squeezing his hand. Despite how careful you are, he flinches all the same.
"I finish at six tonight, you can stop by the infirmary to pick me up then," you tell him, taken aback by your own boldness.
It takes him a moment to register your words. Then he's nodding at you like a marionette.
"Just you try and stop me," he replies with a quiet chuckle. He stops suddenly, looking at you worriedly. "No, wait, please don't do that, I want to-"
"Caleb," you say, interrupting him. "I'll see you tonight. Okay?"
He stares at you for a long moment, before a bashful smile spreads across his face.
As much as you would love to stay, you're now very aware that your ten minutes ended a long time ago. You head for the window again, Major following behind.
The heel of your shoe catches against the windowsill as you try to manoeuvre yourself over it again, knocking you off-balance. Major is quick to react, reaching for your waist to steady you as you lower yourself to the ground. He doesn't let go, and you don't pull away. His hands are strong and sturdy against you, and you want nothing more than to lean in and steal another kiss from him.
He comes to his senses first, hands whipping away from you as though he's been burned. The moment's gone, but he still has that big smile on his face.
"6pm, don't be late," you tell him, as you reluctantly head on your way.
He nods. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, almost breathlessly.
It takes quite a bit of work to throw Muriel off the scent of what you were really up to, but you somehow manage to slip back into your workday relatively unscathed. And when 6pm rolls around at last, and you step outside to find Major - Caleb - waiting for you, hat folded under his arm and a bright smile on his face, you know all the trouble you went to was worth it.
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Summary: Strange visions plague your dreams. William cannot allow you to suffer such pain alone.
Word count: 2.5k
Tags and warnings: Smut (non-explicit, but very much there), religious themes, religious guilt, some kind of established relationship, no pronouns for reader. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(I saw this film in the cinema three times, and every single time, it broke my heart in a different way. The way William's queerness is handled so softly is so important to me. I wasn't going to ever post this, if I'm honest, but it felt like a waste of hard work. I don't personally believe that William was celibate by choice (if at all), and I've made sure that this fic is as gender-neutral as possible. Everyone has their own interpretation, and this is mine. Thank you as always to @getaapologist for your support with this, appreciate you!)
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By way of strange dreams come visions. Terrible, ghastly images that leave you trembling and gasping in the dark of the night. Strong arms instinctively reach for you each time, holding you close and murmuring assurances as you steady your breath, and lay still your pounding heart.
You should speak of them. These visions that plague your dreams and haunt your waking thoughts. Mother Ann would implore you to. But you cannot. For there is far more to what you see.
Each one is the same. A wolf — dark in colour with streaks of grey by its ears — prowls your dreams. It stalks after you in a frenzy, snapping at your heels; no matter where you run, or how you hide. It will always end the same. It looms over your prone form, rivulets of spit dripping from its vicious maw as its growls rise ever higher from its throat. Head lowered, hackles raised. Dark eyes boring into your soul. And when it strikes, it is with such bloodlust and rage that each and every time, you wake with a shriek, thrashing against the thin bedding as if your very life depends upon it.
And every time, he is there. William. Your dear companion, and even dearer part of your heart as the months and years go by.
You speak not a word to him; allowing him to comfort. Soothe. And yet not even he can rid you of this.
Only your eyes — and those of God — see the shame that dwells within your heart. For the sudden, fearful awakening is always followed by something much, much worse.
A feeling of release. The likes of which you have never in your life experienced, but you know it. The sin of Adam and Eve. And to have this overwhelming feeling, whilst William holds you to his heart in comfort…
It is unholy.
You must find resolve. Cast out this demon. For surely it must be a test of faith. God has chosen you, and you must not fail.
William returns from his daily toil that evening much later than you. He is nothing if not determined, oft to his own detriment; as he is now, he is rather worse for wear. Autumn is approaching fast, and the shortening days are filled with collecting firewood and provisions for the Wintertime.
He stops by your side, a soft kiss pressed to your temple. “How fares my flower?” he murmurs.
You smile in turn, leaning into his touch, before he steps away. Making quick work, he strips himself down to his drawers, clothes tossed aside as he seats himself at the dressing table on the other side of the room. He twists himself to and fro, as if trying to better see himself in the mirror.
With a little sigh, you rise and approach him. “What has happened?”
His fingers trail along angry red welts that mark his shoulder.
“Thorns,” he replies. “I lost my balance and fell.”
William is no stranger to injury, and you have a small cabinet filled with remedies for such things. You fetch one of the ointment bottles, holding it out to him. He looks up at you with an apologetic expression.
“Would you mind?” he asks. “I can’t quite reach.”
Dutifully, you set to your task, carefully applying the tincture to his wounds. Your gaze wanders, however briefly, and you attempt to keep your focus where it is needed. It is difficult to ignore the long scars that run the length of William's back. Faded as they are, your heart aches at the sight of them.
He tries to hold himself still, for your benefit, but each little hiss and wince of pain that escapes him leaves you feeling as though a pit of snakes nests within your stomach, and you make haste to finish soon.
“I will fetch you a clean shirt,” you murmur, wiping your hands.
He reaches for you before you can leave his side, his hand encircling your wrist. His touch is soft; yet you feel as though you have been branded. It burns.
“Come,” he says, tugging lightly. “Sit.”
You press your lips together tightly, fighting the urge to protest. Reluctantly, you allow him to gather you up, until you are seated in his lap. His arm slips around your middle, holding you close. Never have you felt so safe, and so trapped.
Slowly, he presses your head to his uninjured shoulder, his fingers tangled in your hair.
“You are keeping things from me,” he says softly.
His heart beats so calm and steadfast against your ear. Yours, by contrast, is a war drum.
“What ails you, flower?”
Your hands clench into fists. Pain, as if from some invisible force, wracks through you. You wish nothing more than to scream, to cry, to throw yourself upon the mercy of the man who cradles you so gently, as if you truly were a delicate flower.
“Your sleep is disturbed, your appetite wanes. So little now do I hear your voice. I miss your birdsong.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. There is no one in the world who could ever doubt William’s utmost devotion to his sister, but what remains is poured into you. To feel such a deep, profound love — though a mere drop in the ocean compared to his love for Mother Ann — is truly overwhelming. You can hardly bear it.
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. Your burdens are mine to shoulder too.”
And oh, how he means every word. And how it tears at you — claws at you like the frantic, violent beast that comes to you in your dreams.
Weary, you raise your head. To look him in the eye is too much, so you focus your attention elsewhere. On the slope of his nose, the soft set of his mouth, the greying hairs that rest at his temples—
Nausea washes over you, like a tumultuous wave in a storm. Sudden realisation threatens to choke the air from you — how you wish that it would. But there is no escaping the truth.
The creature that stalks your dreams, that sets itself upon you night after night until you are wide-eyed and trembling in the dark. The terrifying feeling of sheer pleasure that erupts through you each and every time.
The wolf is William.
Or rather, it is your desire for him, manifesting itself in the strangest way. How it mocks you. Taunts you. It is cruel.
“Whatever is the matter?” he asks, with such kindness that another nauseous wave washes over you.
How are you to ever look him in the eye again? You are undeserving. You sit here, unable to confess, unable to repent. Hiding in plain sight; no more than a sinful blight in the presence of virtue.
You cannot allow him to suffer as he does now.
“There are things that I must tell you,” you at last reply in a choked whisper. “Things that I have seen.”
His brow knits in a slight frown as he takes in your words. “What kinds of things?”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you continue, “They…come to me. In dreams. These…visions.”
The air feels stifling; each breath an ashen burn upon your lungs. How fitting, that the gates of Hell should find you here, in the midst of your shame.
"What I am about to say…will surely cast me in a different light." Your voice softens. "Perhaps now you will see me for what I truly am."
There is an unbearable sadness in his eyes as he looks to you. Those eyes — as dark as storm clouds — study your every expression with great focus. Even now, his devotion is as plain as day.
You must make him see.
"I already do see you for what you are," he replies, low voice laced with quiet determination. "When I am lost at sea, you are my anchor, tethering me so that I may not find myself adrift in dangerous waters."
Each word is a sharp switch upon your upturned palms. When he smiles, you cast your gaze aside. You are undeserving of such a beautiful thing.
Carefully, his hand touches your chin, tilting your head up to him. "Do not spurn me, love. Speak."
Even when he commands you, it is done with affection. And yet, the nest of snakes seems to knot itself even tighter together. You feel ill.
"I find myself…yearning. In ways that I should not. Sinful, unholy ways." You force yourself to meet his gaze — the confounded look he levels you with is as sharp as a dagger to the heart. "For you, William."
Confusion gives way to realisation at last. His eyes widen, and you shrink under his scrutiny. Rarely is a silence between the two of you uncomfortable — in spite of his strength, there is a quiet gentleness to William that few others possess. When the world is chaos, he is shelter. A haven. Safety.
You do not feel safe anymore.
For the briefest moment, his hold on you tightens — blunt nails scratch at your scalp, fingertips twisting into the fabric at your hip. Then, as soon as that, he releases you. His grip relaxes, though you can still feel the phantom press of his touch, even in its absence.
How you wish for him to say something. Anything. You would beg, if you believed yourself deserving.
When he does again speak, he does not seem himself. "You were right to confess this to me."
There is a hollow look in his eyes, as though he is far away. He seems to look through you. His voice, too, is smaller.
"Permit me to take it from you."
Immediately, you shake your head. You will not allow him to carry this burden. Your burden.
You open your mouth to say as much, but he interrupts you before you even begin.
“You will not deny me this.”
He looks to you with such fervour in his eyes. He truly would move Heaven and Earth if it would mean that you would grace him with a smile. He holds your face, thumbs wiping your stray tears away with gentle reverence.
“Do not deny me.”
His forehead presses to yours; the warmth of his breath ghosts across your lips. You are falling apart at the seams, destined to unravel in his devoted hands.
A whisper, barely a beat of a breath. “Do not deny yourself.”
Spoken into the small space between you, yet it echoes in your ears as though it were screamed to the rafters.
He patiently awaits your answer, but words evade you entirely. You should fight. Run. Lock yourself away from him. You cannot let him rot too.
As if against your will, you finally nod. He wastes little time, fumbling at the fastenings of your clothes, careful hands pushing and tugging until at last, enough of you is bared to him that he may set to his task. It is not the first time that you have seen each other in such a state of undress, but this…
This is different. There is no innocence to this. There is purpose, a weight to what is about to unfold. How much does a man’s soul weigh?
When he touches you, all thought is lost. It is like lightning thrumming across your skin. You have never felt anything like it before in your life. You find yourself desperate to both squirm away and press yourself closer. It is dizzying.
Your pulse is a rolling thunder in your ears. Heat strikes you in flashes — it is only just that something such as this should be called a sin. This feeling, that threatens to drag you under and drown you, could leave you destitute in your addiction to it, and you would welcome it. If life were this, and only this — being brought to rapturous release again and again and again — you would gladly forfeit your seat in Heaven in exchange.
Even God does not possess enough mercy for such an unrepentant soul. And yet, in this single, glorious moment, you cannot bring yourself to care.
Not once does William's hand stop; he moves with such practiced ease that you dare to wonder how he became so well-versed. His other hand is firm against the back of your neck, the warmth of him blooming across your skin. His breaths are almost as harsh as your own, and the thought that he, too, is unraveling as quickly as you — he without a touch — is almost enough to drag you asunder.
He presses harder, and a keening cry slips from your lips — you cannot stand this blissful torture for much longer.
He knows your mind too well. “Do not try,” he implores in a hushed breath. “Give in. Please.”
His pace quickens then, and the only thing you can do is obey. You allow yourself to give in, allow him to take this burden — this sin — from you and claim it as his own. Tremors rack through you as he holds you tight, only faltering when you beg it of him.
A beat, a shuddering breath. “Think no more of this.”
He draws back then. You have never seen him in such a state. Cheeks flushed and lips parted, strands of his dark locks swept across his forehead. His gaze is heady, pupils blown wide. He is truly beautiful.
“You are free of this sin.”
Tears spring to your eyes once more. He is but a man; he cannot absolve you of such atrocity, and yet you let yourself believe his words. That you are free.
A gentle kiss is shared between you. Slow, unhurried. A mutual understanding.
This shall remain here.
And here, in your sanctuary, time seems to have slipped away entirely. He holds you close to his heart, the steady thud of it lulling you into a doze. A faraway call of your name rouses you some; strong arms help you the short distance to bed. You reach for him in your sleep-addled haze as he turns to leave.
“Allow me to dress, love,” he says, a soft kiss pressed to your hand as he untangles himself from your weak grasp.
He returns to you shortly thereafter, climbing into bed and sliding his arms around you. His nose brushes against your neck, and a quiet sigh escapes him.
"Rest now," he whispers. "You are safe here."
And when you dream that night, the wolf is there to greet you once more. But it is different now. It follows after you with curiosity. You do not feel afraid. Tentatively, you reach out a hand, and it comes to you, pushing its head against your palm. Such power it holds, even in so small an action, and yet you are no longer wracked with fear. You feel safe — as if the wolf has at last been sated.
You do not wake until the first rays of sunlight begin to stream through the window in the morn. William is still by your side, hair tousled and cheeks rosy from sleep. He stirs as you move closer to him, and the guilt that suddenly threatens to engulf you seems to melt away as his hand finds yours.
There will be time later to dwell. Right now, your only care is these fleeting moments spent with your beloved, before the day begins anew.
(You can join the taglist here! You can also request to be removed through the same form!)
Summary: An innocent moment of quiet stolen together in the car turns into something completely unexpected, but you certainly aren't complaining.
Word count: 1k
Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicit, but very much hinted at), fluff, established relationship, Bob using his Sentry powers, slightly confident Bob because Lord he deserves it, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(This was 100% inspired by the photos of Lewis at the Oscars. I have a whole gala fic in the works, but between work and studying, I don't know when it'll see the light of day, so I'm posting this little snippet from the same universe for now. Hopefully it makes sense as a standalone!)
Bob Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist
The car's new. Alexei's new baby. Much more expensive than the limo — tinted windows, far more spacious, bulletproof. A much needed upgrade for the newly christened Avengers.
Bob’s still trying to figure himself out. He doesn’t want to use his powers after…well, everything. The Sentry’s moment in the sun was over and done far too quickly, and no one’s been able to trace The Void back to him, so as far as the public’s concerned, he’s just some guy.
Some guy who spends a lot of time around a group of superheroes. It’s strange being the centre of attention and completely ignored at the same time, but he’s trying to get used to it.
The night of the gala, he ends up drinking just a little too much. Before the serum, it would have been enough to leave him in the hospital, but now? He’s tipsy. He feels warm all over. It's nice.
The company's even nicer, though, he has to admit. You’d said you were stepping out for some air, and he hadn’t exactly been subtle about following you. He’d tried, really he had — but his inhibitions seem to have gone out the window along with his nerves tonight.
Even outside, the place was buzzing with people. He’d innocently suggested taking a breather in the car, and you’d all too readily agreed.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he swears, but he’s certainly not complaining. How could he? When the prettiest girl he’s ever laid eyes on is sitting in his lap in the back seat, knees pressed to his hips and hands on his chest. His own settle on your legs, fingertips running light lines up and down. Head resting against the seat, he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed,” you say, hands smoothing out the slight wrinkles in his shirt.
He hums. He’s sensitive at the best of times, but now? Your touch feels like heat licking at his skin. If he’s not careful, it could become addictive. Maybe he doesn’t care.
“Is that a bad thing?”
You shake your head. “No, of course not. Just wish I could see it more often. You deserve it.”
His smile widens. You always seem to know what to say. He takes your hands in his, gathering them together against his chest and giving you the gentlest little tug. He’s always so careful with you, knows exactly the damage he’s capable of. Would never dream of hurting you.
But even when he’s gentle, he’s still so strong. A squeak of a sound escapes you as you yield all too easily, finding yourself pressed flush against his chest.
“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, and there’s no mistaking the effect his words have on you.
A shuddered breath against his skin. His nose brushes yours. You’re trembling in his hold, he can feel it. Every minute movement feels like waves crashing over him. It’s intoxicating.
He wants to take his time with you, cherish every single second. Every breath, every glance, every smile — all of it. But there’s a part of him that wants to give in. Let that building urge take over. Leave you overwhelmed and at his mercy in the most delicious way.
His resolve is slipping.
So is yours, from the looks of it. But he has to be sure.
“Y’know, everyone’s probably wondering where we’ve got to…”
He deliberately trails off, holds your gaze. Waits.
You bite your lip. “What’s ten more minutes?”
And that’s all the answer he needs. He gives in, lets that feeling that’s threatening to overpower him take over. The mask falls away. He kisses you like he’s never going to see you again. He can’t help himself — he needs this. Needs you. The one thing that makes him feel safe when he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
His hands slip under your dress, and you don’t stop him, pushing yourself closer as you thread your fingers through his hair. His thumbs press against your hips, anchoring you. A quick squeeze is enough to make you gasp, and his head is swimming. He might be obsessed with you. You do things to him that no one else ever has.
He should reward you.
Focus isn’t coming easy to him right now, but he pushes through, forces himself to concentrate. Find that one spot that'll make you see stars. And when he does — oh, it’s so worth it. He’s never heard that noise from you before — a mix of sheer pleasure and shock. You’re quick to pull away, disbelief written all over your face, his name whispered in a shaky breath. Your hands slide down to his.
“How did you-” you start to ask, but when your eyes meet his, you falter.
And it hits you.
“Your eyes…”
He should feel scared, but he doesn’t. He feels confident. Powerful.
“What about them?” he asks.
As if he doesn’t know. He waits for your mouth to open in reply before he strikes again. Hits that same point. Pulls that same noise from you.
His hands are still securely on your hips. You both know that. And he can’t help himself. He pushes further. Touches you everywhere he knows you like — and not once do his hands move.
He’s never needed you more than he does right now, but he needs to see you fall apart first. Make a mess of you. Ruin you for anyone else.
It’s selfish, he knows that, but how can he help himself? He’s so head over heels for you.
And when you do finally break, when you’re so overwhelmed that you can’t take any more and it all hits you at once, he’s mesmerised. He’s never seen anything as beautiful as you are right now.
He might have the powers of a God, but you? You make him feel so weak. He loves it. Loves the power you have over him.
It takes you a minute to catch your breath. He lets himself bask in it. Just you and him. He couldn’t ask for more.
Until you’re tearing at his suit like you’re possessed, exposing every inch of skin — how could he possibly refuse you?
Taglist: @getaapologist @nomajdetective
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Summary: The squad are on a mission to get Bob to loosen up on a night out. Getting him drunk is one thing, but getting him to bed afterwards is a whole other challenge.
Word count: 4.5k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, mentions of alcohol, Bob and reader are married, Bob’s a bit of a messy drunk (but he’s very cute about it), squad shenanigans, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @getaapologist!! I’m so grateful to call you my friend and writing partner-in-crime! Seriously, you’ve been an incredible support and inspiration, so here’s a little Bob Floyd to say thank you! I hope you have the best day, you deserve it!)
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Bob’s not exactly one for partying. His idea of a ‘wild time’ is staying up past 11pm on a weeknight to finish a movie. He’s a man of routine, and he gets enough excitement as it is at work. So what if that might seem boring to some people? There are worse things he could be in life.
The rest of his squad, on the other hand, are sick of it. They want him to go out and let loose with them, even once.
Bob may be quiet, but he’s stubborn. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not as much of a pushover as he might look, and once he’s made up his mind, it can take a lot of convincing for him to change it.
So, they try a different tactic. They enlist your help.
It’s Friday evening, and you, Bob and the rest of the squad are at Natasha’s place for dinner. It was supposed to be a potluck sort of arrangement, but half the guys conveniently “left their share at home”, so takeout was very quickly ordered instead. It’s something you try to do together once a month when your schedules allow. It’s a nice way to catch up outside of the chaos of work. At least, it normally is. Maybe it’s you, but something feels a little off tonight. It isn’t until Bradley calls Bob over to help pick a movie for everyone to watch after dinner that you’re finally clued in.
“Listen. We need your help,” Mickey whispers, leaning in to you.
You were right. There is something going on.
“With what?” you ask.
Javy peers over your shoulder, making sure that Bob’s completely distracted before moving closer. “We have a plan.”
That answers nothing. “A plan,” you echo. “Are you gonna tell me what it is, or…?”
Natasha nudges Mickey out of the way as she lays out plates on the table. “They wanna get Bob drunk,” she says simply.
Jake scoffs, offended. “Uh, we wanna get Bob drunk, Phoenix. You included. Don’t make it sound so shady.”
You let them bicker back and forth for a while before you cut in. “Okay, you wanna get Bob drunk. One, why? And two, what does that have to do with me?”
“Because he won’t listen to us,” Reuben replies.
You’re still not satisfied. “And what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”
Mickey raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? You’re his wife. You have power that we lowly peasants can only dream of.”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “Look, you don’t have to,” she says. “It’s just- Well, he’s always way too busy taking care of everyone else-”
She shoots a pointed glare at Jake, who’s conveniently helping himself to as much food as his plate will take to even notice.
“-to let himself have fun.”
Mickey and Reuben stand on either side of her, giving you the most pathetic-looking puppy-dog eyes they can manage. Already, you can feel your resolve slipping. Damn, they’re good.
“Okay, fine. I’m in,” you say, conceding defeat.
Before any of them can celebrate, Natasha’s immediately shutting it down.
“Covert mission, guys, remember?” she says, as if she’s scolding teenagers.
Javy and Reuben both pretend to scratch their necks, as if they weren’t about to high-five.
“What do you need me to do?” you ask.
Jake vaguely gestures behind you. “We’ll fill you in on the details later,” he mutters, before plastering a grin on his face as he raises his voice. “What took you guys so long?”
A gentle hand touches your waist, and you smile to yourself as you lean into it.
“We were barely gone five minutes,” Bob replies, confusion in his voice.
“And somehow most of the food’s already gone,” Bradley says, giving Jake a dirty look – who gives him a smug smile with his mouth full of food in reply.
The rest of the evening passes much more quietly – mostly because Bob’s too close within earshot for any more conspiring to be done. Although it doesn’t escape your notice when Jake starts snickering to himself about halfway through the movie. You sneak a glance over at him. He’s holding his phone close to his face as he types something. He tilts the screen slightly towards Mickey, who immediately tries to cover up his sudden laugh with an unconvincing cough. That wouldn’t be all that out of the ordinary – if they didn’t both clam up the second they caught you looking over at them. They turn their attention back to the TV, but not before Jake taps his nose at you. Mickey’s mouth is pressed tightly shut as he tries to contain himself.
Clearly they weren’t as subtle as they thought, since Bob mentions it in passing on the ride home.
“Was it just me, or did everyone seem a little…weird tonight?” he asks.
You clear your throat, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, I guess it felt like…something wasn’t quite right? Maybe I’m imagining things.”
“They’re always a little weird,” you reply fondly, giving his knee a gentle pat.
He huffs a laugh at that. “Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. It’s probably nothing.”
He says no more about it after that, which you’re grateful for. You feel bad for not being entirely honest with him, but it’s not like you’re keeping some horrible secret from him either. The guys are right – it’d be good for Bob to blow off some steam. God knows he deserves to, with how hard he works.
You decide not to say anything. It’ll be worth it, you know it will.
The next evening, you and Bob are lying on the couch together, watching an old war movie. Well, he’s watching it - and ‘watching’ might not be the right word for it. It’s been a long-running joke for years that Bob cannot watch anything military-related and sit quietly - especially if it’s old. With how exhausting his job is, you’d think the last thing he’d want to do when he gets home is look at more planes, but if anything, he finds it relaxing. It’s hard not to see how much he loves what he does. He even has a set of miniature fighter aircraft models he’s been working on over the past few months. On more than one occasion, you’ve had to go into the study to let him know what time it is – if you didn’t, odds are he’d still be in there until the early hours of the morning.
If you’re completely honest, you have no idea what he’s talking about when he really gets going, but it doesn’t matter – seeing him so happy makes you happy. And seeing how excited he gets, the way his eyes light up and how animated his hands are – he’s so cute. So you don’t mind if you’re struggling to keep up with him, it’s more than worth it.
Right now, he has his head in your lap, completely enraptured and mid-explanation, while you play with his hair, doing your best to follow what he’s saying. It’s always so meticulously styled first thing in the morning, but by this time, his loose curls are winning the fight against whatever remnants of pomade are left.
Your phone buzzes, pulling your attention away from him for a second. The screen lights up as you turn it over. One new notification.
You have been added to Operation: Get Bob Smashed.
You quickly flip it over again, trying to pass off a laugh as a yawn. Bob shifts then, curious eyes looking up at you.
“Sorry, honey,” he says, embarrassed. “Was I rabbiting again?”
You shake your head, leaning down as best you can to press a kiss to his forehead.
“Don’t be silly, I love listening to you,” you reply earnestly. “Just a little tired after today, that’s all.”
He hums quietly, seemingly content with your answer, and settles himself against you again, none the wiser as you unlock your phone.
The plan is exactly how they’d described it to you – they want to go out, get drunk, and make sure Bob gets just as drunk with them. No babysitting, no self-imposed managerial duties. They want him to have fun.
Hangman
I love the guy, but it’s like going out with your grandpa sometimes.
Coyote
That’s cold, man.
Hangman
Am I wrong, though??
The invitation had been extended to you too, of course. You might have come into their lives a little later than Bob, but over the years, they’ve become like a family to you. You love going out with them, and any other time, you would have jumped at the chance, but you were insistent that tonight, it should just be the squad. Bob’s already an overthinker as it is, and he ends up spending so much time trying to make sure that you understand every story and inside joke. It’s so sweet that he goes to all the trouble to make sure you feel included, but he gets so caught up in it all sometimes that he won’t let himself relax.
Besides, just because you won’t be there doesn’t mean you’ll be missing all the fun.
Your role, as delegated by the group, is to simply get Bob out the door – which is not as easy as it sounds.
It’s taking longer than usual for him to get ready tonight, but you’d expected that. It hadn’t taken all that much to persuade him to go out, but getting him out might be a whole other matter. Normally, he’s so punctual; everything’s laid out exactly as and where he needs it, his shower’s perfectly timed – you’d expect nothing less from a lieutenant – but he really seems to be dragging his feet, and your resolve’s starting to waver as a result.
You want him to go out and enjoy himself, but it feels like you’re making him do something he doesn’t want to do for the sake of everyone else.
When you go to check on him, it’s to find him standing in the middle of the bedroom, shoes in hand, staring down at them as if they’re hiding some big secret from him.
“Honey?” you call from the doorway. “Everything okay?”
He snaps to attention at the sound of your voice.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he replies unconvincingly. “I’m just…”
He holds his shoes up, as if that explains anything. It doesn’t.
You sit down at the end of the bed, patting the space next to you. “Something’s wrong,” you say gently. It’s not a question.
With a sigh, Bob sits next to you, setting his shoes on the floor. His eyes are glazed over. He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, and it’s making you feel even worse.
“I guess…I guess I’m just nervous,” he admits. “About tonight.”
That’s not what you were expecting. You know something’s not right, that much is obvious, but you figured it was because he was tired or concerned about having his routine thrown off. He’s always been a bit of a stickler like that.
“What’s got you nervous?” you ask.
“I don’t know, I…” He trails off, staring down at his hands in his lap. “I guess I don’t think I’m all that much fun when it comes to things like this. Going out, I mean. And I’m worried that everyone’s gonna see that, and I’ll be letting them down.”
He chews at his lip, his brow furrowed with worry. Just looking at him is enough to break your heart. You take his hands in yours.
“Hey. You’re plenty of fun. And I’m not saying that because I have to,” you tell him, squeezing his hands gently before he has a chance to interrupt. “And the guys? They love you, Bob. Would they even bother if they didn’t?”
He shrugs half-heartedly. “They’re just being nice.”
You reach up to turn his face towards you. “Sweetheart. Look at me.”
His eyes finally meet yours, but it’s not without some effort.
“They love you,” you say again, insistent. “Trust me. They want you to go out with them. So, no more overthinking, okay? Go and enjoy yourself. You deserve it as much as anyone else.”
He stares at you for a moment, before finally nodding. You kiss the tip of his nose, and at last, he gives you a smile.
He’s still a bit hesitant as he finishes getting ready, but he does seem more settled in himself as he leaves later that night, which is reassuring. Besides, you know him well enough by now that he’ll enjoy himself once he’s there with everyone. And some time to yourself for a few hours sounds nice, so it’s a win-win, really.
It’s about an hour after he’s left that the first update arrives. You’re cozied up on the couch, about to start a book you’ve been meaning to read for what feels like forever, when your phone lights up.
It’s a photo. Jake looks as though he’s in the middle of one of his typical dramatic stories, if his facial expression and blurry hands are any indication. Mickey has his arm slung around Bob’s shoulders, holding a drink with his head thrown back in laughter. Bob, by comparison, is very much still sober. His hand’s pressed to his mouth, as if Jake’s said something embarrassing – which, knowing Jake, he no doubt has – but even with his face partially covered, you can see the creases around Bob’s eyes from where he’s smiling.
Payback
One drink down!
You shake your head with a smile, saving the photo before going back to your book.
The next update is about forty-five minutes later - a message from Jake, followed by another photo.
Hangman
Okay, when was anyone gonna tell me that Bob can do shots??
You click on the photo. Bob’s standing at the bar, with a shot glass raised as if in triumph. He’s not hiding his smile this time, and his cheeks are starting to turn rosy. Jake’s standing next to him, with an expression that would make you think his whole world’s falling apart.
You send a side-eye emoji in reply, with no context. You know exactly how Bob built a tolerance for shots, but you’d rather let Jake suffer for a while first before you fill him in on the details.
Now that you’ve had a few messages, you’re finding it difficult to focus on reading. As silly as the whole idea might have seemed at the start, you’re invested now. So when your phone eventually lights up again, you’re quick to pick it up.
Fanboy
Your husband’s being sickeningly cute right now.
It’s obvious this photo’s been taken sneakily. You can see a little of Bob’s shoulder, but it’s what he’s doing that’s the clear focus. His phone’s in his hand, with a picture of you on the screen.
You don’t think you could help the smile spreading across your face if you tried as you type a reply.
Even after all these years, he still knows how to make you feel like you’re the most important person in the world.
You
I picked a good one, didn’t I?
There’s a bit of radio silence before the next message, and you can feel yourself starting to doze off. You’re definitely going to have to reread the last few pages, you can’t remember a thing that’s happened.
Coyote
You have to see this.
This time, it’s a video. Bob, Mickey and Bradley are standing by the jukebox in the bar, singing their hearts out. It’s not often that Bob sings, at least from your experience. Occasionally, you’ll hear him humming under his breath or muttering the chorus of a song when he thinks you can’t hear him, but actual singing is a whole other thing.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s definitely drunk now. And the best part is that he’s obviously having the time of his life. It’s not that Bob doesn’t know how to have fun, but with his job and how much of a worrywart he can be, it’s not often that you see him this carefree.
You can hear Javy trying to stifle his laughter as the camera shakes slightly, and you’re struggling to keep quiet too. They’re doing more shouting than anything else, but they look like they’re having so much fun that it doesn’t matter how off-key they are.
You need to experience this in person. Next time. You’ll make sure there’s a next time.
You’re in the middle of getting ready for bed when the next update arrives. And the last one, from the sounds of it.
Hangman
Oh man, Baby On Board’s hit his limit.
It’s rare that Bob ever really hits his limit; he usually ends up so focused on taking care of everyone else that he skips right into a premature hangover.
There’s a photo underneath, from Natasha. She’s looking at the camera with a knowing smile on her face, cut off as she tries to fit everyone into the frame. Behind her sit Jake and Reuben, both of them pulling faces. They’ve been drinking, sure, but they could still mostly pass for sober. And right in the middle of them is Bob, who looks as though he has no idea where he is. He’s staring right at the camera, but there’s a vacant look in his eyes, and his glasses are nowhere to be seen. His lips are parted, as though he’s about to say something, and his cheeks and nose are tinged a soft shade of red.
Phoenix
I think it’s time someone went to bed.
Fanboy
Your orders, Captain?
You smile to yourself. You couldn’t ask for a better group of people to trust your husband with.
You
He’s dismissed. Bring him home.
About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings. And rings, and rings, until you’re scrambling down the hall to make it stop before it ends up broken. As soon as the door opens, you’re met with a chorus of cheers, all too quickly shut down when you harshly shush them.
“Guys. Neighbours,” you remind them sternly, and they at least have the sense to look even a little guilty.
“Delivery,” Mickey sing-songs under his breath.
Bradley steps forward with an apologetic expression, and your gaze lands on the poor thing clinging to his shoulders.
“Oh, honey, what have they done to you?” you say, trying to stifle a giggle.
“In our defence, nothing he didn’t want,” Jake pipes up.
“Bob had a point to prove tonight, apparently,” Natasha adds.
You step aside, letting Bradley guide Bob inside. He can still walk, at least; he’s just a little unsteady on his own. That’s a relief.
“Where do you want him?” he asks.
“Bedroom would make my life a lot easier,” you reply, rolling your eyes as Jake wolf-whistles.
Thankfully, Bob goes down onto the bed without a fight. Now all you have to do is get him into it, which won’t be easy.
But first things first, you have a small drunk army waiting to celebrate with you in the hallway. As soon as you leave the bedroom, you’re being dragged into a group hug. With how excited they are, you’d think they’d just come back from a real mission.
You can’t blame them, though. This is big. After all these years, they did it – they finally got Bob drunk on a night out. It’s no wonder they’re as excited as they are.
It takes some manoeuvring, but you manage to free yourself. “Thanks for taking care of him tonight.”
Natasha pulls a face. “You might want to hold off thanking us until you see how bad the hangover’s gonna be.”
You shake your head. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
They all say their goodbyes in varying degrees of “quiet” voices as you usher them out the door. Their job may be done for the night, but yours has just started.
When you return, you expect to find Bob passed out. Instead, he’s upright — albeit very slumped, attempting to yank both his shirt and slacks off at the same time and getting absolutely nowhere with either one. His face is set in a very concentrated frown, as if he’s working on something incredibly complicated.
“God, it’s too warm in here,” he’s muttering to himself.
You stand in the doorway, unable to look away from the disaster unfolding in front of you.
He eventually figures out that one item of clothing at a time is the easier option, and so focuses on his shirt, dragging it up over his head and tossing it across the room. You suck in a breath. No one knows better than you what Bob’s hiding under his uniform, but goddamn if it doesn’t still catch you by surprise. You’re so distracted that it takes you a minute to realise that his glasses are gone. Again.
Bob doesn’t seem to have noticed either, judging by how hard he’s wrestling with his belt. Maybe it would be best if you put him out of his misery and helped him. You crouch down in front of him, reaching for the buckle, when he lets out a sudden yelp, slapping your hands away and scrambling halfway up the bed.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” you ask, concerned.
God, you hope he’s not about to throw up.
“No- No, you can’t do that,” he tells you, his words slurring together slightly. “I’m sure you’re a lovely girl, but I’m- I’m married.”
He holds up his hand, showing you his wedding band.
“Happily married. See?”
You bite back a smile. “Really? How happy are we talking?”
He scowls at you then, and you find yourself taken aback by it. Bob’s never looked at you like that before. It’s unsettling, honestly.
“Very happily,” he retorts. “And I don’t appreciate the implication.”
The fact that he can still say any of those words in his current state, let alone know what they mean, is impressive. He shoves his hand into the back pocket of his slacks, clumsily fishing out his phone. It takes him a few tries to unlock it, and his frustration only seems to be growing each time he puts his password in wrong. Eventually, he manages it, and he holds it up to you to show you his screensaver. It’s a picture of you and him from a few months ago. The one you begged him to delete, if you remember right.
It was from the day you all went to the beach. Natasha had bought this ridiculously oversized sun hat, and the guys were having a great time making a game out of seeing how many of them could fit underneath the brim.
“It didn’t look that big when I ordered it,” Natasha had grumbled, which of course was met with a chorus of whooping and hollering.
Bob had snuck off to set up his phone to record while the rest of them were busy arguing.
“It’s easier this way. Means I can take screenshots,” he’d explained to you. “Trying to get them to behave for a photo? It’s a nightmare.”
After a while, they’d all drifted off to do their own things. Natasha wanted to catch up on her book, and the guys were insistent on setting up a game of football. You had point-blank refused to join, not wanting to go home covered in bruises from constant elbows to the ribs, and Bob had stayed with you. As soon as everyone was distracted, he’d leaned in to plant a big kiss on your cheek, and you’d burst out laughing in surprise. His phone lay forgotten in the sand.
When you’d gone through the photos together later, you remember complaining about that one, saying you didn’t like how you looked in it.
“But you look so happy,” Bob had insisted.
He promised he’d delete it – crossed his heart and everything – but seeing it now, you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him even if you wanted to. He was right – you do look happy. And you know how he feels about you. He tells you every chance he gets how beautiful he thinks you are.
It’s been fun riling him up, but it’s probably best to quit while you’re ahead. You’ve never seen Bob so genuinely distraught. You find his discarded shirt, and lo and behold, his glasses are safely buried in the fabric. You pull them free, crossing the room and carefully placing them back where they belong. It takes Bob a second to even realise, blinking up at you owlishly before you’re suddenly being tackled to the bed. You don’t put up much of a fight. Even drunk, he’s a force to be reckoned with.
“Sweetheart,” he whines at you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are immediately shoved out of the way again. “Missed you.”
You consign yourself to your fate, letting him sling a leg over yours as he cuddles closer. You can think of far worse ways to go.
“Missed you too,” you reply with a smile, kissing his forehead.
He lets out a contented hum, brushing his nose against your neck.
“Did you have a good time?” you ask.
You feel him shake his head. You have a mountain of evidence to the contrary that would hold up very well against him in court, but you decide to humour him.
“How come? Did something happen?”
He huffs a sigh, blowing hot air against your skin.
“Wasn’t the same without you,” he mumbles, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.
Not five minutes ago, he was fighting with you, and now here he is, clinging to you like a koala bear. And even the argument was him trying to prove how much he loves you. Bob Floyd is a ridiculous man sometimes, but he’s your ridiculous man.
You gently run your hand up and down his back in an attempt to placate him. “I’ll come with you next time, honey, I promise.”
“You’d better,” he grumbles, but most of the fight’s left him at this point. His breathing’s growing longer and heavier, and you know you only have a minute at most before he’s dead to the world. Leaving you trapped underneath him in the centre of the bed. With the lights still on.
“Bob. Sweetheart,” you call softly, shaking him. He lets out a loud snort, jolting against you. “Come on, into bed.”
You somehow manage to wrangle him into an upright position and under the covers before he collapses against you again. His arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him. There’s a slight possessiveness to it that no one else would believe from such a sweet guy. There was a time when you wouldn’t have believed it either. You’re certainly not complaining, though.
You wait until you’re certain that Bob’s dozed off before reaching for your phone. Taking a quick photo of you and your now-snoring husband, you send it to the group chat. Almost immediately, you’re hit with notification after notification. You put it on silent, setting it down on the bedside table as quietly as possible. The mayhem can wait until tomorrow.
Bob mumbles something incoherent in his sleep as he all but shoves himself closer to you. It’s hard to stop yourself from smiling, as you let your eyes close as well.
Operation: Get Bob Smashed was a complete success.
Taglist: @getaapologist @nomajdetective
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Summary: Sometimes all you want is some quiet time with your husband.
Word count: 1.6k
Tags and warnings: Nothing but soft, married, domestic fluff, Calvin’s sickeningly in love with his wife (and a little bit of a tease), very mildly suggestive at the end, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(Working my way through the Lewbubu roster, apparently! I haven’t seen Lessons in Chemistry yet as I don't have access to it, but I’ve seen clips and so many gif sets. God, he’s cute. Did I write this fic for @getaapologist? ...Maybe.)
If you could have even one night in a week where Calvin didn’t sneak home from work in the early hours of the morning, or covered in Band-Aids, or absolutely reeking of something that had exploded on him in at work, it was considered a good week.
Tonight, you were blessed with all three. No injuries, no horrible chemical smells and he was home in time for dinner. Wonders never ceased.
“Is this my birthday present?” you asked. “Because you're a little early, you know."
You stood at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables. Calvin was supposed to be helping, but had instead decided that standing right behind you with his hands tucked into the apron at your waist was a much more productive use of his time. You wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t so distracting. He never was particularly good at keeping still for very long.
“Damn, that’s my cover blown,” he joked, pressing a kiss to your jaw with a smile.
His breath tickled your neck, and with a shiver, you set down the knife you were holding.
“Don’t make me ban you from the kitchen, mister,” you said, pretending to sound annoyed.
He laughed, giving you a quick squeeze before stepping back. “Okay, okay, I’ll behave,” he replied, relenting. “What can I help with?”
To the outside world, being able to cook dinner with your husband might not have sounded like the most exciting or glamorous way to spend an evening, but to you, it was everything. Besides, of all the words you could think of to describe Calvin Evans, dull was certainly not one of them. He was kind, and smart, and downright devoted to you. The way you would catch him staring at you sometimes - it was as if you had hung the stars in the sky.
He was perfect for you.
And his eccentricities only added to his charm. Even if they did, on occasion, leave your curtains in ruins when his experiments got just a bit out of hand.
Later that evening, you found yourself distracted, standing in the doorway of your bedroom. For once, Calvin was in bed before you, engrossed in the heavy textbook that sat in his lap. He quietly hummed to himself as he made notes across the pages. It was hard to keep the smile from your face as you watched him.
“You know, I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” you said softly.
He jumped at the sudden sound of your voice, so lost in his own world that he hadn’t heard you come in. The book fell to the wayside as he glanced up. Your smile only widened.
“Now, before you say anything else, this is my own copy,” he said firmly, righting the book in his lap again. “I don’t do this to the books at work.”
You stared at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, until he averted his gaze nervously.
“Anymore,” he added under his breath.
You shook your head with a fond expression. “That’s not what I meant.”
You climbed into bed next to him, nudging his shoulder with yours until he took the hint and put down his pen.
“What?” he asked, with a slight tilt of his head. “Is it because I’m working in bed? Because I’m not working. This is just for fun.”
You peered down at the thick textbook in disbelief. The pages were filled with nothing but equations and quadratics, with Calvin’s occasional chicken scratch notes in the margins - it all might as well have been in a different language.
“You and I have very different definitions of the word ‘fun’,” you told him, drumming your fingers along the page he had been scribbling on.
“And that’s why we work so well together. You keep me guessing.”
He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek.
“Makes life more interesting,” he murmured warmly.
Ever the romantic.
“That’s not what I meant either,” you said. “But since you’re not working, like you said…”
You closed the book over, pulling it out of the way before he could protest. He folded his hands in his now empty lap, bright gaze focused entirely on you.
“Okay, you have my full attention. What did you mean?”
You chewed at your lip. It was always so much harder when he turned it around on you like this, but you were not to be deterred. You walked your fingers lightly across his chest, up along his neck, before giving his nose the gentlest tap. It immediately scrunched. Every time.
“Well…I haven’t seen you for most of the day…” you said, in as innocent a tone as you could muster. “And I’m still not really seeing a lot of you now…”
Calvin’s eyes widened. Exaggerated, of course - he always loved playing along with your stories - but you could spy the faint pink colour creeping into his cheeks.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were ogling me, madam,” he replied in a mock-haughty tone, jutting his chin out as though he really was offended by the notion.
Madam. The pet name he always used in your pretend fights. The first time he had ever said it, your face had turned a very bright shade of red, and he had never let you live it down since.
Well, two can play that game.
“I am not ogling you, sir, I’m merely admiring the view,” you countered. “Or I would be, if the view wasn’t being obscured by this.”
You hooked your finger under the hem of his T-shirt, giving it a little tug.
A hint. Hoping he’d take the bait.
Calvin let his mouth drop open slightly, pressing a hand to his cheek.
“Why, madam, I’ll have you know that I’m a married man,” he said, pretending to be completely scandalised.
He slipped his other hand under the covers to hide his wedding band, and you laughed.
“Your wife is a lucky woman,” you replied, still smiling.
“And I’m a lucky man.” He reached for your hand, all pretence dropped as he kissed the back of it. “A very lucky man.”
Even after all these years, he still knew how to leave you breathless.
He pushed the covers away from him, sitting up on his knees. “You really want me to take it off?” he asked, his expression amused. “Fine.”
The way he said it, in such a casual, throwaway tone - it didn’t quite register at first. It was only when he was pressing you back against the headboard and sliding into your lap that you realised. Your breath hitched. Calvin had always been so unpredictable; made even more so by the way he looked. The way he dressed. His career. On the outside, he was the very picture of a shy, nervous man who would blush beet red if a pretty girl so much as bat her eyelashes at him.
But you, his loving wife, oh, how you knew better.
You knew all too well what lay beneath that well-dressed exterior.
“I got you a front row seat, hope you don’t mind,” he said, his voice dropping to a teasing lilt.
He winked at you, and while it should have been cute, maybe even a little silly, your mouth suddenly felt very dry.
He reached for the hem of his T-shirt, slowly pulling it up to reveal his stomach, then his chest. Another one of the many ways in which Calvin proved himself to be unpredictable was in how athletic he was. Almost every morning, he would go for a run around the neighbourhood, slipping back into bed just as you were waking up. He was an avid rower too, and could easily spend hours out on the water.
The first time you had seen him without his shirt, you had almost choked. Always finding new ways to surprise you.
He took his time, deliberately drawing it out until you were practically squirming underneath him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, as if he didn’t know damn well what he was doing to you.
You shook your head, letting your hands glide softly along the newly exposed skin, fingertips tracing lines against his ribs. He shivered then, and you smiled. It was nice to finally have the upper hand again, even if just for a moment.
Finally, he pulled his shirt off entirely, tossing it to the floor. That one curl he could never quite manage to tame fell loose, lying against his forehead. He looked down at you, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Well?” he prompted, placing his hands on his hips, as if he’d just finished a run. “Are you happy now?”
“Well…” you started, running your hands along his arms. “It’s definitely a good start…”
Calvin blinked at you in confusion, then it dawned on him. “Oh.”
He nodded, brows knitting together, as if he were mulling over some great discovery. Then he levelled his gaze on you, sharp and focused.
Dangerous.
“It doesn’t really seem all that fair, now, does it?” he said, his tone thoughtful.
A light touch at the hem of your pajama shirt. A hint of his own.
You pretended to look surprised. “Convince me,” you countered, folding your arms tightly. Challenging.
As if you needed to tell him twice. He pulled you in for a kiss that stole your breath away, his hands sliding into your hair, tugging ever so slightly. Just enough to draw a gasp from you. You could feel him smiling, and you raked your nails down his sides until he shuddered. Not to hurt, just to redress the balance.
He did, of course, manage to get his way in the end, but by that point, with you firmly seated in his lap, entirely distracted by how good he felt…Well, it hardly mattered anymore.
You’ll agree to disagree, as you always do, and just call it a draw.
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Joseph Quinn Winter Character Fic Exchange: Johnny Storm
Happy Valentine's Day @getaapologist! This one's just for you! The best chocolate is definitely the one that's bittersweet.
No warnings, just the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed.
He needed a redemption arc. A fresh start. A new leaf. Johnny’s mind could not stop thinking of stupid euphemisms as the makeup people fussed over his hair. What he really needed was a kick in the ass.
It hadn’t been the best year. Not with all the finger pointing after half the city blamed the Fantastic Four for the level of destruction left in Galacticus’ wake. The other half just blamed the Moloids, to Sue’s annoyance. To make matters worse, he’d been upset about Shalla Bal, and he’d handled it poorly–too many nights out on the town, caught on camera, his trademark dry humor curdling into something darker.
This was the latest stop on his redemption tour. Children’s reading hour at the public library. Playground clean ups. A fundraiser where he auctioned off orphaned pets of Galacticus’ victims to raise funds for the city’s animal shelters. And now this ridiculous show The Dating Game. It was supposed to endear him to his ‘core fan base’, whatever that was. He had been occupying the hot seat for too long, and it wasn’t due to the inferno he could control at will (at least, on the outside). He’d made a mess of things, putting the family at risk, and he had to set things right. So it was time to make a fool of himself on national TV.
“Five minutes, Mr. Storm,” the production assistant informed him chirpily. Johnny gave a thumbs up, blinking as the makeup folks put the finishing touches on his cheeks.
“Hey, uh..remind me what I’m supposed to do again?” He leaned back, smiling his most charming smile. The production assistant melted right in front of his eyes.
“Just ask the questions we wrote for you, and go out to dinner with the girl you like the best based on her answers. That’s it.”
“Okay…” Johnny’s brain was working overtime. This seemed too simple. What was the catch?
The production assistant cocked her head sideways. “You didn’t read the brief we gave you,” she said flatly.
“Sorry, Herbie ate my homework.” Johnny’s smile was sheepish.
“You can’t see the girls at all during the segment,” the assistant explained. “You only choose to go out with them based on their answers. So just read the questions on these.” She leaned forward and handed him a small pile of blue cards. “Think you can handle that?”
Johnny swallowed, feeling stupid. “Sure, I hope so.”
—-
The lights were blinding, and he was sweating under his tweed jacket and mock turtleneck. Johnny resisted the urge to fidget as the three mystery female contestants were presented to the audience. He swiveled nervously in his lounge chair as they answered questions from the show’s unctuous host, Gary Griffin. Johnny could hear them giggling and it set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t in the mood for female company. He hadn’t been in months. No woman on this earth could be as intriguing as Shalla-Bal.
“Just so the audience knows, we broke a record tonight. More than 10,000 young ladies auditioned to get their opportunity to go out for a special Valentine’s Day Dinner with America’s most eligible bachelor, Johnny Storm!” The audience laughed and cheered. Johnny grinned sheepishly and shrugged, but his stomach twisted. 10,000? He closed his eyes, wishing he were anywhere else. He imagined soaring through deep space, shooting through a galaxy across the universe.
Griffin’s voice boomed again, closer. “All right, let’s get this show started! Johnny, are you ready?”
Johnny’s eyes snapped open and he went into professional mode. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he quipped.
Griffin smiled his trademark oily smile. “Then ask your first question!”
Johnny glanced down at the cards. He ran his finger along the edge of the stack as he read the first question to himself. This seemed simple enough. Clearing his throat theatrically, he began. “Contestant number one, what is your favorite color, and why?”
Contestant number one answered breathily. “Well Johnny, I guess I’d have to say blue, because it’s the color of your big dreamy eyes.” The crowd laughed and Johnny nodded theatrically, though he wanted to roll those baby blue eyes so far back in his head he could see yesterday. Gamely, he pressed on.
“Gee, thanks. How about you, contestant number two?”
Contestant number two sounded about twelve years old. “Oh my gosh, I guess I’d have to say pink! Because I have a cute little pink number that I think you would love,” she chirped, before breaking into a squeal and causing the microphone to reverberate. After Johnny removed his hands from his ears, he chuckled.
“Uh, thanks contestant number two. Contestant number three?”
Contestant number three’s voice was quieter. Johnny caught himself leaning forward to hear as she answered. “I guess I would have to say green, because I love green things, especially in nature. I feel very calm when I’m walking in the woods or walking through grass.”
Johnny nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. This was the first answer that actually made sense. He realized he needed to respond. “I like nature too,” he said, feeling foolish. The crowd clapped politely and Johnny wondered if contestant number three wasn’t as pretty as the other two. He looked down at the next card. What is your idea of a perfect date?
“Contestant number one, what is your idea of a perfect–afternoon?” he quickly ad libbed. Griffin glanced at him, but Johnny didn’t want to hear these women describe what they thought he wanted to hear. He hoped this question would reveal a bit more about them.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe going shopping with you?” Contestant number one huffed so loudly into the microphone Johnny winced. “Maybe trying on something a bit racy together? And then–”
“Next contestant!” Griffin cut her off, to Johnny’s infinite relief. Number two squealed dangerously.
“A perfect afternoon would be cooking an amazing dinner for you, Johnny. I would clean and cook and look perfect for you so you could have the perfect meal in our perfect home when you come home!”
Oh good lord. Johnny sighed before finally asking: “Number three?” Once again, contestant number three spoke quietly.
“Hm, I’ve been thinking. Because it’s winter, I think a perfect afternoon might mean going for a walk in the village, maybe browsing in one of my favorite bookstores, before going home and curling up with a good book and a cup of tea.”
Once again, the audience clapped politely, and Johnny figured he was talking to a librarian. Still, it was miles ahead of the other conversations. “What type of books do you like to read?” he asked, genuinely curious.
There was a pause, then contestant three laughed. Johnny found himself leaning in again despite himself. “I like all kinds of books. I grew up reading a lot of mystery novels, my mom loved those. But I like history and romance too. Sometimes comic books, I hope that’s okay.”
The way she said it so apologetically was disarming. Johnny felt it was rapidly no longer becoming a contest. “That’s okay, I kind of like them too,” he joked.
He looked down and shuffled the cards, reading the last question: What’s the most romantic thing you could say to me, in your most romantic voice? He almost lit the card on fire with his fingertips right then and there. Griffin cleared his throat, and Johnny realized this entire situation was a lost cause. He was going to mess this up too. Looking up, he smiled directly into the camera, and asked: “Do you think the Fantastic Four should be forced to pay restitution to the city of New York for 2.4 million dollars, as some are claiming? Were they negligent in their response to the interplanetary threat of Galactus, causing preventable losses to property? Is the proposed repayment timeline of 18 months fair?”
It grew dead silent. Johnny thought he could hear the camera guy guffaw in the rear of the studio. Griffin theatrically pulled against his collar before addressing the audience. “Cut us a break, Johnny! You aren’t talking to your lawyers here!” The audience laughed, relieving the tension.
Johnny forced himself to laugh and shook his head, as if he was in on the joke. He was resigning himself to read the original question out loud when Contestant number three’s voice cut through the silence. “Actually, I’d like to answer that.”
Johnny swiveled towards the partition. “You would? I was just–”
“I know you’re upset,” she said quickly. “And to be fair, it’s not like you planned it. But the destruction is real, Mr. Storm. People have lost their homes. They don’t have the resources to pick up the pieces in the aftermath. They just can’t jet off to a high tower uptown. People are asking for this money because they are frustrated.”
Johnny was flabbergasted. Never, in one million years, would he ever have expected someone to make their point so persuasively on a dating show. “I think that’s the most romantic thing someone has ever said to me,” he quipped, bringing the house down.
After two more rounds of the world’s most inane questions (If you could describe yourself as an animal, what would it be? If you had $100, what would you buy me?) it was time for Johnny to choose the winner. He didn’t know if he would be able to keep a straight face as Griffin shoved the microphone toward his mouth.
“So, Johnny, which will it be? Do you want a pet pussycat, pony or meerkat?” Griffing turned and mugged to the audience.
“Well, Gary, it was a tough choice, but I have to admit I’ve never interacted with a meerkat, so…contestant number three!”
The audience applauded but Johnny could hear murmurs of surprise. I’m not as stupid as you all think I am, he thought, his cheeks reddening. He felt a sudden stab of anger, and stuffed his hands in his pockets, perhaps to prevent them from setting the microphone on fire.
“All right Johnny, let’s meet our lovely gals. Contestant number one is Myrna Sawyer, she’s a model and personal shopping clerk at Dillard’s in ladies’ underwear. Myrna?” Contestant number one emerged, a voluptuous redhead in a leopard print dress that left little to the imagination. Johnny kissed her on the cheek politely as she greeted him.
“Okay, contestant number two, Sally Kartes, is a 4-H Key Award winner and runner up Miss Missouri winner. Come on out Sally!” A perky blonde woman with a high ponytail bounded out and gave Johnny a peck on the cheek before joining Myrna.
“And contestant number three, your Valentine’s Day winner, is Veronica Pawling, a graduate student at Barnard college who works in the Egyptian archeology section of the New York Museum. Come on out, Veronica!”
So they were going for babe, cheerleader and bookish, thought Johnny. Because I’m such a simple fellow. He wondered what he constantly did to convince everyone he wasn’t as smart as Sue.
Veronica stepped out from behind the partition, and Johnny studied her. She had dark hair and black glasses, and was wearing a brown dress, but the effect was mysterious rather than frumpy. She stopped just short of Johnny and held out her hand, and on instinct Johnny took it.
“Ronnie,” she said quietly, and Johnny smiled.
—-
Johnny shuffled his feet nervously, pacing by the studio door. The Valentine’s dinner was already arranged for the following evening at a trendy restaurant in midtown. But he wanted to take a few moments to speak to Veronica before she went home. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. Johnny Storm, America’s Most Eligible Bachelor (allegedly), still having dreams about a naked space woman every night, was nervously waiting outside in the cold for a woman who worked in the archives of the New York Museum.
Finally, after many of the stagehands had already departed, Veronica appeared, dressed in a sensible coat. Her dark hair tucked was neatly behind her ears with a pair of earmuffs. As she picked her way carefully along the salted sidewalk, he stepped forward quickly, holding his hands up next to his face and lighting his fingers, so she could see him. Despite his efforts, she gasped and dropped her gloves.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, Veronica, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He took a step back, giving her more space. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.
“Ronnie,” she said. “Please call me Ronnie.”
Johnny smiled. “Ronnie and Johnny. It has a nice ring to it.”
Ronnie winced, and Johnny wanted to bang his head against the wall. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Ronnie nervously bent down to pick up her gloves. “Um, I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” she said quietly. “I’ve never been to Le Banquet before.”
The quip escaped before he knew what he was saying. “No one has. It’s been open for five minutes.”
Ronnie didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth curled up slightly. “Good to know. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.” She nodded at Johnny before continuing to the waiting car. As she was about to pull the door closed, he suddenly rushed forward and leaned down through the window.
“We don’t have to go there, if you don’t want to. We can do what you suggested instead, go for a walk, if that’s what you want.”
Ronnie gazed up at him, and Johnny noticed how long her eyelashes were. “Why are you being so nice to me?” Her eyes were serious, and Johnny couldn’t look away.
“Because you don’t treat me like a child,” he said simply.
Ronnie smiled then, and it lit up her whole face. “I’ll see you at seven, Mr. Storm.”
Johnny smiled back. “See you then.” He watched the car drive off, feeling happier than he had in weeks.
—-
The restaurant was crowded, but they had been given a table in the corner, tucked out of sight from most of the other patrons. Johnny was grateful there didn’t seem to be any press following up from the show. He pulled Ronnie’s chair out for her and sat down, sipping his water as she perused the menu. He felt uncharacteristically nervous. Glancing over at Ronnie, he saw her absent-mindedly biting her lip while she read. I’d like to do that, he thought.
The table was covered in a red tablecloth and an arrangement of roses in the center, a surprise for him to present to Ronnie at the end of dinner. The candles on the table enhanced their fragrance. Ronnie wore a simple black cocktail dress and a single strand of pearls. Johnny was dressed in one of his better suits. After a few minutes of watching Ronnie squint at the menu, Johnny leaned forward. “Put them on. It’s okay.”
“Sorry, I’m blind as a bat without them.” She smiled sheepishly and fumbled in her coat pocket, returning the dark cat eye glasses to her face. She blinked rapidly and smiled at Johnny. “There you are.”
“As long as you aren’t disappointed.” He leaned back, stretching his arms wide.
Ronnie shook her head slightly. “I’m not.”
After the waiter took their order and poured them each a glass of red wine, they contemplated each other. Ronnie raised her glass. “Thank you for selecting me,” she said, toasting him. Johnny followed suit.
“Thank you for not being an idiot.” Ronnie laughed and Johnny felt the warmth from the wine swirl with something else in his chest.
“Oh, I don’t think they were that bad.”
“Are you kidding? ‘Oh Johnny, let me make you the perfect meal, it’s me lying down with an apple in my mouth’.”
“Too easy?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Too boring.” They drank, the silence between them growing more comfortable for a moment. Ronnie then put her glass down and gazed at him intently.
“I hope I wasn’t too forward in my answer to you with that last question.”
Johnny smiled. “You weren’t.”
“It seems like it’s been a difficult time for you.”
His smile faded a little, but he didn’t break eye contact. It was easy to talk to her and he didn’t want to stop. “It has been.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Ronnie observed him quietly, but there was no judgement in her expression.
“Tell me.”
He found himself telling her all of it: The exhilaration of going to space again; the attraction to Shalla-Bal, the obsession to learn her language, the plot to protect the planet from Galacticus, and his grief over Shalla-Bal’s sacrifice. “I was too stupid to see what she was doing until it was too late, and I was too slow to stop her.”
Ronnie was a good listener, her dark eyes absorbing everything he said. “It seems like you’re shell-shocked,” she said, as they sipped their coffees. “I would be too, given the circumstances.”
“I don’t know why I felt such a connection to her,” Johnny confessed. “Maybe because I know exactly how she felt. I know everyone thinks I’m just some shallow womanizer, but I would have sacrificed myself in a second if it meant keeping Franklin safe.”
“Seems pretty clear to me,” Ronnie agreed softly. Johnny met her gaze and the heat in his chest bloomed again.
“I know I’m committing a cardinal sin, talking about my ex-girlfriend on a date with a new girl,” he quipped. He raised his eyebrows in an attempt to be charming.
“She was important to you,” Ronnie said softly. “I can respect that. And as someone who studies ancient civilizations for a living, I can really respect the effort it must have taken to learn her language and try to understand her. That’s amazing Johnny, really. If you haven’t gotten enough credit for that, you really should.”
For the first time since he could remember, Johnny felt the heat in his body grow from the inside out. “Want to walk for a bit?” he asked.
—
They walked for blocks, talking about their childhoods. Ronnie told him about a trip with her family to Morocco when she was young which sparked her interest in curating. “And the rest, they say, is history,” she joked, and Johnny laughed. They were holding hands now, the warmth from his skin keeping the chilly breeze from becoming too uncomfortable. Ronnie’s glasses kept fogging up in the cold. Johnny had prevented her from slipping a couple of times, catching her when she lost her equilibrium. It was a nice feeling.
After an hour of strolling, they arrived back at Ronnie’s apartment. As she climbed the front step, Johnny hung back, not wanting to be too forward. But he already knew he would see her again. Ronnie turned and smiled at him. “We’re the same height,” she said. Johnny was about to lean in for a kiss when suddenly he remembered he’d forgotten the flowers.
“Shit!” he said.
Ronnie furrowed her brow.“Everything all right?”
“The flowers on the table, they were supposed to be a gift to you!” Johnny looked skyward. If he launched now, he just might make it–
Ronnie’s hand closed around his arm, bringing him back into the moment. “We’ll send for them tomorrow, okay?”
Johnny let out his breath with a whoosh and gently reached forward to push her glasses to the top of her head. “Okay,” he whispered.
He leaned forward, making contact this time, and kissed her gently. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her tightly against him, self-conscious of his arousal as they deepened the kiss. It was tentative at first, but soon became fiery. After a few minutes, Ronnie pulled back. “Will I see you again, Mr. Storm?”
Johnny smiled. “Count on it.” It took all of his self control not to swoop her into his arms and jet her back to the Baxter building.
“I’ll take you up on that walk around the village, if you’re game.”
“I’m game.” Johnny could not stop his hands from roaming her body. A small sound escaped Ronnie’s throat when his fingers ghosted her breast and Johnny nearly lost his mind. He stared at her intently and saw she was panting. But she gently removed his hand and squeezed his fingers, before turning to climb the rest of her stoop, stopping at her door.
“Goodnight, Johnny. I hope to hear from you soon.”
“You will, I promise.” He waited as she let herself in and closed the door gently. Johnny glanced at his watch. It was late. He should probably jet home and get some rest. But he wanted to walk some more, because he was too excited to sleep. There was a new mystery to solve, and he couldn’t wait to get started.
A/N: This is for the super awesome JQ fic exchange! I was assigned @xemmjx to write for! There were so many good ideas, I latched onto the idea of a journalist and ran with it, I hope you like it! I made up a newspaper, don't hate me pls for inaccuracies, I just wanted to have fun. Also thank you @prettycalla for the support as always!!!!! Happy Valentine's day!
Running late. Again. A barrage of reprimands fill your mind as you race through the lobby, drink in hand, laptop in the other, bag slung around you smacking into railings and doorways on your way up to the offices of the New York Herald.
Phones ringing. Papers shuffling. A fax machine beeping. Keyboards clacking. The din of an active newsroom. A slightly controlled chaos. Something you are slowly becoming familiar with.
Quick, uneven steps carry you around others, past the congregation by the copier, and over to your small desk in a sea of others.
There's a new stack of papers, but you don't have time to sort out why they are on your desk right now. You have a meeting to get to.
A quick drop off of your things, and then you're turning to head to the editor's office—
"Shit," you mutter as the lukewarm latte tips and splashes onto your thigh.
As if summoned by your misery, Ed pops his head out of the door and calls out for you, his voice full of mild annoyance.
You don't have time to be upset, dabbing at your slacks with a cardigan you left here the day before. It's useless.
"Now!" Ed emphasizes, disappearing into the war room.
There's a group of staff already waiting inside. The oval table is laden with various papers and notepads, the center covered in blue coffee cups from the cafe on the corner.
You slip in behind others, joining the group at the far side stuck standing as there aren't enough chairs.
Ed clears his throat and that's enough to quell the chatter.
"We've got a few fires to put out today, so I'm gonna keep this brief. Crime, split up. You've got the burglaries over on 8th, and there's a missing kid down in Midtown. Source is skeptical of the parents, so dig in there." Ed looks up and scans the room briefly. "Lifestyle. Where's Henry?"
"Henry's out sick," someone announces.
"Well," Ed spoke, scanning the group. His eyes finally settle on you. "I need you up in features. You're covering Henry's interview today."
Your throat closes up. A feature? You've only been here a couple of months. Henry always ran with the features, letting you get your footing with the small stuff.
"Well, I—"
But Ed already moves on, planning for coverage of the various sports games occurring this weekend.
The room begins to feel a bit claustrophobic, like people are noticing you now, your discomfort telegraphed openly. As the meeting is adjourned and other staff begin filtering out, you linger, slowly making your way to the front of the room to approach Ed.
"Um, hi. Ed?"
He only glances up for a moment, hands gathering his own notes together. "You're gonna be late. It doesn't look good for us to keep our subjects waiting."
"Well, that's the thing, I, uh, I've never done one of these before, and with Henry out, I really think that maybe someone else should—"
Ed stands up straight, hands on his hips. "Are you questioning my decision?"
Mortification threads through your limbs. "Oh, no, I just—"
"You are on the Lifestyle team, aren't you? Do you want to keep your job?" The question is dangerous.
And you know your answer. "Of course."
He looks up at the long stairwell leading to the upper floor. "Then get up there."
So without even knowing your subject, or how these things typically go, you gather your things and trudge up the stairs.
"It's just an interview," you repeat to yourself. "Just a complimentary, easy piece."
Hand on the door, you give one last assurance. "Just stay on topic."
As soon as you push open the door, you hear laughter in the distance. There's a hallway you walk down, which opens into the nicer Admin offices. Marketing is here, as well as legal.
There's a man leaning up against the big desk, behind which sits a very interested secretary. His back is to you, but you can make out the unmistakably broad shoulder span, as well as the very trim, tapered waist.
His arms seem to be crossed over his chest, but he speaks animatedly, his hands assisting his retelling of what must be a fascinating story, if the secretary's absolute focus is anything to go by.
The blonde hair sends a warning shot into your gut.
No. There was absolutely no way.
"So then I had to go and save them all. I think it physically hurt Reed to thank me. The Frightful Four? Please. Piece of cake. They ran off back to the Wizard with their tails between their legs."
"Can you really just…" The secretary motioned to his figure, great curiosity in her eyes.
"Sure can, Doll." He lifts an arm and flames spread over his hand, a chuckle leaving him at his own party trick.
Johnny Storm.
Of all the people to have for a first interview, for your job to be riding on, why did it have to be the darling of New York?
"Is Henry not coming?" the receptionist asks.
The question shakes you out of your thoughts. As soon as her attention is diverted, as soon as her line of sight moves off of him and onto you, his head turns, eyes searching for the disruption.
"Uh, no, Henry is out today. Ed sent me."
"Oh." Her response leaves a lot to be desired.
Piercing, inquisitive blue eyes rake over you in a way you can almost feel. "So you're interviewing me?"
"I guess so."
His full lips curve up into a smirk, eyes carrying that edge. "Great. Shall we?"
"You seem nervous," he notes, watching you over the rim of the glass of water as he brings it to his lips.
You force your shoulders to steady, your posture to straighten. As you open your notebook, you shake your head. "Just getting up to speed."
There's a smile pressing against the rim now.
"So, this article, did you and Henry have any ideas on the angle for it?" The pen clicks and his eyes drop to the notepad in your lap.
"Henry? The name does sound familiar, but I don't think we talked about much besides when to come down here."
His energy fills the room, pushing out all the oxygen, leaving you with very little air. It's impossible to be unaffected.
You raise an eyebrow. "So, no questions were reviewed with legal? On either side?"
Johnny sets the glass on the table in front of him before leaning forward. "Oh, you know what?" He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, that does sound familiar." He produces a folded up paper from the pocket of his almost too-tight jeans and holds it out to you.
The way his smirk sets off his features makes you bristle a bit, your professional side warring with that nervous warmth blooming in your chest.
You accept the document, taking a moment to read it over. He watches you patiently as you unfold the page.
"I made some notes, hope you don't mind."
Sure enough, there's blue ink scrawled in around some of the questions, a few things scratched out altogether. Still, you're able to glean a general tone for the piece through Henry's submitted questions.
The last note catches your eye.
"'Boring'?"
His blue eyes are full of mischief as you meet them. "Nobody cares about the Foundation. You want eyes on your paper? I'll let you ask me anything."
You can't help the surprised laugh that leaves you. "Anything?"
His smile only grows as he leans back in the armchair, legs spread wide. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Anything."
"On the record?"
"Yep."
"That's a pretty dangerous thing to tell a reporter, don't you think?"
"Sure." His eyes rove over you. "But I think I'm in good hands here."
It's like you can feel him radiating heat. But that would be crazy, wouldn't it?
"How do you feel about having your own fan club?"
His lips quirked up a bit. "Oh, right away with the hard hitting questions, huh?"
His sarcasm wasn't well met. "Do you find it intrusive?" you rephrased.
"No." He's so sure of his answer.
"Do you ever wish you could go somewhere and have people not recognize you?"
He hums a noncommittal sound. "Sometimes."
That gets noted down. "Care to elaborate?"
Johnny shrugs. "If I wanted to meet up with someone, it's hard to be discreet."
"Like, dating, you mean?" It's a bit direct, and you wince internally.
But he carries on, undaunted. "Sure. But people are just grateful, I can't be mad at that."
One last glance at Johnny's annotated list of Henry's questions and you fold the paper back up. "New York's most eligible bachelor. Is that a burden for you?"
A light eyebrow raise. "What makes you say that?"
"The endless speculation? Rumors of settling down after every night out?"
"You read all that gossip?" His tone is playfully accusing.
A scoff. "That's not an answer."
He sits up, taking another sip of water. His eyes lower as he debates with what kind of answer to give. "It can be."
It's a big statement, and it's clear he's slightly put off at having to say it. But he promised anything. So you push ahead.
"Do you even get time to yourself? I imagine being on call literally twenty-four-seven is quite a burden."
He loses what lingering amusement was still in his face. "It can be. But it's important."
"Why is it your responsibility?"
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, a deep sigh leaving him. His eyes lift to focus on yours. "If you experienced something like this, if you made it back when you should've died, I think you would feel obligated to make the most of it, too."
His honesty is almost unnerving. It feels like you shouldn't be able to see this close. He's just as open as he promised.
"What was it like?" The question comes unexpectedly. Guilt fills you as you see him react, his eyes losing their luster just a bit. But then he's right back, as if nothing happened.
"Hell."
You accept the simple answer, a quiet apology for even asking, but he's not done.
"I was so excited to go." There's longing tucked away there, like he'd go back in a heartbeat if it were an option.
The realization is startling, that you're about to hear something he's not shared before, at least publicly. You rush to give him an out. "You don't have to tell me, really, I shouldn't have asked."
But he looks up, his gaze guarded. "I want to."
You quietly make sure the tape recorder is still going, with plenty of time left, and nod.
He sighs, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He clasps his hands together. "I couldn't believe I was going up there," he glances up at the ceiling as if he sees the stars through it. "I don't think my eyes left the windows for a second," he smiles, though it's small. Then his eyes fall back down to his hands, almost like he's waiting for the fire to spread over them.
"And then…" he takes in a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. "The storm."
The way he says it, with such finality, it's clear there was a life before this moment, and then a life after. His own inflection point.
"Nobody could've predicted it, despite what Reed says. It came out of nowhere. One second, everything was fine, and the next, we're taking evasive maneuvers to go around it. But I know what I saw. It moved. It followed us. We didn't stand a chance."
"And it was visible? This storm?" You ask.
He nods. "In a shimmery, vague way. Sue saw it first. And after that, Reed was panicking. The only person with a level head was Ben, and he got the worst of it."
"How did you make it back?"
He lets out a sigh, leaning back in the chair, hands squeezing together. "You'd have to ask them. I was too busy burning alive in my suit."
It stuns you into silence.
He continues. "That's what it felt like, anyway. They had to shut me in my suit, I was burning up all the oxygen. I didn't think it would ever stop. But at some point, it must've."
"I'm so sorry, Johnny."
He waves away your concern for him. "Ages ago, now. I can hardly remember it." The way he looks down at his hands gives you the impression he's lying, but you'll allow him this.
Johnny Storm is nothing like how you expected. Behind the bravado and displays of heroics, there's a bit of pain tucked away. A reason for this public persona. It recontextualizes everything you thought you knew about him.
And with this, comes a burning need to protect his secrets.
"Johnny, I shouldn't publish this. This is… it's private, someone might not approve—"
"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't want you to." His eyes are set, determined.
"Okay," you nod. "But if you change your mind—"
"Yeah, yeah," he waves off your concern, a certain lightness in how he moves now, as if any lingering traces of that deep conversation are already gone. Compartmentalized.
He stands as you turn off the recorder, beginning to pack up. "Got a hot date lined up?"
"Excuse me?"
"For tomorrow?" he lets out a breathy laugh, curt, clearly a little surprised. "Valentine's day?" A funny mix of confusion and concern. As if it were somehow impossible to forget about the upcoming holiday with how it was advertised everywhere.
There's an uncomfortable awareness of every little thing you're doing. "Is this relevant?"
"Indulge me." His tone is jovial, but he seems to really want the answer.
"No."
"Hmm," he hums.
That meticulous chaos of sound is around you, though it's not a distraction. No, nothing can distract you with how fast you're typing up this piece.
Far from the skies of New York, Jonathan Storm still seems comfortable in a quiet meeting room. It would be intimidating if he wasn't so polite—
"These just arrived for you." A large, overfull vase of flowers is set right in the middle of your desk, blocking your monitor entirely. Everything is some shade of red, or orange.
The sensation of being watched is overwhelming, the whole room a handful of decibels lower than usual as speculation runs rampant.
It takes longer than you expect to find the card, but you finally do, sinking back into your chair as you pull it free from the small envelope.
Blue ink. That gentle, lazy scrawl.
It was really nice talking with you. We should do it again sometime. Maybe over dinner? I have it on good authority you might be available tonight.
Johnny.
There's a number penned in on the back, and you clutch it to your chest, surprised at the jumble of excitement and nerves that fill you.
Still, as you tuck the card into your purse, face warm, you don't mind at all.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Do not feed my work to AI ever please! Feedback is much appreciated. It's what greases the wheels and gets people to write things you might want to read. I feel like this is important to state because it may not be obvious as a reader. Anyway, happy Valentine's day, I hope it goes well for all of you!
Title is from Colour Me In by Broadcast (Covered by Hayley Williams) (Neither she nor I are proper English but I've kept the spelling preserved); Banner regarding 18+ by me, Milky Way banners are from a photo taken by Graham Holtshausen
Summary: You and Jordan broke up for a reason (or several). He'll never be what you want. But here you are, letting him back in. Again.
Word Count: 3.7k
Tags and warnings: Smut with a little plot (PiV, oral), bit of angst, ex-boyfriend Jordan, exes with benefits situation, Jordan has a tongue piercing because I said so, allusions to drug use (all off-screen and nothing worse than what he does in the film), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+! Minors, please do not interact!
(Okay so I wrote this waaay before I watched the film. I saw a few gifsets and uhh, well...here we are. I wasn't planning on posting it originally, but it also seemed a waste to just leave it in a folder. I shouldn't have to say this, but I don't think Jordan's a good guy nor do I condone or romanticise any of his behaviour in the film. This is fiction and I'm an adult. Thank you to @getaapologist once again for helping bring this chaos to life!)
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It’s the same every time.
You know that sound off by heart. No one else knocks your front door like that. The first half of a rhythm. A private joke you used to share. He’d do the first part, you’d come to the door and do the second.
You wait. Eyes closed. Deep breaths.
Maybe he’ll go away.
He knocks again, louder. Your knuckles gently rap against the couch. Your answer. Before you’ve even moved. Before every ‘no’ and ‘I can’t’ has a chance to start, you’re on your feet, walking down the hall.
Like a reflex. Every time.
You’re about to look through the peep hole when something stops you. That bad part of you. The one that knows if you look, you’ll walk away. Keep him standing there until he finally gives up and leaves. Goes home. The bar. Someone else’s bed.
You don’t want to stop yourself. That’s the worst part. You want to let him in.
You unlatch the lock, letting the chain drop against the wall. He glances up as soon as the door starts to creak open. Big smile, as always.
At first.
“Hey,” he says.
That one word tells you everything. The breathless way he says it. Like he just took a flight of stairs. But you know the elevator’s working, you just got back a few hours ago.
Your grip is relaxed on the door, but your foot’s pressed against the inside of it. “Hi.”
“I tried to call first, but you didn’t pick up.”
Always an answer. Always an excuse. Someone else to blame.
“I was asleep,” you lie, trying not to look at him for too long.
His jaw clicks. Nose scrunches.
“Alone?” he asks tensely.
You nod, and immediately he relaxes. Jealousy and Jordan always did go hand-in-hand.
You wait. Here it comes.
He brings his hands up to his face, cupping them close to his mouth. He blows on them, frowning as he rubs them together.
There it is.
“Aren’t you freezing standing there?” he asks, concern bleeding into his casual tone.
You feel your lips moving slightly, mouthing along with him. It’s like a movie you’ve seen too many times, one you’ve fallen asleep in front of, and woke up dry-mouthed and dazed on the couch in the middle of the night.
It’d be funny if it wasn’t so sad.
You remember the next line. It’s yours.
You need to leave.
“Do you wanna come in?” is what you say instead.
You watch him pretend to mull it over, fiddling with the cuff of his denim jacket.
“Only if that’s okay,” he replies quietly.
Then he gives you that look - soft eyes, brows knitted together, that lopsided smile that always makes your heart ache. He has it down to an art form.
I don’t wanna put you out, it says. Like he’s embarrassed.
As if he’s ever regretted anything in his life. How can you regret anything when you think you’re invincible?
“Sure,” you say, moving back to open the door properly.
You can’t remember the last time it felt like you had a choice in any of this. But that’s not really true, is it? Just what you tell yourself to shift the blame elsewhere.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are meant to be together.
He steps past you - no kiss on the cheek, no hand on your waist as he goes by, no “thanks, baby” with a wink. He’s not about to ruin his hard work so far.
No, he’s saving that for the living room. His stage. You always thought he’d look good in the spotlight.
You take your time locking the door. No point in deluding yourself. He’s not leaving tonight.
He hasn’t sat down when you walk in. He’s wandering, taking a slow walk around the room, one hand shoved into his back pocket. He stops at the fireplace, and you close your eyes for a second with a tired sigh.
You hear him huff a little laugh. “Always loved this photo of us,” he murmurs, picking up the frame.
You’re so used to it sitting there that it hadn’t even occurred to you to take it down. It all fades into the background after a while.
“Jordan,” you say carefully, your thumb rubbing small circles into your palm.
You don’t dare sit down. You know what it leads to.
He turns to you, placing the frame back haphazardly. He smiles then; that polite, tight smile that hides so much if you don’t know him.
“Jordan’s what my mom calls me,” he says, both teasing and terse.
Another sigh. God, you’re tired. “Fine. Dan,” you try again.
You remember the night the two of you sat at the bar with a pile of napkins and a pen, trying to see what nicknames you could come up with for each other like two kids. He liked Dan; said he thought it was cute, like you.
His smile widens, showing off his dimples. “Better.”
“What are you doing here?”
He frowns at you like it’s a silly question.
“I missed you,” he replies, as if it’s obvious.
He scrunches his nose again, rubbing his knuckle quickly across it with a sniff.
Like hell you did.
“Didn’t you miss me?” he asks, in that soft way that makes him sound so pathetic.
He always knows what buttons to press.
You look away. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy?” Another huff of a laugh; he runs his tongue across his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”
Deep breath. You’re not taking the bait.
He takes his time crossing the room, stopping just as he reaches the couch.
“D’you mind if I…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with a finger.
You shake your head with a non-committal shrug. He sits down, right in the center, making a show of stretching his arms across the back of the couch as he makes himself comfortable. Thighs spread apart in those too-tight jeans. Knee already bouncing.
“You’re not gonna stand there all night, are you?”
He tilts his head to one side, glancing up at you coyly. You take your time sitting down, making sure to stay at the very edge.
“You sure you’re comfortable all the way over there?”
The tip of his finger ghosts along your shoulder blade before it just as quickly disappears again.
“Plenty of room over here, y’know.”
His tone is so innocent. As if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
That ghost of a touch traces a line along your shoulder again. Across your neck. Warmth rushes down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake as you shudder. He chuckles to himself. Fingers walk their way to the space between your neck and shoulder. His grip tightens. Not enough to hurt.
To imply. A suggestion.
And God, you fall for it every single time. Slowly, you lean back, and his arm drapes across you, holding you close. You hesitantly let your head rest against his shoulder; his nose nudges lightly against your temple.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against your hair. “Back where she belongs.”
You hate when he says things like that. Because you hate how weak it makes you feel. He can’t keep winning. You can’t keep letting him.
“Missed you,” he says again.
His mouth is so close to your ear, and it’s like smoke the way it curls around you. Squeezes you. Poison in your blood. He’d have made a killing in Eden.
“Missed you too,” you hear yourself say back.
Traitor.
A silence stretches between you, thick and heavy. Your words hanging in the air. Just for a minute, you let yourself pretend that everything’s alright. That none of the fights and tears and sleepless nights ever happened. He never left.
The bubble bursts when his hand starts to wander. Plucking gently at the fabric of your shirt. It begins to bunch up slightly, exposing a sliver of bare skin, and you shiver as his fingers run lightly across it.
“Danny…” you start to say, but there’s no point.
You’ve already fucked up. You both heard it. Not Jordan, not Dan.
Danny.
He might have put the gun in your hand, but you’ve just pulled the trigger.
He laughs, a pleased breath of a sound, fingers digging in just enough to pull a gasp from you, before they slip lower. Toying with the tie of your pajama pants.
“What’s the matter, baby?” he purrs, in that low voice that always drives you crazy.
It’s dangerous territory, but you can’t bring yourself to stop him. His hand begins to dip under the waistband. You squirm, and that only encourages him.
“You need something?”
You can tell he’s trying to be patient, but he twitches against you. Like his entire body’s thrumming with electricity.
You’re not going to be the one to break first. You owe yourself that, at least.
You shrug, and he clicks his tongue. Already wearing thin.
“C’mon, there’s no point in denying yourself,” he says in that same low voice. Always was so stubborn. “We both know why you let me back in.”
If he’d have said that five minutes ago, you’d have seen red. Told him to get out, shoved him out the door and slammed it in his face. It’s not so easy when he’s already wound his way around you.
“It doesn’t have to be anything more,” he continues. “Just tonight.”
But it’s never just tonight. Even when he’s not here, he is. Like dust across the sideboards. Doesn’t matter what you do to get rid of it, it always settles again.
The wine stain you’ve never been able to clean out of the carpet. The fight that pushed you too far.
Your breath catches in your throat. “Just tonight,” you echo, almost dazed.
His arm tightens around you then, squeezing you. That thrum feels stronger. The high always feels better when he gets what he wants.
“Come here,” he says softly, helping you turn around to face him.
His eyes are darker in the low light. Pupils blown wide. Lip caught between his teeth, biting over and over. Waves falling loose across his forehead.
Manic. Gorgeous.
You lean in to kiss him; your lips barely touch before he’s dragging you into his lap. Strong hands grip the backs of your thighs, pulling you closer. He lets his head fall back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you. His legs are still spread wide, and you know you’ll feel the stretch of it tomorrow. Doesn’t matter right now.
He swallows, and your gaze is drawn down to his throat, to the thin chain he never takes off. You hook your finger under it, the silver glinting in the light. A collar would suit him just fine, you think. Something to drag him along with. Keep him under some kind of control.
He’s still biting his lip, and you gently pry it free, running your thumb over the bright red mark left behind. His hands close over your wrists. Strong. Warm.
How do you feel so safe when he always leaves you dangling in the air?
He shifts, pulling you out of your thoughts as his hips push up, his belt buckle bumping against you just enough to leave you unsteady.
“No wandering off on me, sweetheart, okay?” he teases, winking at you as he lightly squeezes your wrists.
You hate how he does that. How he knows.
One hand slips up the back of your shirt, splayed across your bare skin, tipping you forward. He dips his head, yanking at the material until he can grab the hem with his teeth. A couple of stitches snap in his haste, and you swat at his shoulder in annoyance. It doesn’t deter him. Never does. Because you never mean it.
He stops about halfway up your torso; clearly he’s got enough of you on show to work with. He starts at your sternum, licking one long, slow line up. Warm steel presses against you as he moves. That damn piercing he got on a whim and decided to keep. More trouble than it’s worth; you’d know better than anyone.
Pain blooms across your ribs as he nips at the skin there, worrying at it until he’s satisfied he’s left a mark. It’s hard to keep thinking when he’s like this. All tongue and teeth and tearing at clothes like he’ll die if he doesn’t get to touch you.
That’s the whole point. If he can stop you from thinking, then you can’t convince yourself how bad an idea this is.
Deep down, you know there’s a good man in there. You’ve met him. The one who’d make you pancakes wearing just his underwear with the radio turned all the way up. Who’d take you for a drive when you couldn’t sleep, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee.
The one who cried in your lap that he wanted to change, get his shit together. Be better for you.
Sometimes you wonder if he ever really existed, or if you made him up just to make it all easier. Because he’s the same man who disappeared in the middle of your anniversary dinner and came back with a bloody nose and a too wide smile. The one with the duffel bag full of money hidden in the back of your closet that he couldn’t explain. Who called you a bitch and begged you to stay in the same breath.
Cheap booze and good intentions. Two halves of the same fucked-up whole.
Like you’re any better, with your holier-than-thou attitude as you let him trample all over you again and again.
His hands slide up your sides, under your arms, pushing them up along with your shirt. It’s tossed somewhere across the room before you can stop him. At least he didn’t tear through this one.
Before you can even attempt to cover yourself up, he grabs your wrists, holding them tight.
“Don’t you dare.”
Another argument you’ve had many times before. A nicer one.
“God, you’re beautiful, you know that?” he whispers.
And what hurts the most is that in spite of everything - every fucking thing he’s ever done wrong - he means it. You blink hard.
Another beat of silence falls over the room, but this one’s different.
He breaks first.
He tugs you down, hands in your hair as he kisses you, slipping his tongue into your mouth. He taps at your thighs.
“Off,” he pants as he nips at your lower lip. “Wanna see all of you.”
It’s a struggle to do what he wants when he won’t let go of you for more than a second, but you somehow manage. Then he’s crowding you back against the couch, hands on your waist to turn you around, until you’re face-down on your knees. Heat rushes to your face, embarrassed at being left so exposed, but you hardly have time to think about it properly when you hear the rattle of him undoing his belt, the crack of it as he tugs it through the loops too hard and lets it clatter to the floor. The soft thump as he drops to his knees.
You flinch as that wicked tongue of his licks a long stripe against you, the metal ball of his piercing flicking at your skin. He keeps teasing like that, until you finally give him what he wants - one broken, little moan. You hear him laugh, but before you can say anything, he’s pushing harder, deeper, and whatever insult you wanted to call him is gone. He’s relentless, tongue moving in that devastating way that leaves you shaking.
“That smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day,” you’d joked once, back when everything was okay.
“You have no idea,” he’d said, giving you a sly smile.
Oh, you do now.
His breath hitches, a whimper escaping him. You don’t even need to look to know what he’s doing. Palming himself through that tight denim. As wound up as you are.
He clumsily gets to his feet, undoing his fly and shoving his jeans down enough to get them out of his way. His fingers clench hard at your hips, prying a broken gasp from you as he pulls you back. It’s not like you haven’t done this before, but fuck, it takes you by surprise every time.
“Can’t wait, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Need you now.”
You press your lips together hard to stop yourself from crying out as he pushes into you. You’ve missed this. Missed having him so close. It’s all you can do to hold yourself upright; just let him have you, take what he wants from you. What you want from him.
It has to stop. All of this has to stop.
But not tonight.
The pace he sets is brutal, and you already know you’ll be a mess tomorrow. It’s like he does it deliberately, wants you to think about him long after he’s gone.
“You feel so good, baby. Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “It’s like you were made for me.”
You could have been once.
He drapes himself along the length of your back, his breath hot against your neck. You can’t move, can hardly breathe, but you’d kill him if he stopped now.
“No one else can make you feel like I do,” he grits out as he fucks you harder, deeper.
Reckless. Desperate. He’s not what you need, but God, he’s what you want.
“Tell me there’s no one else,” he pants, warm hands roaming the length of your torso, scratching, squeezing.
Like you’re in any position to talk right now, but he won’t stop. He needs to hear you say it.
“Tell me,” he growls, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises.
You shake your head. “There’s no one else, you know there’s no one else. There can’t be, you won’t fucking leave me alone.”
He laughs, so cocky now that you’ve given in. “I don’t make you open that door, sweetheart.”
And he’s right, he doesn’t. If you ignored him, stopped answering the door, blocked his number, eventually he’d get bored. Drift off. Find someone else.
But you don’t want him to find anyone else. Just you. Because you still lo-
Calloused fingers trail roughly along the inside of your thigh, up, up, until you almost scream. Teeth nip at your shoulder, his chain warm against your already searing skin.
He’s selfish, always chasing his next high, but tonight it’s like he’s got a point to prove. He keeps going, dragging quick circles over and over until your legs are shaking. You can’t take much more of this.
“I’m not gonna last- I can’t-” you manage to gasp out.
“Don’t want you to,” he says, his pace never once faltering. “You’re gonna give me what I want, aren’t you?”
You quickly nod, too far gone to give a shit about your dignity. His hand slides up to your neck, and he pulls you up against him, your back flush against his chest. You steady yourself on the back of the couch, clinging to the cushions for dear life. He doesn’t let up for a second, and you feel like you’re about to pass out. That warmth pooling low in your core is white-hot now. You feel weak. Delirious.
The best you’ve ever felt.
“You gonna be a good girl for me?” he pants, palm pressed flat against your throat.
You manage another shaky nod.
“Yeah? Don’t keep me waiting.”
A sharp nip to your earlobe that feels like an electric current racing through you. You’re tense, taut like a bowstring, and he knows you. Know all your signs. When you’re teetering right on the edge. He waits for it, that one tell - your hand frantically reaching for him, gripping his hair to keep him close.
“That’s it, baby. Come for me.”
The force of it hits you like whiplash, white noise in your ears, heart thudding against your ribcage. He’s the only thing keeping you up, your legs threatening desperately to give out. But he’s not done. He has to finish. Has to leave his mark.
He hisses out a swear when he comes, hips stuttering as he rides it out. His grip tightens and you clutch at him, holding him through it.
Slowly, he lowers you back down. You feel weightless, like you’re floating.
You lie there, letting him fuss over you. He’s always at his sweetest just after he comes, and you cling to it every single time. He finds your clothes, helps you dress again, leaving little kisses to the marks he’s left on you as he goes. Your eyes are half-shut already, and you don’t fight him as he takes you to bed.
Tomorrow’s broken heart doesn’t matter. Not when he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close to him, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks and nose, telling you how good you were. Underneath it all, his teeth are still clicking together, but you don’t care. He’s here.
“Just gonna rest my eyes for a little while, okay?” he whispers between a line of kisses along your jaw.
Somewhere in your post-orgasm haze, you wonder what will be waiting for you when you wake up. Spin the wheel. Will he still be here, or will you be alone again? You’re not sure which is worse. You try not to think about it anymore, tucking yourself closer to him. He hums quietly, stifling a yawn. You let your eyes close.
You can pretend everything’s alright for one more night.
You’re still somewhere in that dreamy space between sleeping and waking when you come to the next morning, where your only care is how cozy you are. Nothing else matters. You lazily roll over, all too happy to doze off again.
A warm arm slides around your waist, dragging you back to reality. A kiss is pressed lazily to the base of your neck.
“Hey,” he mumbles, still half-asleep, his voice hoarse.
He lets out a contented sigh, and you try to ignore how he traces his fingers across your stomach. The faint smell of his cologne.
How it feels like it used to, if you let yourself dream.
“We can’t keep doing this,” you breathe, but he’s already fallen asleep again.
Just like the last time. And the one before.
Every. Damn. Time.
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Summary: Bob’s been your best friend since you were kids, he’s not about to ruin it all over a silly crush. But a power cut in the middle of a storm might just push him too far.
Word count: 3.7k
Tags and warnings: Fluff, reader and Bob are best friends and roommates, Bob’s POV, sharing a bed, confessions, first kiss, reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.
(Does Bob Floyd have an audience? I have no clue, but I loved writing this. This is 100% for @getaapologist - I hope I did your boy justice!)
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Bob Floyd’s life is perfect.
He graduated one of the top in his class, secured his dream job as a weapons systems officer, even made lieutenant. He’s making enough money to finally have a place to call his own, and to top it all off, he’s living with the girl of his dreams. Things couldn’t possibly be any better.
There’s just one small problem.
The girl of his dreams has no idea how he feels. At all.
You and Bob have known each other for years. Childhood best friends, grew up on the same block, started kindergarten and graduated high school together. Every summer, you spent a week by the beach with his family. You practically lived in each other’s back pockets, even finished each other’s sentences. It all sounds like it’s been ripped right out of the script of a romcom.
Except you have no clue. He’s never been able to build up the courage to tell you. And it’s getting harder and harder to keep his mouth shut.
He tried to ask you out about four years ago. Had himself all psyched up to do it too. Picked out the nicest shirt he owned - and then had to change it for the second nicest because he ended up working himself into a panic sweat. Even bought you flowers.
Then his phone rang. It was you. He’d wanted to do it in person, but maybe it was fate.
“Bobby!” you’d practically shrieked at him the second he answered. “I’m so glad you picked up. You’ll never guess who just asked me out!”
The rest of the conversation was drowned out in a blur of white noise. He thinks he said all the right things, pretended to sound excited, told you how happy he was for you.
He felt numb.
It lasted about six months. Six months, two weeks and three days, but who’s counting? He certainly wasn’t. He’s just always been good with numbers, that’s all.
The worst part of it was, Bob couldn’t even hate the guy, because he treated you so well. But you just weren’t right for each other. Better as friends, you both decided.
Better as friends.
That scared the hell out of him. He couldn’t ask you out. Not now. Not ever.
Not after everything you’d been through together. He couldn’t risk that.
He couldn’t risk losing you forever.
So now here he is, with the perfect job and the perfect home and the perfect girl. Who has absolutely no clue that he’s hopelessly in love with her.
He’s somehow managed to create his very own personal circle of hell. Just perfect.
He gets back from work earlier than usual that evening. They were all aware of the storm warnings, but it had soon escalated from the planes being pre-emptively grounded to everyone being dismissed entirely. Deep puddles were starting to form on the roads as Bob drove home, and he’d heard on the radio that a few areas had already lost power.
When he opens the door, it’s to find the apartment in total darkness. He tries the hallway switch. Nothing. Flicks it on and off a couple of times. Still dark. Great.
With a sigh, he shuts the door, trying to wrestle his phone out of his pocket for the flashlight. This was the last thing he needed today. He’s not exactly sure what he did, but it feels like the universe is out to get him.
As if to prove his point, his elbow bumps against something, sending it crashing to the ground. Shit. He turns his phone’s light on, finding a photo frame lying smashed at his feet. He must have knocked it off the wall. He bends down to pick it up, when another loud bang throws him to the ground too.
“Who’s there?” he hears you shout from further down the hall. “I’m warning you, I’m armed!”
“Hey, it’s just- It’s just me,” Bob stammers, shielding his face from the bright light that’s suddenly shining in his eyes.
“Bob?” Your voice is much closer now. “Oh, thank God. I heard all the noise and thought someone was trying to break in.”
You lower your phone towards the ground. Bob squints up at you.
“Good to know you’re prepared if someone ever did try to break in,” he says with a weak chuckle, fixing his glasses as he pulls himself off the floor.
You swing the wooden bat in your hand with a sheepish look.
“So I got a little paranoid, cut me some slack,” you grumble.
You head in the direction of the living room, Bob following behind you. In the centre of the coffee table is a curled up string of fairy lights and a few battery-operated candles that he recognises from the Hallowe’en decorations. You’ve set up a little fort for yourself on the couch, with every blanket and pillow you could find apparently. Including Bob’s. He tries not to think about it.
“I tried calling the power company earlier, but it seems like everyone had the same idea, so I couldn’t get through,” you tell him. “I cleared out the freezer as best I could, threw some towels down around it, just in case it’s out for the rest of the night. Hopefully it won’t be too bad.”
You gesture towards the table.
“I know it’s not great, but I did my best to dig out anything with a light,” you say. “I could have sworn there was a flashlight around here somewhere, but I can’t find it for the life of me.”
“I’ll have a look for it,” he replies. “Have you eaten?”
“Mm-hm. Some of us aren’t so fussy and count cereal as dinner, you know.”
He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. Always is with you.
“I’m gonna go get changed,” you say. “I got so distracted with everything else going on that I didn’t even realise the time, and then it got dark, so…”
You trail off awkwardly.
You got scared on your own. He won’t embarrass you by saying it out loud, but he’s known you long enough by now.
“No problem. I’ll see if I can find the flashlight and make some sandwiches. You know, real food,” he says with a barely concealed smile.
You stick your tongue out at him as you leave, the bright light of your phone disappearing with you. Bob sighs quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Can the universe just cut him some slack? Please?
He busies himself in the kitchen, digging the flashlight out of the bottom drawer that the two of you swear you’re going to clear out eventually, and making what is probably too many sandwiches for two people.
But it’s either that or wait for you in the living room. When he knows you’re getting changed. He feels like such a creep.
You’re taking longer than he thought, and the cold in the kitchen is starting to become hard to ignore. He brings the plate in, then finds himself just staring at the couch like it’s going to eat him.
He should change. He’s still in his uniform, and while he managed to avoid getting soaked coming in from his car, it’s still damp. But he needs as many layers between you and him as he can get. Maybe it’ll be alright if you stay on one side of the couch, and he stays on the other. Maybe.
He makes a dash for his room, throwing everything off and his sleep clothes on as quickly as he can, before heading back to the living room. He pulls his own blanket around himself on the couch, trying to ignore the faint smell of you. He’ll wash it tomorrow. Or burn it. Whichever’s easier.
He hears your footsteps grow louder, and he busies himself with his phone. He really shouldn’t if the power’s going to be out for a while, but it’s either that or sit there like he’s waiting for you. Which would be a completely normal thing for a friend to be doing. He’s overthinking.
He’s always overthinking when it comes to you.
You stop by the end of the couch, wearing those too-big pajamas that make you look even cuter than usual. Bob had no idea that was possible, honestly.
You stand as straight as you can, giving him a little salute.
“Permission to come aboard, Lieutenant,” you say, trying and failing to hold back your smile.
Bob just blinks as he pulls the blankets back. He hopes to God you can’t see the blush that’s undoubtedly creeping up his neck.
“Permission granted,” he replies, trying to play along.
He hopes he sounds normal, because he sure as hell doesn’t feel normal after hearing you call him that.
He thinks he’ll be fine if you can just stay on the other side of the couch. As luck would have it, you seem to have decided that the best place to sit is right next to him, with your thigh pressed against his. You might as well just climb into his lap-
No. Shutting that down before it starts. He can’t start thinking about that. Not now. Not again.
You, of course, appear to be none the wiser, reaching for the plate of sandwiches and offering one to him as if you’re spending the evening with a friend who’s completely normal and not on the verge of a spiral because your leg is touching his.
And for anyone else, this would be normal. So the power situation isn’t ideal, but surely two friends can easily spend a few hours together in each other’s company. He does his best to pretend he’s alright - asks you about your day, laughs at your story about your co-worker that he’s barely listening to if he’s honest. He’s so distracted by you. Your smile, how animated you are when you’re explaining something interesting, how you always seem to be touching him in some small way. A soft pat on the arm, your knee grazing his. Even in the dim light, he thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
He feels like he’s losing his mind. Sometimes he wishes you would just find someone already, so he can get over this. As if it’s your fault. But a bigger part of him hopes you never find anyone, and you can stay living together, just the two of you. And that makes him feel like an asshole. What kind of friend is he that he’d rather you stayed alone forever so that he can be miserable in peace?
The evening passes slowly, and he’s definitely spiralling. You asked him a question, and he has no clue what it was. He was too busy trying not to stare at you, and now you’re staring at him, patiently waiting for a reply.
Is he sweating? He thinks he’s sweating. In the room with no heat. Because that’s always a good sign.
“Bob?” you prompt gently. “Is everything okay?”
Your hand touches his knee, and he jumps like he’s been electrocuted. You recoil automatically, your expression worried.
“Huh? Oh- Sorry, yeah, I’m- I’m fine,” he replies in a rush. “Just- Sorry, you startled me. Didn’t realise you were…”
He lets out a breath. He feels like he’s about to choke.
“…so close.”
He’s acting weird, he knows he is. You’re sweet enough not to say it, but he can tell by your expression that you’re thinking it.
He rubs at his eye, trying to distract himself. He can’t keep looking at you.
“I was just saying that I’m gonna go to bed,” you say softly.
Thank God. Never in his life has Bob heard a more beautiful sentence.
You untangle yourself from your cosy little set-up, and already he misses the warmth of you. You pry your blanket free from the pile, gathering it up as best you can in your arms. He watches you awkwardly try and reach for your pillows, face obscured by the blanket.
“Need some help?” his stupid mouth’s asking before his brain gets a say in the matter.
“Oh, could you?” you reply. “You’re an angel, thank you.”
He stands up a little too quickly, stacking your pillows under his arm as he follows you to your room.
Away from the heat of the blanket fort, the rest of the apartment feels unbearable. There’s another battery-operated candle sitting on your bedside table, casting a tiny light in the otherwise dark room. No sooner has he handed you your pillows when you’re diving under your blanket, pulling it tight around you.
“You need me to get you anything?” he asks.
“No, I’m- I’m good.” Your teeth are chattering slightly, and you clutch the blanket closer.
He stands there for too long, unsure as to what to do with himself.
“Actually…” you start. “Would you mind…staying with me? Just ‘til I warm up a bit?”
No. Bad idea. Terrible idea.
“Sure,” he replies, wincing as his voice cracks.
He doesn’t need some divine power to torment him. He can do that to himself, thank you very much.
You hold the edge of the blanket out to him, and he takes it with a hand that was definitely not shaking like this a second ago.
It’s fine, he thinks to himself over and over, as you wriggle out of the way to give him room. He just has to lie down and act normal for ten minutes, fifteen tops. He can do that. He’s been pretending to be normal around you for years at this point. What’s a few more minutes? Then he can take himself into his own bed and scream himself hoarse. No big deal.
And then you’re rolling over onto your other side with your back to him, reaching for his hand to pull him close, and suddenly he wants to cry.
It’s not fine. Things have never been less fine.
“This is nice,” you say contentedly.
There’s no way that Bob can be trusted to say anything without giving himself away, so he settles for a quiet hum in agreement.
“It’s like when we were kids, remember? Your parents would make sure we were tucked into our separate beds, but I’d always sneak into yours so we could play your Game Boy ‘til we fell asleep.”
Bob squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel a headache coming on. Because it’s not like that at all. Not anymore.
It’s so much more.
“Do you still have your Game Boy?” you ask, too caught up in nostalgia to notice the crisis currently unfolding behind you.
Great. His turn to speak.
“Uh, yeah, maybe?” He clears his throat. “It’s probably up in my parents’ attic somewhere.”
“Maybe we could go get it sometime, see if it still works,” you reply, trying to stifle a yawn.
You move then, backing yourself closer to him. Panic floods through him, and he pulls back, trying to keep his distance. Things are bad enough as it is. He doesn’t need his- Nope, he’s even going to entertain that thought.
You move again. So does he, desperate to keep away with you.
“You’re gonna fall out of bed, come here,” you say, trying to hook your foot around his knee to drag him over again.
“I’m- I’m alright where I am, honest,” he replies, his voice wavering.
You’re going to be the death of him, and you don’t even realise what you’re doing.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly.
“Mm-hm, I’m fine,” he replies immediately.
Gotta keep up the charade until he can escape. Not long now.
“Look, if this is making you uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay, okay?” you tell him. “I just thought that…well, it wouldn’t be a big deal, since we’ve been friends for so long.”
Your hand finds his arm, and he flinches. He hears you sigh.
“I knew it. This is making you uncomfortable,” you murmur. “You should go to bed, get some sleep.”
A sudden wave of anxiety hits him. He’s made you upset. That’s the last thing he wanted to do. You try to gently push his arm away, but he tightens his grip.
“No, it’s not- It’s not like that. It’s-”
He stops with a frustrated sigh. He hates how tongue-tied he gets around you. It never used to be like this.
But what’s he supposed to say? What could he possibly tell you that won’t scare you away?
“Hey. Bobby, it’s okay,” you say soothingly, running your fingers back and forth across his arm. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He’d laugh if he wasn’t so upset.
“It’s just…” he starts. Falters. Lets out a long breath.
He can’t keep this up anymore. He has to tell you. Even if it means…
“Promise me something?” he asks, his voice small. Pleading.
“Anything,” you reply without a thought.
He’s never taken for granted how much trust you have in him. He hopes he doesn’t lose it after this.
“Just…let me finish what I’m about to say. I know it’s gonna be a lot to hear, but promise me you won’t interrupt,” he tells you quietly.
You shift in his hold, as though you’re about to turn around. “Bob, I don’t understand, what-”
He shakes his head. “Promise me. Please?” he asks.
He knows you have so many more questions, and what he said hasn’t answered any of them.
“Alright,” you say, relenting. “I promise I won’t interrupt.”
God, now he has to tell you. But he’s made it this far. No backing out now. It’s too late.
“I, um…Look, I never thought I’d ever say any of this. Ever. I thought I’d just keep it in my head forever, or until it went away. If it ever did. I hoped it would. And I tried. I really tried. Tried to distract myself, move on, push through it, but this…this isn’t going anywhere. No matter what I do. And now I feel like I’m stuck with two options. Either I leave, we spend some time apart and maybe all of this will stop. Maybe we can go back to how things used to be. Or…I tell you. Everything.”
A heavy sigh escapes him. He presses his forehead to the base of your neck, his hold on you tightening. It’s selfish, but he needs this. Before he loses it all.
“I’m…completely, head-over-heels in love with you,” he confesses in a rushed whisper.
The room falls quiet; rain thrumming against the window the only sound. It’s overwhelming, like a pressure bearing down on him. He swallows thickly, waiting for you to speak. He needs you to say something. Anything.
It feels like forever before you finally do.
“How long?” you ask.
You sound dazed. He can hardly blame you.
“Um…Probably since college,” he admits.
He hears the tiny ‘oh my god’ that slips from you at that, and he wants nothing more than to rewind the last five minutes. Shove every word back into his mouth and swallow them down, like he’s been doing every single day since he realised how he felt.
“I know I should have waited for a better time,” he says quickly, nerves getting the better of him. “Or never said it at all, because now I’ve ruined everything. And I’m sorry, really I am. I just-”
There’s a lump forming in his throat. He can cry later.
“-I can’t keep hiding how I feel. I’m lying to you all the time, telling you I’m fine when I’m not. I can’t do it anymore. It’s not fair on you.”
There it is. All out in the open. The wonderful facade he’s spent years hiding in has finally crumbled down around him.
He waits for you to yell at him. Tell him how this is going to change everything. Push him out of your bed. Slap him, even.
You turn to face him, and he braces himself for the inevitable. For you to finally put him out of his misery, and break his heart in two.
He’s so sure of his fate that he doesn’t expect you to grab him by the shirt and kiss him. His eyes are still open and yours are squeezed shut too tight, and your nose is pressing into his glasses in a way that’s going to leave a mark, but he doesn’t care.
It’s perfect.
Because it’s you. And he’s never wanted anything more in his life than this. Just you and him.
Your hands slide up to his face, cradling his jaw. They’re cold against his skin, but he’s running so hot right now that it’s a welcome relief. He feels feverish. Delirious. Like he’s been drinking all night.
He reaches for his glasses, trying to take them off without making you stop. You do anyway, a breathless laugh escaping you as he shoves them under the pillow out of his way.
He wants nothing more than to pull you back to him, but you should talk. You need to talk. This could ruin everything.
“You kissed me,” he says slowly. He feels as if his alarm’s just woken him out of the best dream he’s ever had.
He hears you hum, your touch gentle against his face.
“I did,” you reply softly. “Felt like the right thing to do.”
You move a little closer, and his breath hitches when your leg slides over his.
“You’re not the only one who’s been struggling, trust me,” you tell him. “I guess I thought if you felt the same way about me, you’d have told me before now.”
You press a finger to his lips before he can even try and explain himself.
“It’s okay. I’m just glad you finally did.”
And then you’re sliding your arms around his neck and dragging him back in for another kiss, and everything he wanted to say - every thought, every question - all of it just stops. Nothing else matters.
You kissed him. You’re kissing him, like you want this too. Like you want him. And now you’re pressing at his shoulders, pushing him down on his back, and he’s a goner. He’s so in love with you, it makes him feel stupid.
You’ll talk later. About everything. He swears you will. But right now, this is all he cares about. Pressed flush against you, his hands on your hips as you climb into his lap, kissing him like you’d die if you had to stop.
You want this too, just as much as he does.
The girl of his dreams finally knows how he feels, and she feels the same way.
Everything else can wait.
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