D1lfCocklecter

I Drabble a little, also Drabble these nuts(18+)

[not-neverland06]

Fire in My Heart

𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 & 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Overview: The Danforths like to play a little game with their new brides. They just didn’t know you were playing one of your own.

Mdni 18+ (relatively vanilla p in v, more so wanted to get a scene of mutual desperation/passion)

wc: 9.5k

He doesn’t remember you; you made sure of that. He doesn’t know what your old name used to be or who you were. He only sees what you want him to see. The perfect girlfriend, the doting fiancé. He doesn’t understand that this game you play is all too similar to his own. 

The dress wasn’t your choice. Nor was the location or the food, nor the color scheme. None of this was what you had wanted. It was all for Titus’s family. That’s the price to be paid for marrying into generational wealth, you suppose. Traditions must be adhered to, and the eldest of the family must be obeyed. 

His aging father had told you that this was non-negotiable. You had asked if signing a pre-nup might change his mind about your wedding. He had just laughed and told you divorce wasn’t an option with the Danforths. 

You knew that going into this. The Danforths are no clean-cut American family. But it had still given you a moment’s pause. You love Titus more than you thought you would.

But the prospect of having to find alternate escapes from the family was worrying. Surely the man was just old, preaching outdated opinions about the sanctity of marriage. It’s not like anyone could truly stop you. 

Ursula had asked why you were so bothered by it, anyway. Marriage happens because two people are delusional enough to think that they’ll be together forever. That had shut you up for a while. Sometimes, though, that conversation lingers in the back of your head. 

Like now, as you’re donned in the dress a hundred other Danforth women before you have worn. A dress she might have worn. 

You look through the arched windows of their manor at the venue below and see servants bustling about. There’s a knock on your door, and the maid behind you buttons the last bit of your dress before going to answer. You don’t have to turn to know who it is as she opens the door. It’s been nearly a day since Titus last spoke with you, and you’re sure he’s been going stir crazy. 

“Leave us.”

“But, sir-”

“Do I really need to repeat myself?”

You finally turn, letting out a weary sigh as the poor girl flinches back. “Don’t scare her. You’re the one breaking tradition, after all.”

His shoulders visibly relax at the sound of your voice. The maid makes the wise decision to slip past him rather than argue further. You step down from the stool she’d had you on and eagerly rush toward him. He’s got even less patience than you, reaching forward and snagging your waist, dragging you into his chest. 

You let out an airy laugh, hands wrapping around the lapels of his suit. “Missed me that much, hm?” He tenses up and you frown, glancing up at him. “What is it?”

Titus’s gaze is distant, eyes cloudy with something you can’t quite place. He finally looks down at you, face softening and lips turning up. “You’re going to do great tonight.”

Your brows furrow as you let out a confused laugh. “I hope so. I’m not really sure how I could screw up my own vows.” His lips purse, like he wants to correct you. But he stays quiet. “Is everything alright, sweetheart?”

“And what are you doing here?” You jump, head thumping into his chest as Ursula breaks up the tense moment. She lingers in the doorway, a pointed look directed at her brother. 

Titus’s hands squeeze once around your waist before he backs off. “I’m not allowed to speak with my future wife?”

A smile slips unbidden onto your face. You’re still getting used to the thought of being the next Mrs. Danforth. Ursula’s gaze cuts to you, her shoulders tense as she takes in your giddy demeanor. “It’s against tradition.”

“Oh, I don’t believe in that silly stuff,” you tell her. 

“Not your tradition, honey. It’s a Danforth thing. Titus.” Her voice is firm; there's no room for arguments. He gives you a lingering stare before following her out of the room. 

Ursula isn’t the worst sister-in-law you could have. She’s cold and distant with you, but you prefer that to being overbearing and constantly accusing you of being a gold digger. As half his family likes to do. If you were in it for the money, there were plenty of easier rich men you could have gone after. You want something else from the Danforths. Loving Titus just happened to be a pleasant change in plans. 

Ursula keeps pulling you aside. Asking if you’re completely sure you want to be with him. You know that if you told Titus about her constant questioning, he’d be beyond upset. Which is the only reason you’ve kept it to yourself. But you’d be lying if you said she wasn’t the reason you were so riddled with anxiety today. It’s not so much about marrying him as about forever being connected to his family. 

Poor or rich, though, in-laws will always be a pain in the ass. 

“I do.”

“I do.”

The entire wedding is a blur. From being led down the aisle to saying your vows. There’s only here and now. The heavy weight of the Danforth family ring on your left finger as you hold Titus’s hand. You think the priest says something about kissing the bride. But you’re not listening. The only thing you can focus on is your husband. 

He’s got that wild look in his eyes, eager and ready to devour you. The priest barely finishes what he’s saying before Titus cups your cheeks and drags you into him. Your lips part in surprise against his as he kisses you in a way that pushes the boundaries of propriety. But as Titus's hand drops to cup the back of your neck, you’re sure you’re the only one worried about that. 

Your arms wind around his neck, a quiet moan slipping from your lips as he kisses you with a fervent desire bordering on desperation. His ring is on your finger. You’ve officially taken his last name, and you can’t understand this anxiety coming off him. Surely he can’t lack that much faith in you.

“Titus,” you whisper, trying to get a breath in for a moment. He pauses, eyes cloudy as he stares down at you. “Save it for the honeymoon,” you laugh, but he doesn’t join you. His hands flex around you once, twice, before you’re letting out a short squeal as he lifts you off your feet. He does it with ease, hardly breaking a sweat as he marches you back down the aisle. 

Ursula shoots him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as you pass by. You can’t help but laugh, holding tight to him as you glance over his shoulder. But the guests don’t look happy that the ceremony is over and it's time for the reception. They don’t seem particularly enthused about you joining the family, either. Instead, they stand, staring at you and whispering amongst themselves with hungry looks on their faces. 

You swallow roughly, forcing your gaze off them. “Where are you taking me?” you demand, frowning as you realize he’s heading back inside the manor. The reception’s meant to take place in the main courtyard. 

His eyes flit down to you before there’s a small smirk on his lips. “I want a moment alone with my wife. Is that so wrong?”

You struggle to subdue the smile on your face. “We have a reception to get to.” You’re not exactly eager to go back out there with his vicious family members. But they’re going to know exactly what the two of you are getting up to. 

He scoffs, as if he heard your thoughts. “Don’t give a shit about them, alright, sweetheart. They’re having their fun. Let's have ours,” he says, setting you down in front of one of the many bedroom doors. Titus shoots you a wink, opening it and pressing his palm to your lower back, ushering you in. 

You should resist; try to remake your first impression with his family. But… fuck ‘em. This isn’t the wedding you wanted. This isn’t the house you wanted. You’re going to let yourself have a little fun today. 

You lace your fingers with his, dragging him inside after you. He barely pays enough attention to kick the door shut behind him. You let out a quiet giggle at his excitement, but it’s quickly cut off by him dragging you into another kiss. He always leaves you feeling wrecked. Like you’ve been hit with a sudden fervor, a passion ignites within you that no one else has ever brought forth. 

Your hand wraps around his suit, struggling with the buttons as you drag it down his arms. He lets out a low chuckle at your own eagerness. You suppose you’re perfect for each other. Both so pathetic and desperate to be naked and within each other’s arms at all times. 

His hands struggle with the complicated buttons on the back of your dress. A short gasp leaves you as he breaks away, whipping you around. He tries for a moment to preserve the dress, and then you hear a very loud rip as he tosses away the idea of preservation. 

“Titus!” You scold, hands coming up to try to catch the dress before it falls to the floor. It’s pointless, though. The heirloom has been thoroughly destroyed. “You know they’re going to blame me for that,” you hiss. 

Though when you glare over your shoulder at him, it’s hard to remember why you were mad. He’s got a cocky smirk on his face as he shrugs, shoving the dress down your body. “I’ll take care of it,” he swears, his voice husky with the promise of a dozen other things. The dress is the last thing on his mind. 

Your lips tilt up, and you wind your arms around his neck once more. Rough hands skate down the backs of your thighs until he’s lifting you, leading you both back to the bed. You work eagerly on untucking his shirt, nails scratching greedily down his muscled chest. “How’d I get so lucky?” You wonder as he drops you down on the bed.

He offers you a sly grin, quickly undoing his belt as you help him push his pants down. “Think I’m supposed to be asking you that, Mrs. Danforth.”

“Mm,” you hum, “I’m not going to get used to the sound of that.”

He pauses, expression turning serious. “You will,” he swears, closer to a demand, really. 

Your brows furrow, some of your excitement dimming as you cup his cheek. “Of course,” you mutter, frowning as he leans into your touch. He’s usually eager for affection, but something is off. 

He doesn’t let you linger on the thought for long. He drags you down until your pelvis is flush with his and you can feel just how much your new name excites him. He reaches down to peel off your underwear, only to let out a low groan when he realizes you hadn’t bothered with any. 

He shoots you a sharp look that you only grin at. “What? I thought it would be a nice surprise for the garter toss,” he lets out another groan, face falling into your neck as you laugh. It turns into a deep moan as his fingers skate across your center, your want quickly coating them. 

That desperate urgency burning beneath his skin enthuses your own. Your hips jolt up impatiently, legs flexing around his hips as you let out an impatient groan. “Titus,” you whisper, lips skating across his jaw as he teases you. “Please.” You’ve barely finished the word before his touch disappears. 

You’re tempted to complain before you catch him pushing down his boxers, movements quick and desperate as he works to free himself. You would tease him if you weren’t so riled up yourself. How tonight goes is a coin toss, no matter how hard you worked to prepare yourself. Who knows? They might need this dress in another few months for the next Mrs. Danforth. 

The thought burns at you, bites beneath your skin, and sends white-hot rage boiling through your body. Another woman in this bed, with her legs wrapped around the man you were never supposed to want. Your nails dig into Titus’s back, earning a sharp hiss just as he inches himself inside you. 

Something on your face must give away some of your inner turmoil. His brows turn in as his hand clasps the back of your neck, and he drags you into another desperate kiss. A keening whine passes between your lips as his free arm props your knee over his elbow, somehow burying himself deeper inside you. 

“God,” you moan, finding it hard to catch your breath. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your body thrumming with pleasure only he knows how to give. 

He’s more intense than any man you’ve ever been with. Each time with him feels like a recoupling of your souls. But this is different. 

His hand slips from the back of your neck, resting over the hollow of your throat as his thumb presses into your pulse. He’s pressing himself deeper inside you, as if he’s trying to merge you into one being. One soul that can’t be split. As endearing as such a desperate desire is, there’s a gnawing worry in the back of your mind. 

He’s acting like this will be your last time together. As if this one moment is all he’ll have to remember you by. Your hands come up, clawing down his back at a particularly deep thrust. The moan it lurches from you only makes his grip tighten. 

This is not the end.

You’re so distracted by the feeling of him over you, inside you, consuming you, that you can’t pay attention to your own worry. That fire is building, spreading; you don’t want to be put out. You want to ignite and burn with him. 

Your pleasure crests as you let out a husky moan, legs tightening around his hips as you lazily meet each one of his thrusts. He loses his rhythm after a moment, lips lazing across your cheek and down your neck. Again, he lingers at your pulse, teeth digging slightly into the sensitive skin. 

You jolt, back arching as the pain makes pleasure throb in your already sated core. His hips stutter before you can feel warmth spilling into you. That fire sparks, ignites, and then shudders as you both lie there, chests heaving.  

Your fingers drag up his back, feeling him shiver at the light touch. They find their way into his hair, scratching through the loose curls. You can’t help but smile at the way he sinks into your touch, practically melting into you. 

“We should stay here,” he whispers. 

Your eyes narrow, hands stilling as you try to push him back. He’s stubborn, face pressed firmly into your neck a moment longer before obeying. “I was promised cake,” you mutter, smiling slightly. 

He chuckles, knowing that you hadn’t even been able to choose that for your wedding. “How about this… You stay here with me, and I'll get you whatever cake you want tomorrow. The actual flavor you wanted.”

You really should go back out there. Actually attend the reception of your own wedding. But you doubt you’re capable of walking right now, much less entertaining polite conversation with his horrific family. “Deal,” you whisper, dragging him down into another kiss. 

Something stirs between your legs, and you let out a low groan. “How is that even possible?”

“Look what you do to me, Mrs. Danforth,” he smirks, getting comfortable between your legs once more. You’d push him away if you didn’t like the sound of that name so much. 

Your head is on Titus’s chest when you hear it, a strange bell tolling in the distance. Your body goes still, the noise reminding you of why you ever came back here. 

“What’s that?” You play at confusion, bleary eyes opening as you turn toward the window. His hand tightens around your shoulder, breath stalling beneath your ear. “Titus?” You frown, glancing up at him. 

He’s not looking at you, gaze drifting somewhere beyond you. There’s a knock at the door before you can press further. Titus’s eyes fall shut before he shifts you away, getting up to answer. Ursula stands in the doorway, backlit by the candelabra of the old estate. You frown, lifting the covers to obscure the thin nightgown you’re wearing. 

“It’s time.” She glances toward Titus before taking a step inside. 

“Time?” you ask, gaze darting between the twins. “Time for what? I’m pretty sure we already missed the reception,” you try to laugh, but it trails off at their grim expressions. Something inside you coils tight. 

You’ve been waiting for this. 

Ursula beckons you forward, but Titus steps up. Your brows turn in as you glance over at him. His expression is pinched. Bound by the oaths and secrets of his family, but his love for you is holding him back. You slowly get out of bed, waiting for him to do something, but he stands frozen between you and his sister. 

“Titus?” you try, almost wondering if he really would break tradition. 

He turns toward you, mouth opening, and something sharp on his face. “Enough,” Ursula butts in, eyes wide as she watches her brother. “There’s something I need to show you. It’s a tradition of sorts in our family,” she explains, but her gaze never wavers from her brother. 

Your husband, who is caught between loyalty and devotion. 

You squeeze his hand as you pass by, offering a confused smile. He buys into the act, a shaky breath leaving him as he steps back. “Is everything okay?” You ask, your voice pitched to sell the naivety they’re eager for. 

“Ignore him; his nerves seem to be getting the best of him,” Ursula cuts in. Her smile is wide, too tight at the edges to be anything real. But you pretend, playing into the role they’ve come to expect from you. You follow her from Titus’s room. 

You’re only a few steps away when you hear footsteps behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you see the male members of Titus’s family storming into the room. They push him back from the doorway, slamming the door closed behind them so he can’t follow you and Ursula. 

A part of you hopes he truly would have broken the rules for you. Not that they would ever let him go without some blood spilled. 

“Wherever we’re going, I’m sure I’m not dressed for it,” you joke, motioning down at the white, silk nightgown that barely brushes your knees. Ursula hums, and you glance over at her. Her shoulders are tense, expression painfully pinched. If you didn’t know her any better, you’d almost think she was regretful. You’re not sure a Danforth is capable of remorse. 

“You’ll be fine,” she tells you coolly. “I only wanted to show you something.” She leads you through the winding halls until you reach one covered in portraits. 

People dressed in suits and wedding gowns decorate the paintings on the wall. Each expression is grim and haunted. “There is a tradition in our family. One we’ve held for hundreds of years. It’s an initiation of sorts into becoming a Danforth. The final test to prove your worth.”

“Oh? And suffering a wine-drunk aunt isn’t enough?” Ursula offers a pitying laugh but brushes past your comment. Dread and anticipation coil deeper the further you walk. 

“Our family is a part of something special. We follow a man whom few others do, who has never led us wrong. Those who enter the family must also prove themselves to him. Some others who follow him like to simply play games with the brides.”

She stops in front of a portrait, and a woman with a gaunt and haunted face stares down at her. You recognize her from the pictures Titus so rarely shows you. Her mother had been gone for years before you’d ever stepped foot in this place. 

“A few simply sacrifice their brides in the name of Le Bail.”

Your head whips towards her, attention ripped away from the painting. “Sacrifice?”

“None of that’s important.” She cuts you off, turning on her heel. Her expression is flat, but her eyes are narrowed into worried slits. “When the time comes, you need to run.”

“What-" You’re cut off as steps thud up behind you. An arm clamps its way around your throat before you can even turn. A sharp prick at the skin of your neck as cold liquid rushes through your veins, and you go limp in your attacker's arms. 

You were eight the first time you set foot on the estate. A new job your mother had acquired, cleaning for the reclusive Danforths. You were nine by the time she’d fully charmed the eldest Danforth. And the wedding happened only a few days after your birthday. 

There’s not much of the ceremony that you remember. You’d stood behind your mother on the altar. She hadn’t had any other friends to join her bridal party, and Chester Danforth hadn’t minded how close his new bride was to her daughter. 

The twins had been sitting in the front row, each of them looking bored and eager to get the ceremony over with. You’d liked listening to the vows, not that you remember them anymore. You’d simply enjoyed the idea of a love so strong they were ready to bind themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. 

You hadn’t yet discovered what divorce was. Better yet, you hardly knew what a betrayal was. After the reception, Chester and your mother led you and the twins up to the top floor of the estate. 

“I want you kids to stay in here now; your new mother and I have some business to discuss.” Ursula had grimaced at Chester calling your mom her new one. But she’d said nothing, ever the perfect daughter. Titus had glared, but he rarely butted up. 

Chester glared down at his children, disappointed in their lack of response. You had lingered awkwardly beside them, still such an outlier in their dynamic. “Titus, try to get to know your new sister.”

“She’s not my sister,” Titus had snapped, only a few years older than you. Chester was quick, too quick for any of you to stop him. His hand snapped out, striking Titus harshly across the cheek. Your mother flinched, eyes wide as she hung off the arm of her new husband. You’d tried to step forward, but she’d stopped you with a terrified look. 

For a moment, the mask she’d been wearing slipped. You saw the fear in her eyes. For yourself or her, you’d never find out. 

Titus went quiet, sulked to the back of the room as Chester set his eyes on you. You’d cowered, too afraid to meet his eye. With a satisfied hum, he’d taken your mother, and she’d left without a goodbye. 

Ursula sank into an armchair, eyes fluttering closed. Titus simply crossed his arms, glaring through the window. It was only a few years' age difference between you all, but it was daunting nonetheless. 

You’d sat on the carpet, too afraid to mess up their fancy couch and chairs. “When do I get to go home?” You’d asked, your voice quiet as you fiddled with a thread on your dress. 

“This is your home,” Ursula had responded boredly. 

“For now,” Titus snapped, glaring over at you. You gulped, refusing to meet his eye. You didn’t want this big place to be your home. You wanted to go back to the apartment and hide in your room. You didn’t like these people, and you didn’t like your new stepfather. 

A bell tolled in the distance, and you jumped as laughter echoed through the halls. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a game the adults play,” Ursula told you, leafing through a book without actually reading anything. They’d left a dollhouse in the room for you to play with, but you were afraid of looking like a baby in front of the twins. 

“Oh. Will I get to play?”

Ursula’s eyes shot up to meet yours, and you frowned at the concern in them. “I hope not.”

“I’m sure she’d do great,” Titus scoffed, throwing a mean glance your way. You were pretty sure that wasn’t actually a compliment. 

It took another hour before you gave in and inched toward the dollhouse. You glanced over your shoulder, but neither of the twins was looking at you. Humming softly to yourself, you picked up the porcelain figures and danced them through the foyer of the ancient set. 

A piercing scream echoed through the halls. It rattled through your bones and made tears burn in your eyes. You gasped, jumping up with a start. The doll slipped from your hands, cracking against the floor and shattering at your feet. 

“What was that?” 

Ursula’s brows raised, boredly glancing over at the door. She let out a heavy sigh but didn’t answer you. “Part of the game.” You jumped again as Titus’s voice echoed in your ear. Whipping around, you found him hovering just behind you, but his attention wasn’t focused on you. Rather, the porcelain doll was broken at your feet. 

“Oh,” you let out a small gasp, dropping to your knees as you rushed to pick up the pieces. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hissing when a shard slipped against your palm. 

“Forget it,” he grunted, kneeling and offering you the handkerchief from his suit. You hesitated, hardly ever having gotten a nice word from him, let alone a peace offering. He waved it in your face, and you quickly took it. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. He only stood up, going back to standing by the window. You pressed the handkerchief to your bleeding wound, grimacing as a stinging pain radiated through your palm. 

A bell tolled off in the distance, and you frowned. Suddenly, the room’s door opened. Ursula shot up straight, eyes wide as she peered over at her father. He wore a grim expression that made her own face fall, her gaze going blank as she looked over at you. 

Chester called your name, and you frowned. “Say goodbye to Titus and Ursula.” You didn’t want to. Something about his voice made your stomach twist. But you didn’t want him telling your mother you’d been bad. 

Turning back to the twins, you offered a shaky smile. “Goodbye-”

Ursula didn’t so much as flinch, but Titus had grimaced, looking away as his father rushed up behind you and pressed a syringe to your neck. Neither had objected as he dragged you from the room and threw you into your new, lonely life, with only a small envelope of cash. 

This is the second time in your life these fuckers have drugged you, and it’s starting to piss you off. You slowly lift your head, finding it heavy and aching. Your eyes blur and refocus as you struggle to take in your surroundings. 

Mud and sticks press up against the sensitive flesh of your limbs. It takes a moment for you to realize they’ve dumped you in the forest bordering the estate. With a shaky sigh, you struggle onto your hands and knees. Sharp rocks bite into your hands as you push yourself up to stand on wobbling legs. 

The blood rushes from your head, leaving you dizzy and stumbling as you try to rest against a tree. You’d never known how this works. Only got bits and pieces from drunken relatives with big mouths. 

They aren’t supposed to tell you that your wedding night ends with your being hunted like a dog, of course. But they didn’t know that you were already aware of their little tradition. Of the long list of women who’d gone missing once they visited this haunted estate. You pieced together what you could from the stories they’d told without ever giving away too much. 

Nowhere had you figured out that they drugged the women before they began slaughtering them. It seems unfair to expect a woman to prove she can survive a ruthless world when you begin by crippling her. But you doubt these people care for fairness if it comes at the expense of a good show. 

You reach up, yanking leaves from your hair as you dig into the updo they’d done for you. Buried carefully is a slim, silver pin. You slide it free and, with unsteady hands, slip off the cap, revealing the sharpened blade within. 

It’s barely larger than a letter opener. But you need whatever advantage you can get, and you were too afraid they would search you to try strapping on a knife. 

Pushing away from the tree, something sharp stabs into the sole of your foot. Glancing down, you let out a weary sigh. It’s not enough that they drug you. They need to take your shoes too? 

Do they even want you to survive? Or is this all one big joke to them?

Your chest clenches, thinking of Titus watching them do this to you. Watching them dump you in the woods to be shot at like a wild animal. Clenching your eyes shut, you shake your head. He chose his side; you knew this would happen.

It doesn’t matter where he is. You have one goal tonight, and it isn’t to survive. You want the blood you’re owed. 

Steeling yourself for the pain, you make your way through the woods. You search out any landmarks or hints as to which side of the property they left you, but it’s too dark to see anything. The best you can do is keep your steps quiet and try to remain aware of your surroundings. 

It takes a while more of walking before you hear them. Two loud-mouthed Danforth cousins complaining about their plans for later tonight. “How long do you think the hunt will take this time?”

“I don’t know,” one of them sighs. “Last time we got her in half an hour. I’m already getting fucking bored just standing out here.”

“I told you we should have started looking-”

His sentence ends in a choked gurgle as you sneak up behind him, slim blade slipping across his throat. The other man’s eyes widen as he chokes on his gasp, too shocked to reach for the gun strapped to his hip. 

You grin as the body falls to the ground, bending down to pick up the shotgun he’d dropped. The other one finally reaches for his handgun, but you’re already standing up, double-barrel pointing right at his chest. 

“Uh-uh,” you scold, motioning for him to put the gun down. He throws it into the leaves, and you let out an impatient huff. He whips his hands up in surrender, dropping to his knees before you can even tell him to. 

“Where am I?” you demand, eyes flitting across the ground, trying to find the metal glint of a gun buried in the undergrowth. Asshole couldn’t have just handed it to you?

He grimaces and shakes his head. “I can’t say-”

The blast of the shotgun echoes through the trees, scaring a few owls from their branches. You would be worried about the noise if it weren’t for the much louder screeching in front of you. The cousin wriggles wildly on the ground, screaming and clutching his bleeding leg. 

Just below his knee, his left leg is barely hanging on. The blast had been more potent than you’d expected, but it’s not like you needed him whole, just alive. “Now!” You demand, pushing closer. 

“Okay!” he screams, bloody hands slipping across what’s left of his leg. “East courtyard! We’re in the East Courtyard! Please, I need-”

You ignore him, having finally spotted the gun he’d so carelessly tossed away. His cries of pain are silenced as you bury a bullet into his head. And one into the other man’s, just for good measure. Your eyes dart down to his boots, and a wicked idea runs through your head. 

“You’re telling me she did this?” Ursula glares down at the bodies of Malcom and Brent. Two cousins whom Titus had cared nothing for. He hadn’t even known their names until some maid had rushed up to tell them their bodies had been found. 

“Who else would have?” His aunt demands, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stares at her boy’s bodies. 

“Nothing in the rules about killing family,” Titus reminds her, kneeling beside one of them. Malcolm or Brent, he doesn’t truly care. 

Ursula shoots him a sharp look as their Aunt’s blubbering grows worse. He ignores her in favor of examining the wounds on the body. One bullet to the head- what the others assume he died from. But he knows that you were stripped of any weapons you might have held, anything that would have given you an advantage in the game. 

It’s clear that you shot this one through the back of the head and the other straight to the face. He doesn’t know where you would have gotten the gun. His gaze narrows, and he finally sees the small slit against the throat. 

The true cause of death. 

You’d slit his throat with something and were trying to hide it. Why?

“I just don’t understand why she took their shoes?” His aunt cries, wiping her eyes vigorously. Titus’s eyes drop to the corpse’s bare feet, and he snorts. 

“You took hers, didn’t you?” Both Ursula and his aunt shoot him sharp glares, but he’s in no mood to play at being nice tonight. He needs to find you before someone else does. No one would tell him where you’d been dropped off, likely anticipating what he was going to do. He’s been struggling to track you down since the game began. 

“Titus,” Ursula mutters, nodding toward something in the dirt. He steps closer and sees fresh bootprints in the mud. 

His aunt gasps and shoots forward. “That little bitch,” she hisses, pulling her gun from her hip and following your trail. Ursula follows behind her, but Titus hesitates. This is too easy. You’re too clever to have already stashed a weapon on you and killed two of his family to make such a simple mistake. 

He knows it's a trap he’s walking into, but he follows his sister and aunt just so he might have a chance to see you. 

The trail leads them all to a small clearing. Too much open space for him to feel comfortable. Ursula hesitates at the edge of the field, glancing around with a suspicious look. His aunt barrels forward, paying little mind to any danger around her. 

“What the fuck?” She mutters, glancing down at the boots you’ve abandoned in the grass. Her head lifts just as a shot echoes through the trees. Titus’s head whips around, trying to find where you are. The bullet grazes his aunt’s throat, hitting just deep enough to nick her carotid, sending blood flying as she falls to her knees. 

Her hands scramble along her throat, struggling to staunch the blood as she chokes on it. Ursula takes a foolish step forward, and then she falls to her knees. A loud groan rips from her chest as she clutches her right thigh. Right where you’ve just buried another bullet in her. 

“Go get her!” She growls, slapping at Titus’s hand. He’s already moving, gaze locking onto a streak of movement further in the trees. He never knew you were such a good shot; it wasn’t information you’d offered up to him. Even on the rare occasion that he took you hunting, you always seemed to miss whatever animal you were aiming for. He had honestly been worried about how well you would be able to defend yourself tonight. 

There seems to be more to you than you’d let on. 

Your heart is pounding against your ribs, blood pumping painfully as you race through the woods. Boots too big for you slip up and down your ankles, only slowing you down as you try to outrace the predator hot on your tail. 

You can’t hear him following behind you, his footsteps nearly silent as he tracks you down with ruthless efficiency. You should have shot him in that field. Ursula didn’t matter; you could take her down in hand-to-hand easily. 

It should have been Titus you crippled. It should have been him you shot down, so he couldn’t come after you. If anyone could ruin your plans tonight, it’s him. But you were weak. You cowered at the thought of hurting him, and now he’s hunting you. 

One moment of mercy- that’s all it takes. 

A scream rips from you as something heavy barrels into your side. It’s cut off as your body slams against the ground, breath ripped from you in one violent yank as Titus straddles your hips. He clamps a hand around your mouth, eyes darting around the woods as you try to regain your bearings. 

When he’s sure no one else is around, he slowly releases you, though he doesn’t allow you to stand. He keeps you pinned and completely at his mercy. His eyes are crazed as they assess you. 

Futilely, you kick out, hands reaching up and scratching at any flesh you can find. You already know he won’t let you go, but you try anyway. “Enough,” he mutters, swatting your hands away like they’re nothing. 

That must be all you are to him, for how quickly he turned against you. Nothing.

“Go on,” you goad, teeth bared as you glare up at him. “Do it.” This is a gamble, and one you want to be confident in but just can’t be. You don’t know how he would kill you or if he’s thought about it often. 

A bullet would be quick. His hands wrapped around your throat would feel more personal, but it would hurt. Not just your death. But knowing he had loved you and could still look you in the eyes and slaughter you like an animal. This must have been how she felt when they’d killed her.

Something flashes across his face. Pained and disgusted as he stares down at you. You couldn’t have offended him. He’s the one pinning you down. He holds your life in his hands, not the other way around. But the way he’s looking at you, the gleam in his eyes, you’d never be able to guess the truth of the situation. His leash is in your hands. You should’ve known how to tug.

“Do what?” He snaps, eyes narrowed as his gaze roves over you. Still assessing, but now you can understand what for. He’s trying to see if someone else has gotten to you first. If you’re hurt in any way. 

Maybe he really does care. 

Or maybe he’s such a sadistic bastard that he wants to toy with you a bit first. 

“Kill me,” you hiss out, hate and barbed hurt frothing at the corner of your lips. “That’s what this is all for, isn’t it?” You demand, throat closing as you choke back tears. This wasn’t meant to be so fast. You’d worked for years to get to this moment. And now…

You just pass all that work off and hand your life away because you were too weak to kill your husband when you had the chance. 

“Did I mean anything to you?” You bite the words out, the truth too painful to realize as you stare up into his cold eyes. 

Your mother had been here once. Pinned down by the man she was meant to spend the rest of her life with. Titus’s father had slaughtered her. Cut her down where she stood for the sake of tradition. You were a fool to think this was a fate you could escape. 

 His hands loosen around your wrist, face falling as he draws back. You wrench away from him, scrambling back from his hold as you surge to your feet. He remains where you left him, kneeling in the dirt as he stares up at you. 

“You were going to let them kill me!” You accuse, biting back the disgust you feel looking down at him. 

“No, never,” he bites out, gaze turning sharp. His hands reach out, linger in the air between you like he can’t decide if he should stay kneeling or pin you down again. “I was never going to let them hurt you.”

You hesitate for a moment, and you see how much it hurts him. Taking a step forward, his hands fly out, crumpling the ruined skirt of your nightgown in his palms. He drags himself forward, face buried in the silk as you let out a shuddering sigh. 

“I was trying to protect you,” he insists. “But they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I didn’t even know if you were alive.”

Something in you snaps. The fight you’d been carrying disappears as you fall to your knees before him. He doesn’t let you feel the impact, touch greedy as he pulls you into his chest. You have no desire to escape him or his suffocating hold. 

But that fire still burns for the man who started this all. The one who gave you a reason to get involved with the Danforths. And if you have to use Titus's warped sense of devotion to get to him, so be it. 

“Why did you let them take me?” You whisper, hands cupping his cheeks. Your eyes narrow at how he sinks into your touch. How eager he is for forgiveness. Can you trust this devotion he holds for you over his loyalty to his own family? You’re not sure, but it's a gamble you’ll have to take. 

The blood on your hands can’t be for nothing after how long you’ve waited. 

“I,” his mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. No matter what, he doesn’t have a good enough excuse for his betrayal. Which works well in your favor. 

You put a tremble in your voice; it's not hard to muster, but you lay it on as thick as you can. Your lips quiver as you stare up at him. Your voice is broken as you whisper, “Why’d you let them take me?”

Titus’s expression twitches; he flinches from the accusation. But there’s only so far he can run from the truth. “I was never going to let them hurt you,” he insists, gaze pleading. 

“They already did,” you bite back, ripping your touch from him like he’s burned you. 

They hadn’t. His ridiculous cousins hadn’t even gotten the chance to raise their weapons. He, however, doesn’t need to know that. What he needs to know is that you’re afraid, vulnerable. He has to want to protect you. 

“I can fix this,” he insists, getting to his feet and trailing slowly behind you as you pace. “Let me help you. Let me keep you safe.”

You let out a sharp scoff, but there’s no true emotion behind it. This is all just another act, one part of a long play that’s meant to be coming to a close. “Why would I ever trust you, again?”

His hands reach out, snatching up your wrists as he whips you around to face him. It doesn’t hurt, but it's tight enough that you can’t slip free from him. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, or maybe declare his love again, voices echo through the forest. Your shoulders jolt as his gaze whips behind you both. 

There’s a group coming toward you both. They’re stomping loudly through the underbrush, conversation vague and careless. They couldn’t care less if you hear them. They all just assume you’re easy prey. Even if you’ve already killed three of them. You’re almost tempted to take out your gun, show them what a true predator looks like. 

But Titus’s hands are clamping around your shoulders, his expression severe as he surveys you. “If you keep heading north, you’ll reach the estate. I want you to go to the ballroom and wait for me.”

“What-“

“Wait for me,” he demands, his gaze already seeing that gnawing desire to run in your eyes. You glare at him, but he won’t budge. 

“What are you going to do?”

Slowly, like it pains him to, he releases you. His hands slip off your shoulders, and he reaches behind his back. He untucks a gun from his belt and you frown. It wouldn’t have taken him much just to pull that on you. A part of you wants to hope that he really doesn't want you dead. But you can’t trust him and you certainly can't trust your own bleeding heart. 

“There’s no rule against killing family,” is all he tells you as he backs away. You swallow roughly, slowly heading back through the trees. But you keep your eyes on where he disappeared and how easily he blended into the shadows. 

Just as you begin to see lights flooding through the tree line, you hear it. Three gunshots and then a scream that rips through the night. You pause for a moment. Something wicked and warm fills your chest as you think of him hunting them down. For you. 

Bursting through the forest, you find the mansion just as he’d instructed. You’re finally starting to gain a sense of where you are. Glancing over your shoulder, you check that no one’s following before running inside. 

You have a decent enough idea where you are now. You run through the marble hall, stopping for a moment to shove off the too-large boots that you’d stolen. With a low sigh, you come to a stop before a grand staircase. There’s a door in front of you. Beyond it will be the ballroom. You can hide, cower as you wait for Titus to rescue you and get you through the rest of the night. 

The thought is revolting to you. It’s easier, but you didn’t claw your way here just to give up right at the end. Your nails bite into your palms as you turn toward the stairs. You swore to yourself that the Danforth line will either be ended by or controlled by you. You won’t allow your sensitivity to hold you back anymore. 

With a fortifying breath, you start up the stairs. You glance over your shoulder, ensuring no one’s followed behind you. Your heart stills, your body freezing as you hear the unmistakable sound of a hammer being drawn back. Swallowing roughly, you glance up. Just at the top of the stairs is one of Titus’s cousins. 

Her hand trembles, gun shaking in her grip as she stares down at you with wide eyes. You’re about three steps away from her. Enough time for her to fire. You doubt she makes a good shot with the way the gun is shaking in her hand. But you don’t need to be a good shot when you’re this close. One bullet will be lethal. 

You hold out your hands and she flinches, finger pressing loosely against the trigger. With a risky lunge, you leap forward, shoving her hands up just as she pulls the trigger. The shot rings out in your ear; it rattles through your brain and knocks you off balance as you try to shake off the ringing in your head. She lets out a noise of surprise, not hesitating as she leaps forward and shoves you back. 

Your bare feet slip against the stairs, heart thudding against your chest as you feel the air rush up around you. Your stomach plummets as you’re knocked down the stairs. The first impact slams against your ribs, knocking the breath out of you as you go tumbling down the steps. You land on your side, your shoulder cracking beneath the weight of your body. Pain rips through you, slams up your spine and rips across your nerves as you struggle for breath. 

Her footsteps pound above you, frantic and rushed as she aims her gun once more. Your face is smashed against the cold marble, lungs trembling as your eyes slam shut. The shot echoes through the foyer, rattles against your bones. But no more pain comes. 

Risking one eye open, you peer up in time to see her head jerk back, her body dropping with a thud. Blood pools beneath her head and you let out a rattling breath. “Come on.” Calloused hands wrap around your arms, gentle as they stand you up. 

“Titus,” you mutter, still delirious from the gunshots and pain. He stands behind you, the barrel of his gun still smoking at his side. 

“What were you-“

You’re sure whatever he was about to say would turn you away from these stairs. Away from what you’ve worked so hard towards. But more voices echo through the halls. The gunshots were enough to draw the attention of anyone still in the estate. Titus’s head jerks in the direction of their voices and you use your one good arm to shove away from him. 

They spot him as you rush up the stairs. They call out his name and gasp as they see the dead girl on the stairs. You clutch your limp arm to your chest, breath coming heavy and short. Your ribs are tight and aching. You’re certain you broke something falling. But you’re closer than you’ve ever been to having your revenge. 

Swallowing down the pain, you race to the uppermost floor. To the room you know is housing the monster behind all your tormenting grief. You don’t knock or announce yourself, just throw the door open, teeth biting into your lip at the pain that shoots up your side. 

The old man sits in his wheelchair, glaring out at the courtyard below from his window. He doesn’t even flinch as you barrel in. Just lets out a low sigh like you’re inconveniencing him just by existing. 

You stand there, staring at the senior Danforth, gun held in your good hand. “Mr. Danforth,” you drawl, wrestling your breath back into shape as you let the door close behind you. “Do you remember me?”

He hums, head barely tilting over his shoulder. “I believe you just married my son. I’m honestly surprised you even made it this far.” He lets out a little huff. Probably mad that some cheap little orphan managed to marry his only male heir. To survive their twisted game this long.

”Do you remember her?” You ask, whispering your mother’s name as you draw the hammer of your gun back. 

“Oh,” he finally turns his wheelchair toward you, a cruel sneer on his lips. “Lovely woman,” he mutters. “A shame she wasn’t strong enough to lead my family.”

Your eyes narrow, finger trembling around the trigger as you lift your arm. “She was plenty strong,” you hiss. “But how would she ever win when you drug her and drag her out into the woods? I’d hardly call that fair.”

He shrugs, steepling his fingers as he surveys you like you’re nothing more than a gnat flitting about his face. “Life isn’t fair.” 

You point the gun at him, your eyes burning as you suck in a sharp breath. This is it. You end this here. 

The door slams open behind you and you jump, gun dropping to your side. Titus crashes into the room, eyes crazed as he surveys you and his father. The smug look on Chester’s face falls as he rolls himself closer to his son. 

“She tried to kill me, Titus. Finish the game, now!”

You back up as Titus stalks forward. Your heart sinks as he slowly reaches for the gun. Your grip goes lax around it as he backs you into a corner. Your spine hits the wall with a dull thud as you release a shuddering breath. 

His hand grazes your waist, his other one taking the gun from you. “Do it,” you whisper. “Kill me.”

His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. Voice low, he asks, “Why would I do that?”

Your gaze dips to his father, but he’s watching you both with a peculiar expression. One you can’t read. “Because if you don’t kill me,” you bite out through clenched teeth. “Then I will kill your father.” You hesitate, biting your lip as the truth stumbles out. “For what he did to-“

“Your mother,” Titus finishes, almost looking amused. 

“What?” You whisper. 

At the same time, Titus’s father snaps, slamming his hand against the arm of his wheelchair. “Enough games, Titus. Be done with her!”

But your husband’s eyes don’t leave your own. He’s got you pressed up against the wall. His attention is solely focused on you as he offers a wayward grin. Something malicious lurks underneath it. “You think I don’t know who you are? Who your mother is?”

”How long have you known?” You whisper, eyes wide as they dart between him and his father. 

“The whole time,” he answers, hand flexing around your waist. “I thought this was a game for you. I was waiting for you to make the first move.” His face dips forward, nose brushing against your jaw as his lips move softly against the sensitive skin. “You never did,” he wonders aloud, almost disappointed. 

“Because I love you,” you insist, hand reaching up to cup his cheek. He lifts his head, forehead falling against yours. The cold barrel of the gun bites through your nightgown and you let out a low whimper. 

“You or me?”

Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head. “What?”

”Who pulls the trigger, sweetheart?”

Your eyes widen as you glance between him and his father. All this time, you’d been working toward this moment, always expecting it to be your last. Wasting your life to kill the man who’d murdered your mother and ruined what good was left inside you. You’d thought Titus to be a stepping stone, an obstacle in your path. 

But this…

This is far sweeter than anything you could have dreamed up. It wouldn’t hurt the eldest Danforth at all to be killed by some nobody girl. But to have his heir in your hands, throwing away all loyalty to his father in exchange for a spot at your side… It was better than anything you could ask for. 

“Please, Titus,” you whisper, eyes watery as you stare up at him. The hammer of the gun pulls back and you slowly release him. He steps away from you. The tears disappear as a smile pulls on your lips. You lean against the wall, broken and bloody, and watch as realization dawns on Chester Danforth’s face. 

“Titus, what the hell are you doing? Throwing away your family for some whore-“ your shoulders jump to your ears as his head flips back, brains spraying along the walls. You knew it was coming, but still, Titus hadn’t even hesitated. 

You look over at him, see the tight set of his jaw, the water lining his eyes. “Oh,” you croon, reaching for him. He turns, stalking toward you as a gasp rings out. You jolt forward, turning toward the door just as Ursula walks through. 

Her hands tremble around her mouth, breath coming quick and pained as she takes in the dead body of her father. “What did you do?” She demands, voice cracking as she whips around on you. You don’t hesitate as you did earlier. Don’t let her get off easy with a shot to her leg. 

You rip the gun from Titus’s hand and aim with your bad arm. This close, you don’t need great aim to knock her brain loose. Her body crumples to the floor as blood begins to pool around her body. The recoil knocks you back, and the gun clatters to the floor as you stumble back into the wall. 

“Titus,” you whisper, stomach dropping as he stares at his dead sister. “I’m so sorry, Titus. She never would have let me live after that. I had to. For us-“

Your words are cut off as he grabs your arms, dragging you into his chest. You let out a gasp, but it’s swallowed by his lips as he kisses you. It’s fervent, violent and desperate as he shoves you against the wall, hands squeezing around your broken ribs. 

You let out a pained whine, hands dragging up his shoulders and burying themselves in his hair. He groans into your open mouth as the bell rings out in the distance. 

You’ve done it. 

You’ve made it through the night. Now… The Danforth power, the riches, everything that makes them who they are. You hold it all in your hands. Their heir, their future- it's yours to command. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the movie Ready or Not (2), but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[bimbosicko]

CAUSE YOU'RE MY BIGGEST FEAR

your entire awareness has narrowed to the fingertip resting against your leg, to the fact that lars wants to leave. and to the fact that your first instinct is to follow. ۶ৎ

pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem!reader

warnings ! lowercase on purpose, reader can be read as neurodivergent, FLUFF soo much fluff, english is not my first language!! part four of this, this & this! no beta we die like bianca. title from: misuse oh — ethel cain.

author's note ! part four my bambies!! 🦌. i genuinely think this will be the last and final part, i'm not the type of writer that likes to stretch something to be honest, but we'll see what the future holds for us!! saying goodbye to the series feels like giving my daughter to a man, siri play slipping through my fingers! i wrote this so depressed and sad so you guys know it's good 👅

word count ! 2,8k.

there's sort of a naked sweetness in seeing lars next to you in karin and gus's house.

not because he's doing anything remarkable, quite the opposite. he's listening to karin talk about something. nodding occasionally. looking down at his plate. existing in that quiet way he does, as though he's apologizing for taking up space even when nobody asked him to.

his knee is pressed lightly against yours beneath the table. not enough for anyone else to notice, enough for you to feel.

lars's finger finds your thigh through the thin denim of your jeans. the movement is small, left to right then down. repeat. left to right and down.

you know immediately what he's doing, it has become your secret way of communicating.

an i. then another letter.

and another.

until the word is finished.

“i want to go home.”

you take another bite of food as if you've been paying attention to every word karin has said. you haven't.

your entire awareness has narrowed to the fingertip resting against your leg, to the fact that lars wants to leave. and to the fact that your first instinct is to follow.

you move your hand into your lap, carefully. the tablecloth hides most of it and your fingers brush against his thigh. the contact sends a ridiculous amount of electricity through your chest.

you trace the letters slowly. “give me five minutes.”

his leg shifts beneath your hand, closer.

there's an awkward silence at the table. you don't really understand why, then you look up.

karin is staring. gus is staring.

you suppose they're waiting for you and lars to finally say something, to finally announce what everyone else apparently decided months ago.

karin is lovely, generous and kind. she's also catastrophically nosy.

which means she absolutely noticed you leaving lars's house that morning wearing one of his sweaters after the storm trapped you there overnight.

“has anyone's weekend been interesting?” she asks. sly woman, and a fucking traitor.

“there's a new fabric in the shop that i'm just itching to get my hands on,” you begin immediately. “it's this abba glittery looking thing—”

karin looks at you, you look at karin. gus coughs into his drink and karin gives him a look.

you don't finish the sentence.

“right,” karin says. “the fabric.”

“the fabric.”

“very interesting fabric.”

“the most interesting.”

lars lowers his head, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching. the sight of it nearly ruins your ability to form coherent thoughts.

“well,” karin says, standing abruptly. “i’m going to get dessert.”

then she points directly at you.

“please help me?”

you follow her into the kitchen. the second you're through the doorway she turns around.

“you are a liar.”

"me?" you point at yourself.

“yes, you.”

“i’ve never lied in my life.”

“i know you two are together.”

you shush her immediately. “what are you doing? he has ears.”

“most people have ears.”

“not ears like lars.”

karin narrows her eyes. “you two are together.”

“are you crazy? no, we're not together yet.” you say.

karin's expression changes instantly.

“yet?” she repeats.

you close your eyes. wonderful, perfect. fucking excellent.

“ignore that,” you huff. “we're not together”

“then whose decision is that?” she asks.

“what?”

“is he the one who doesn't want to label the relationship or is it you?”

“what relationship?” you whisper-yell.

“the relationship where you're practically living at each other's houses.”

“we are not,” you lie through your teeth.

“you left his house this morning,” karin starts.

“there was a storm.”

“wearing his sweater.”

“it was cold.”

“and his socks.”

“my socks were wet.” you point out, hands flying up. karin looks unconvinced.

“you're impossible.”

“we're friends.”

“you are clearly not only friends.” she whines.

“we're not not friends either,” you seem the need to clarify.

“then do something about it!” she grabs your shoulders and shakes you. “i tried everything. everything.”

you close your eyes in frustration. a mannerism you've picked up from lars. you didn't realize how often you did it until karin pointed it out.

“i— yes, you tried everything, but maybe that's exactly why i haven't tried anything. karin, i love you. you're one of my closest friends here. but you're so insistent that i'm terrified i'm going to scare him away.”

that quiets her and the frustration slips from her face.

“oh.”

you lean against the counter, the truth feels embarrassingly fragile once spoken aloud. because that's the thing nobody seems to understand. lars isn't a question. he's an answer, your answer. but you never seem to understand if you're the one for him.

karin grimaces, “i’m sorry.”

you shrug.

“he changed so much since he met you,” she says softly. “and you changed too.”

you look away, shyly.

“he has this gorgeous shine now. and you too.”

“karin—” you whine.

“it’s true,” she smiles. “everyone thinks it’s beautiful to see.”

a horrible realization dawns on you at her words. “who knows?”

“what?” karin asks, looking everywhere but your eyes.

“who knows, karin?”

she hesitates, “the girls.”

“what girls?”

“the girls from the salon.”

you groan, “oh my god.”

“and maybe the church ladies.”

“i don't even go to church, karin,” you say her name in a furious tone. “they're so gossipy.”

her expression turns sheepish.

you point at her. “you're so gossipy.”

“i know,” she laughs. “i’m sorry. i just really needed to talk about it with somebody. gus is sick of hearing about you two. please forgive me?”

“i’m not mad,” you are, a little. mostly embarrassed.

mostly because every conversation about lars feels like someone has reached into your chest and turned all your thoughts inside out.

“i just…” you exhale. “i’m going home.”

karin's expression softens, with worry. “your home?”

“lars’s home,” you clarify. you glance towards the living room again.

lars is standing there, his puffy jacket half-zipped, looking around the room. then his eyes find yours.

he blinks, brightening at once, and the change is so immediate it makes your chest tighten. his other arm is holding your jacket. of course it is, he is waiting for you.

you lean in to kiss karin’s cheek, quick and chaste. gus is already half-asleep with lara curled against his chest, and you wave goodbye to both of them before you let yourself go.

the door closes behind you. outside, the cold meets your face with a clean, sharp certainty.

you smile anyway.

“i told you we’d be out in five minutes,” you say, and your voice comes out lighter than it feels.

lars turns towards you. in the dark, with the porch light falling across him.

“what were you talking about?” he asks, “with karin?”

his gloved fingers find your bare ones. and this time you are not wearing the old gloves he gave you, the ones that used to be his before they became yours. your hand feels too exposed in the cold without them.

you shrug, acting all innocent. “nothing very important.”

you squeeze his hand once, then your eyes brighten.

“what are our plans for tonight?” you ask.

steam rises from your mouth when you speak, dissolving immediately into the night air.

you start walking beside him, your steps picking up an eager rhythm.

“scrabble?” you suggest, already sounding pleased with yourself. “or movie night?”

if the old version of you could see this one, this version of you walking beside lars with your hand in his and a stupidly bright hope pulsing under your ribs, there would probably be some comment about how embarrassing you’ve become. about weakness. about the coldness that lives in your body.

but there is a new glimmer in your eyes. and you can almost hear karin’s voice in your head, smug and right.

lars’s eyes do not leave yours.

you reach his porch and your shoes scrape faintly against the wood. he is looking at you, not answering. the silence stretches between you, not awkward exactly, but with pressure. like a hand in the back of your neck.

“what is it?” you ask, and the question comes out smaller than you meant it to. “i’m sorry, i talked too much, didn’t i?”

your mouth starts to form a pout before you can stop it. then lars lets go of your hand, your fingers curl around empty air before you can help it.

his arm moves past you, around. he reaches for the door behind you and opens it, the movement so close and so careful that it feels like a secret.

“lars?” you ask again.

he leans in, his head drawing closer to yours, and his mouth moves as if he is saying something you are meant to hear. something soft, not for anyone else. but whatever it is gets lost somewhere in the rush of your own heartbeat.

but you nod, again and again. because you trust him.

you trust lars with the kind of instinct that bypasses reason entirely. you trust him even though you have only known him for less than a year. he is your lars, at the end of the day.

he has seen you practically naked, seen you furious, seen you crying and overwhelmed. he has seen the versions of you that are polished and the versions that are barely holding together. he has seen you fall in love… with him.

his arms close around you. he pulls you in against his chest, and the shape of him is so familiar and so strange all at once that your brain stutters uselessly around it.

lars lindstrom is giving you a hug.

your feet lose whatever small amount of coordination they had been clinging to and you trip forward in surprise and land awkwardly onto the sofa in his living room, dropping a soft, breathless “oof” into the air.

lars immediately takes his hands away, as if he has done something wrong.

“i’m sorry,” you say at once. ‘come back,’ you mean. “i have two left feet.”

the apology sounds ridiculous the second you say it, too small for what has just happened. but that is all you can manage, because your heart is still thudding hard.

“i’m sorry,” you repeat. you clear your throat and try again. “can we do it again… if you want?” the words come out carefully. almost trembling. heat gathers in your cheeks with humiliating speed.

lars nods.

“y-yes,” he says quietly.

the two of you are standing too close now, close enough that you can feel the light breeze of his breathing against your face.

“sit down, okay?” you say, and the next part comes out even worse because your voice decides to betray you. “i’ll hug you this time,” you want to disappear the second the sentence leaves your mouth.

he does as you ask, lowering himself onto the sofa with that careful, almost apologetic movement he has when he is trying not to take up too much space. It should not make something in your chest ache the way it does.

you stay standing for one extra second, breathing out, trying to gather whatever remains of your courage from the floor.

then you step closer. instead of hugging him properly right away, you place one leg beside his thigh, then the other, settling yourself carefully against him without fully sitting down. your hands hover for a moment and your pulse is loud in your throat.

“you can—” you begin, then stop. the sentence is suddenly too vulnerable to finish without sounding ridiculous. you swallow and try again. “you can stop me if you feel uncomfortable.”

lars closes his eyes, he nods.

“okay…”

you lift your arms and slide them around his neck, slowly enough that he has time to pull away if he wants to. his shoulders are warmer than you expected. solid in that quiet way he has, like there is more strength in him than he ever volunteers to show.

when you let your head fall against his chest, you hear it immediately. his heartbeat.

the sound of it fills your ears with something almost dizzying, intimate in a way. it's fast.

you breathe in, and there he is.

warm fabric and the faint scent of him, wood and something that smells clean. the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.

“that’s nice,” lars says.

you remember saying those exact words before to him. you remember the bath, the warm water, the soft hush of it all, and the way those exact words had slipped from you then too. the thought makes your face feel hot all over again.

“yeah?” you ask softly, lifting your head just enough to look at him.

lars opens his eyes.

“yeah,” he says.

you nod at him, your mouth feels dry all of a sudden. you lick your lips, then immediately wish you had not, because now you are too aware of every little movement your body makes in front of him.

“lars, are we… friends?” you ask.

it sounds stupid the moment it leaves your mouth. of course you two are friends. you have always been friends. but is not enough. you need to know where the line is. you need to know whether there even is one anymore.

lars blinks at you, then gives a small nod.

“y-yes,” he says. “of course we are.”

your eyes stay on his face, half-lidded and waiting, as though part of you is braced for the wrong kind of truth. there is a small tremble at your lips that you can do nothing about.

“are we… more than that?” you ask, quieter this time.

lars’s eyes widen just a little. he finally speaks, stumbling over the beginning of the sentence.

“w-would you like to…?”

“yes,” you don't even let him finish.

the answer comes out too fast, too certain, and then there is no way to take it back, so you do not try. you just sit there with your heart beating stupidly hard in your chest.

lars blinks again. his face shifts, and a small smile begins at the edge of his mouth like it has been waiting there all along for permission. it makes you want to cross the space between you and grab him by the cheeks and kiss him until your lips hurt.

instead you breathe, unevenly, and force yourself to keep looking at him.

“what about you?” you ask. “are you into this?”

lars nods like he doesn't trust his voice to survive the next part.

“that’s good,” you mutter, and your voice has gone soft without your permission. “really, really good.”

you know the next part is supposed to be a kiss. you know that the moment has been leaning towards it for longer than you care to admit.

but you know lars too.

so instead of moving towards his mouth, you fold yourself into him again.

his hands slip under your sweater, warm skin meeting cold skin, and the contact is so sudden it steals your breath in one helpless little gasp. his finger moves slowly against your side. left to right then down. repeat. left to right and down.

an i.

your chest tightens around the word as soon as it begins to form beneath his touch. he lifts his hand for only a second and the absence is almost worse than the contact, a small, stupid ache where his warmth was just a moment ago.

then he touches you again. up then down, and to the right.

your eyes squeeze shut, because some part of you already knows what he is spelling and the knowing is too much and not enough all at once. your throat feels strange. your mouth does too. by the time his hand leaves your skin, your eyes are already wet.

“i love you.”

you push back just enough to look at him, because you need to see his face now, need to know if he truly wrote it, need to know if you are dreaming or if this is actually happening and your heart has somehow survived the shock of it.

you want to say it back. you want to say it so badly it hurts. but fear is quicker than courage and bigger than pride and it sits on your tongue like a stone.

so you only nod. once, then again. and again and again.

you nod so hard it almost feels like pleading, and his big hand comes up to the back of your neck, firm and certain, drawing you forward until there is no room left for doubt. his mouth meets yours like he has been holding his breath for this exact moment. like he has finally been allowed to exhale.

and then his other hand is there too, wiping at your cheeks with a tenderness so disarming. you didn't even notice that you started crying.

you do not have time to feel ashamed about it; you do not have time to feel cold. everything becomes warm at once.

his hand, his mouth, his chest, the room. the whole fucking world, reduced down to the ache of being known and the impossible relief of being held anyway.

all you feel is warm and lars.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Raw Dog: Bigby Wolf x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Mmm, Bigby :)

This came out a lot more tame that I thought it'd be.

Contains: Dubious Consent(?), werewolf transformation, oral sex, vaginal sex, knotting, creampies, mating bites, a little blood

It was easy to forget a lot of things when you’ve been here for so long. It’s easy for fleeting memories of kingdoms and magic to elude you when you’re stuck in a Mundy office building for eight hours a day. It’s easy to catch yourself daydreaming of being back in the Homelands lounging in the lush forests without a care in the world as you’re paying for your overly expensive apartment on the lower end side of Manhattan. What’s not easy to forget, however, is the fact that most of the people that made it to New York City are a bunch of assholes who can’t seem to follow the main rule: Fit in amongst the mundane.

That’s really how it all started to get where you’re at right now; Walking down the steps to the subway to catch the train on time for once, thinking of what to make for dinner and if you should stop by that little grocery store at the corner of your avenue block to pick up something else. You will, you determined, suddenly remembering that Bigby would be coming to your apartment for the evening like he does like clockwork every Friday night.

Just thinking about Bigby makes your heart flutter as you stand on the subway platform. You’ve been seeing the sheriff for a little over a year now. You’ve known him for centuries, of course, - you were one of the few dozen fables who never caused any trouble for him and made his life a whole lot easier - but you both really got to know each other when the only few items you had smuggled out of the Homelands were stolen when your apartment was broken into. Bigby, being the best cop you’ve ever seen, was quick to come knocking again with your magical tools in his big mitts. You ended up more worried about him, gasping when you saw cuts and bruises all up and down his face and arms from the fight to get your things back. You brought him in and sat him down on your toilet despite his gentle protests, shutting up when you gave him a look so cold it could shame a yeti, tended to his wounds and stitched his clothes; And the rest was history.

You wouldn’t have thought Bigby could be so soft, but he really proved you horribly wrong. More of a gentleman than any real man that didn’t walk on all fours, he treated you like you were very precious to him. It’s very touching when you get to see that side of him, the side of the sheriff that never gets to be shown because he often finds himself knocking skulls together to cut the bullshit out.

As you stepped into the subway car, you found yourself riding in peaceful silence for once, drifting deeper into your daydreams until you nearly missed your stop. Scrambling through the flooding crowd, you managed to pop out the other side and climb the steps back into the bustling city. Instead of heading straight down the avenue block towards your apartment, you ducked into the corner grocery store, greeting the kind older couple that run it and picked up a few extra things you needed for dinner tonight;  A nice pair of steaks being the main thing.

It took you maybe ten minutes to finish up and trek back down the block to your apartment. You greeted your doorman despite him being asleep at the desk just like Grimble and went up your merry way on the elevator.

You made your way around the bend and juggled the grocery bag and your purse until you slotted the key in and turned the knob. Stepping in and kicking the door closed, you immediately noticed something was wrong: Your kitchen light wasn’t on. Bigby always turns the light in your kitchen on when he gets into your apartment, without fail.

“Bigby?” you call out. You tossed your keys in the bowl by the door, sat your purse down and kicked your shoes off. You walked deeper into your apartment. “Bigby, you here?”

Silence.

Bigby may not say a lot, but pure silence terrified you when it comes to him.

You checked all of the rooms in your apartment only to find that there was no sheriff in your home. Returning to your purse to retrieve your phone, you saw that Bigby hadn’t sent you any texts since his usual text in the morning wishing you a good day at work. No texts about being late, no texts about needing to cancel - which he’s never done -, no missed calls. Nothing.

Dialing his number only got you to his automatic voicemail after the continuous ringing. Trying his office thinking time may have evaded him, you got the same thing. You quickly dialed the Business Office soon after. Maybe he was helping Snow with something and he lost track of time?

But you got nothing back.

No answer from Snow, from Bufkin, Boy Blue. Not even from King Cole. They had all gone home for the day.

Something didn’t sit right in your stomach. Pure silence from The Woodlands is never good, you’ve grown to know that.

You would rather shit in your hands and clap than sit around in silence waiting for a call back.

You quickly put the grocery bag in the fridge, snatched up your purse and keys, toed your shoes back on and went right back out your door. Luckily, you live just on the other side of the block from The Woodlands and you could often cut through if Flycatcher didn’t lock the back gates of the garden.

You won’t sit by idly if something is going on, especially if it involves Bigby. You may not be a powerful witch like the ones on the thirteenth floor or some of the black market witches Bigby often drags in by the scruff of their necks, but you knew some powerful things. If something was wrong, you were going to help damn it.

You found yourself cursing the frog prince when you pulled on the wrought iron only for it to not budge. You slammed your palm against the gate, sneering when the lock reacted negatively to your strike, glowing a faint blue to protect itself from your magic.

“Who’s there?” you heard someone call out. Stepping from behind the shrubbery, the same frog prince you were just cursing appeared with the giant key ring in his hand. “Oh, Miss (L/n), hello.”

“Hi Flycatcher. You mind letting me in?”

“Sorry about that,” he flushed, opening the enchanted lock with the keys and held the door open for you, “I forget you live in the apartments right behind us.”

“It’s alright, Flycatcher, thank you.” Just as you were about to head for the back door, you paused. “Hey Flycatcher-”

“Yes, Miss (L/n)?”

“You wouldn’t have happened to have seen Bigby, would you?”

“Mr. Bigby? I saw him this morning, but then something happened and he hasn’t come out of his apartment all day. I don’t know what happened, and Miss White had to take Bufkin to Doctor Swineheart’s office. He was drinking in the rafters again and clipped his wing when he fell off one of the bookshelves.”

Something happened to Bigby? You suddenly felt sick, your heart drumming in your chest. If something happened, why weren’t you told?

“Thank you, Flycatcher,” you quickly thanked the ex-prince and hurried in through the back door.

The slamming of the back door did nothing to wake the sleeping security guard at the front desk, his hat covering his entire face and his jacket draped over his chest and stomach like a blanket and he lounged back in his chair. No use in asking Grimble, it would be like getting Bigby to give up cigarettes at this point. You instead called the elevator and took it up to the second floor.

Peering down one end of the hall, you could see that the lights in both Bigby’s small office and the much larger Business Office were both shut off for the night. You pulled out your keys as you started for Bigby’s apartment, filing through until you came across the familiar bronze key with the number 204 etched in. As the elevator closed behind you, you heard a familiar snort. Turning and looking down when you saw nobody, you were met by Colin.

“You mind pushing the down button for me?” Colin eyed the elevator’s buttons.

You did so and held the doors open for him as he trotted in.

“Is Bigby-”

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” Colin cut you off seemingly knowing what you were about to ask him.

“Is he alright?”

Worry brewed in your guts like a bubbling cauldron.

“He will be in a few days.” Colin reached up with his snout and pressed the button for the ground floor. “And trust me, your magic won’t work on him. It’ll only make him more- what’s the word to use? Excited.”

You could only stare at the pig as the doors closed, confusion painted all over your face as the pig disappeared from your view and left you all alone again.

What the fuck was he talking about? You weren’t going to let a pig who made his house out of straw tell you what to do, so you started for Bigby’s apartment. You knocked first after taking a deep breath and seeing the lights were on from the crack under the door. There was no answer, but you could hear something being dragged and kicked around inside the small apartment. You knocked again, holding the key tightly with your other hand.

“Bigby? Are you in there?”

When no response came, you slotted the key into its hole. Before you could turn, a sudden and very heavy bang came from beyond the door, rattling the strong frame and forcing you back as you clutched your blouse and blazer. Your keys still swung from the doorknob. You could see shadows under the door where his feet were.

“Go away!” Bigby barked from the other side of the door.

Colin wasn’t lying. You slowly peeled yourself off of the wall and took a careful step towards his door once more, eyes still locked on your swaying keys.

“Bigby, are you alright?” you finally spoke up.

You weren’t afraid of him, not in the slightest, but you were afraid of what may have happened to him; Especially if it had Colin leaving the floor, it had to have been bad considering the pig was there when he was dying after what happened with Bloody Mary.

“(Y/n),” you could hear a canine keen coming from Bigby, something you’ve never heard him do. “(Y/n), don’t come in here.”

“Bigby, you need to talk to me. If this is something I can try to magic away, I will.” You pressed both hands against the doorframe and gave it a gentle push, gauging how much Bigby was putting against the other side to keep it shut. Normally, his door would have a little give, but it was moving as much as a turtle under a heat lamp. “Bigby, I wanna help you-”

“You… can’t.”

“Can’t? Or you don’t want my help?”

The stubborn dog would sometimes make you think he would prefer to lick his wounds than get them checked out. It wasn’t really out of pride or anything like that, but more so something that Bigby’s done for centuries: Take care of it himself. There was a little pang of hurt that prickled your heart, but you knew he didn’t mean anything by it.

“I can’t. You need to leave before I-”

Bigby let out an odd crooning noise. You could tell his teeth weren’t normal from how he was speaking, you could hear his claws lightly scratching down the door. Was he having a problem with the wolf? Was it something you could help? Was he terrified of hurting you?

“Bigby, you won’t hurt me. Let me in, let me help you,” you pleaded softly against the door.

Another keen from his throat. Bigby was silent for a few moments before you heard him unlock his door from the inside and he stalked off into his apartment on heavy feet. You quickly slipped the keys into your purse and slipped inside, closing the door behind you when you were suddenly pinned to the door by your chest and stomach. “Bigby?”

His breath was hot on your shoulder and cheek, smelling of whiskey and Huff n’ Puffs. His hands were splayed out on either side of you, pinning you between him and the door. You were right about the claws, long and dark and sharper than razors. You could see the hair growing thicker up his arms. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the glow of his eyes cutting through the low lighting of his apartment. There was a smell in the air, heavy and musky and it honestly smelled like a sex hotel-

Oh.

Oh.

That’s what Colin meant by ‘Excited.’

You’ve met werewolves before in the Homelands where they’d pass by your home in the woods, you know quite a few things about them and what they’re capable of. How could it have slipped your mind that females go into heat and males-

“Bigby. Are you in a rut?”

Your voice didn’t waiver like you prayed it wouldn’t. You kept your breathing steady though you could feel your heart still pounding in your throat. You couldn’t give off any indication you were afraid or he would put you right back outside.

“Tell me right now: Do you want this?” Bigby growled in your warm his fangs ghosting over the shell and down your neck.

You two haven’t had sex yet. It wasn’t something either of you were avoiding, of course not, it was going to be more of a ‘it happens when it happens’ kind of thing. Sadly, every time you think it would happen, something else is brought up that drags one of you - if not both of you - away. Your first time together would be when Bigby won’t be able to control himself fully and you’ll be subject to the werewolf’s carnal desires.

The immense heat his body was giving off mixed with the stuffy air in his apartment and the fact that you could feel it ghosting your backside had you suddenly nodding.

“Yes,” you said firmly.

You were suddenly flipped around, back forced against the door as Bigby crowded you. He was already taller and broader, the shirt he still had on was starting to look woefully stretched, the top few buttons were undone and his tie was loose around his collar. His eyes bore into you, giving you that same look the sheriff gives to criminals when Bigby interrogates them; Stern and dark, looking for the truth.

“Don’t tell me that if you’re scared of me,” his fangs glistened in the dark.

“I’m not scared of you, I love you. I wanna help you, Bigby.”

There was a brief flash of something soft in his eyes before primal lust took over again. He released you from the door, looking your clothes up and down.

“Strip,” he ordered.

You didn’t waste time, shucking off your blazer and kicking off your shoes, you pulled your blouse over your head when you saw Bigby struggling with the rest of the buttons on his shirts. His pants zipper was already undone, the button open and his belt long gone leaving his dick to tent his boxers. As you loosened your pants and let them fall to the ground, you made to help him with his shirt only for Bigby to suddenly grow frustrated and tear the thing from his body. You couldn’t help but blush at the rippling muscles that were underneath his shirt, admiring the way the sweat that slowly built up made him shine in the low lighting, showing off every single chiseled line that went into his brawny body despite thick hair growing in fast.

He did the same thing to his pants, tearing them just enough for them to fall to the ground and he stepped out of the ruins. His poor boxers didn’t last much longer, torn to shreds as Bigby stumbled while transforming. He really was a sight to behold, tall enough he couldn’t stand up straight in his small apartment, broader than the doorways, his hung cock right before you. He was big, you already knew that, but what he was packing would most likely split you in half. And looking more closely, you saw that damning piece of evidence that Bigby’s rut had come out of nowhere; His knot was already formed at the base of his cock, ready to lock into you and pump his hot seed inside and impregnate you. You had just managed to unhook your bra when Bigby pounced on you, the poor garment falling to the floor.

Bigby’s big paws grabbed at your body and encircled your hips, allowing you to fall to the ground in his strong hold. The werewolf laid above you, claws now on either side of your head, saliva that coated his fangs started to drip down his fangs, lycan eyes were pinned on yours as his monstrous heat engulfed you. There was a look of restraint in his eyes, like he was giving you one last chance to get your senses in order and get the fuck out of here; But you stayed. You carded a hand into the scruff of Bigby’s neck and scratched lightly, something you’ve done before when he wolfs out to help calm him down.

You’re not going anywhere.

Bigby’s pupils shrank as he sniffed you down, his fangs scraping against your bare skin as he licked up the salt that lingered. He crooned, he growled, he nipped at your soft skin as he trailed his tongue down to your panties. The werewolf didn’t even hesitate, ripping them in half and throwing the shreds away from you both. Wasting no time, Bigby dove in, slipping his large paws under your ass to hike your core closer to his maw, he slid his sharp tongue right between your folds and devoured.

You gasped, jaw unhinging as his tongue plunged inside of you, his saliva coating your folds and helping you split open as his tongue swirled and thrusted. Your toes curled in your socks, your knees felt weak all of a sudden, you found your ankles now locked in the grasp of your werewolf lover. He split your legs open more, claws digging in enough for you to start barely bleeding. You whined and cried, nails scratching the floorboards for purchase as a white heat lanced right through your entire core.

“B-Bigby! Fuck! Oh God, Bigby!” you moaned.

Sweat started to bead at your hairline and he had only been eating you out for barely a minute. Your eyes were wide, your head was swimming, your mouth hung open as you scraped the back of your head against the floorboards. Your entire body was engulfed in heat, the sweat that started to roll down your curves soaked into the old wood that became your only solace for cooling you down.

His tongue alone is long, reaching deep into you, brushing against your cervix and flicking against your sensitivities. His fangs brushed against your delicate skin, little flecks of electrical passion flooded up and down your spine. You felt a crackle at your fingertips, your nails buzzing against your bones. You curled your fingers into his soft fur at the back of his head and kept the beast there, not willing to let him pull away until he forced an orgasm out of you. You’ve never felt like this before, not once in your very long life. You knew right there as he tongue-fucked you on his living room floor that you would experience an orgasm that would be impossible to describe other than pure bliss.

You felt that band start to pull inside of you, a taut feeling slowly winding up right behind your bellybutton as Bigby lavished your pussy. He dropped your ankles from his paws and gripped your hips, lifting your ass up and off of the floor so he could press his muzzle closer to your dripping cunt. Your feet had fallen to the sides of Bigby, spread as wide as you could handle the stretch and bent at the knees. You could feel your magic bristling down your fingertips, begging to release, your brain screaming at you, your heart begging you to bask in the euphoria that was about to take you.

You came quickly on the werewolf’s face, the beast between your legs letting out a deep purr, quickly removing his tongue and leaving you suddenly hollow. The whine you let out was desperate, toes curling, nails biting into his skin to stop him from standing up but he pulled away. You clawed at the ground instead, your nails leaving a faint glow behind as your own magic boiled away inside of you. You look up at Bigby with wide, pleading eyes.

He grabbed your ankles once again and hiked them over his broad and fuzzy shoulders, letting your knees rest on his brawn before he let go again. He planted his hands on either side of your head, claws digging deep ravines into the wood. His eyes were pinned on yours, golden hues with flecks of amber towards the edges, pupils dilating between being blown wide and shrinking so small; It felt like Bigby was still fighting his rut to protect you, to soften the impact, to work you open so he doesn’t just split you in half.

You felt a tap at your passage, your breath hitching when his blunt head rutted against your slickened core. You winced when his tip breached your womanhood, the werewolf chuffing and growling at how tight you still were and slowly inched his way inside. The air had left your lungs the second he started to sink in, your mouth agape and your head leaned to the side. Your hands snatched at Bigby’s shoulders, nails digging in and scratching as Bigby sheathed himself inside of you. You felt so incredibly full when you felt his knot brush against your cunt. You feared that if Bigby moved too fast, you’d be torn apart. A heavy sigh forced air into your lungs finally as Bigby crooned in your ear. He licked his tongue still slimy from your orgasm up the side of your neck to taste the salt on your skin as he slowly started to piston his hips. Your legs started to feel the strain of being in this position already, the pull on your hamstrings only made your bones tingle and grow heavy as your body seemed to relax in Bigby’s hold.

Bigby fucked you slowly, holding back as best as he could despite you being able to see the strain in his eyes. His grasp on humanity wouldn’t last much longer if you had to put money down on it, his speed was starting to get sloppy and impatient. You let out deep, wanton moans as he slammed into your cervix with every thrust. Every time his head struck inside of you, it felt like your cervix was maybe a few more thrusts away from breaching. Tears started to trickle down your cheeks, your hair stuck to your face, his fur clinging to your body. Bigby licked a long strip up from between your breasts to right behind your left ear. He nipped at your earlobe with his jagged teeth, crooning and sniffing at your pulsepoint. He lapped at your throat, nudging his wolfen nose deep in the crook of your neck, ghosting his teeth on your skin. You knew what he wanted, you knew what the werewolf needed.

“Bigby- Yes. Bigby, please,” you whimpered.

You urged the beast, egging him on, spurring him to snap his hips faster. Your nails raked up and down what you could reach of his back, your ankles pinching at the sides of his thick neck. You craned your head further to the side, urging Bigby to mark you.

To mate you.

He drooled over you, lapping at your pulse, snatching at your naked base, taking in the heavy musk of sex that sat heavy in the room. The more you kept talking, the more he lost himself to the monster inside of him; The more he wanted to fuck you until you were full and he knew you were pregnant with his pups and take care of you.

Fuck; The image of your belly swollen with his litter, absolutely glowing just for him and the beast that lingered under his skin alone. The images swimming in his mind was enough for him to snap.

You felt his knot catching, starting off as light tugs turned to him suddenly becoming stuck inside of you. You whined openly with your whole chest, arching your back at the loss of his thrusting. You felt so fucking full, Bigby sitting inside of your womanhood like this stretched you to your absolute limit. His head nestled right against your cervix, and with a sudden yowl from the werewolf above you followed by the sudden explosion of liquid heat inside of you.

Before you could process what was happening, Bigby latched his jaws down on the crook of your neck. You cried out, nails digging in, magic crackling at your fingertips that sent shocks through Bigby, back arching even more into your lover as he marked you as his claim.

As his mate.

You wouldn’t turn from this, that you knew of; Though, honestly, you didn’t really understand how that worked. But as you laid there, groaning, body growing heavy after another sudden orgasm mixing with Bigby’s seed coating your womb white, you could feel the bite oozing blood as well as an odd pull coming over your mind. You whimpered, wanting to at least turn over to your side if not turn over completely, but Bigby held you in your place with an iron-like grip. You felt painfully full, even when his dick had stopped milking itself inside of you, and that damn knot kept you plugged up. Bigby adjusted your legs on his shoulders, lifting your ass off of the floor and held your legs up to an almost mating press. He wasn’t going to let one drop of his cum go to waste, not now.

“B-Bigby, please-” you pleaded.

You felt drunk off of the sensations alone, mind fuzzy, body limp, your being at the mercy of the rutting werewolf above you. He finally let go of your poor shoulder, blood coated his teeth though you could feel the bleeding had stopped. There was a gleam in his eyes, something that told you that Bigby was still in there.

You don’t know how long you both had stayed in that uncomfortable position before Bigby’s knot eventually shrank enough for him to slip out of you. You shivered when his cum started to leak out of your cunt when he settled your legs back down on the floorboard. Bigby stayed over you, though, trapping you beneath his beastly arms as he went right back to licking at your body, enjoying the way the salt made his tongue tingle. He spent extra time crooning and growling at your bite that still throbbed with your pulse. Your eyes fluttered shut as you laid there and took whatever Bigby had to give, your body too heavy and sluggish to do much else and this was only round one.

It took you both a few minutes to open your eyes again, squinting as the setting sun bled through the blinds and flooded his apartment with hues of oranges and pinks. Bigby had started to come down a bit, no longer a lumbering werewolf but still all grizzly. You lifted a heavy hand to brush the hair out of his face, caressing his scruffy cheek that had Bigby closing his eyes again as he basked in your touch. Something crossed his mind as he opened his eyes again, yellow baring down into yours.

You knew he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. These things can go on for days from what you’ve heard, sometimes they can last a week if the poor thing can’t find any release.

Bigby suddenly stood on his feet, stumbling a bit with his first steps. His dick was already hard again, another knot brewing on his cock as remnants of his cum dribbled down his shaft. He snagged the rotary phone he still had after all of these years off of the side table he kept by his front door, picking up the whole thing and dragged it back to you. He placed it on the ground in front of you while you were still on your back trying to catch your breath and prepare yourself for round two. When he set it down, the rotary chimed softly.

Bigby nodded to the phone.

“Call your job. Tell ‘em you’re not coming in for a few days. I’m not done with you,” he growled down to you.

Your eyes flicked between Bigby’s eyes, Bigby’s cock, and Bigby’s phone before you slowly reached and took the cradle in your hands. You flipped over onto your stomach, dragging the chassis closer to you as Bigby stalked around towards your backside. You raised a trembling finger to the dial, managing to get halfway through the phone number when Bigby got on his knees right behind you, crawling on top and snaking his hands under your belly to lift you up onto your knees.

“Bigby,” you pleaded softly.

You finally finished dialing the old-fashioned way and raised the cradle to your ear, listening to the ringing and waiting for the answering machine to kick in. As you waited, you closed your eyes as Bigby rutted against your backside. One of his hands slid to your ass and palmed it, claws scratching faint lines into the curve. When the answering machine kicked in, Bigby listened with great pleasure as you stumbled over your words, lying through your teeth about how you wouldn’t be able to come to work for the next few days because your mother was sick and blah blah blah. Just as you finished speaking, Bigby reached his other hand up and smacked the receiver, cutting the call and batting the rotary away from you both, leaving you in the hands of the big bad wolf.

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𓈒 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 4.

pairing: bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby (bb) contents/warnings: graphic violence, blood, body horror, self-worth issues, internalised blame/anger suppression, mentions of past emotional neglect in relationship. notes: This part got very long so if there's crustiness I'm sorry, but this one is vvv important for overall plot and setting up future stuff. Genuinely thank you SO much for the insane amount of warmth and support on the series so far!

📹 better bobby series masterlist.

You wake up still pressed into his chest.

For a moment, you don't remember why, and then you do. All at once. The grin in the dark, the teeth, the wet, tearing sounds. Your whole body tightens. Better Bobby's hand is already on your back, moving up and down your spine, languid and unhurried, like he's been doing it for hours. Maybe he has. 

You don't know how long you were out. Sleep here isn't sleep the way you understand it. It's more like your body surrenders to exhaustion while the yellow hum rocks you under, and when you surface, it's never with the feeling of having rested. Just the feeling of having stopped.

You pull back. Slightly. Just enough to see his face.

He lets you. His hand stills on your back but doesn't lift. He watches you with those pale eyes. They’re Bobby's eyes. Exactly Bobby's, the same shade, the same lashes, the same way they catch light and hold it. His expression remains open and patient under your scrutiny, and he doesn't fill the silence. He just waits. Let's you look at him. 

You've never studied him this closely before. You've been careful not to. Because looking too hard at Better Bobby means seeing the places where the seams should be and aren't. Confronting how good the copy is, how flawless. The earring sits in his lobe at the exact same angle, and the chain drapes across his collarbone with the exact same weight. 

Even the small scar on his jaw from when real Bobby walked into a cabinet door at nineteen is right there, a perfect replica of a wound that happened to someone else's body.

You sit up. Put distance between your body and his. Not much—a foot, maybe less—but enough that the air between you becomes a boundary instead of a shared warmth, and you see him register it. The slight tension at the corner of his mouth. The way his hand hovers where your back was and then settles, open-palmed, on the blanket beside him. 

He doesn't chase you. He lets you keep your distance. 

“Are you afraid of me?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Bobby's voice is never careful, not even this version, but soft, like someone asking a question they're not sure they want the answer to.

You don't answer that. Instead, you say, “Are you going to hurt me?”

He blinks.

“The way you hurt that thing.” Your voice is steadier than you expected. Flat, almost. The flatness of a person who’s run out of room for new fear and is now operating from somewhere clinical. Survival-practical. “Whatever it was. The sounds it made. The sounds you made.”

There’s movement behind his eyes. He doesn’t flinch, but you spot a shift, a recalibration, like a camera adjusting focus. He remembers what you heard. That low rumbling from his chest that didn't belong in any throat shaped like a human's.

“No,” he says. Immediate. No hesitation, no pause to consider. The word comes out of him with absolute certainty, like a reflex. “No. Never.”

You watch him closely. He looks back at you. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting that flat, shadowless yellow across everything. Better Bobby's face is open and sincere, but you don't believe him. Not completely. Not after what you heard through your closed eyelids. The shrieking and the wet dragging sound and the silence after, the horrible, total silence. The way he'd come back to you without a drop of anything on him. Like unmaking something in the dark was a minor errand.

And not after Bobby. Not after learning what it looks like when someone says I would never and means it and does it anyway. With the slow, grinding, erosive negligence of a man who might have loved you once but still started disappearing while standing right next to you. 

Bobby never hit you. Never raised his voice in a way that carried a threat. Not once. Bobby simply stopped. Stopped seeing you, stopped hearing you, stopped reaching for you in the morning, and the absence was its own kind of violence, bloodless and total.

Now you're in a yellow hallway with a thing wearing his face telling you never with the same mouth and you cannot—you cannot—take that word at face value. Not from that face. Not anymore.

And he sees it. The disbelief. He reads it on your face the way real Bobby used to read light through a viewfinder. With instinctive precision, without needing to be told what he's seeing.

Better Bobby reaches out. Tips your chin up with one knuckle. Gentle. So gentle. Guiding your face back to his when you'd started to drift, to look away, to find a spot on the yellow wall that was easier to stare at than his eyes.

“Why do you think I chose this face?”

He says this face with an edge to his voice. Not quite contempt, not quite amusement. But snide. A little sharp. The closest thing to edge you've ever heard from Better Bobby. This brief flash of awareness that the face he's wearing belongs to someone else. Someone who wasted it, and he knows it, and he wears it anyway because—

You're silent.

Better Bobby smiles. Gentle. The sharpness folds back into warmth the way a blade folds back into a handle.

“I heard you,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

“From the other side. Through the wall.” He says it simply, his thumb working carefully over the dip of your chin. “He used to come to the store. Bobby. In the beginning. Before you worked the night shifts alone. He'd come hang out, and you'd be downstairs together, and I could hear you. Both of you. I could hear what it sounded like when he was still—” He pauses, expression twisting. You see him choose and settle on his next words. “When he was still trying.”

The lights flicker. Once. Settle again.

“And then he stopped coming. And you were alone down there. And I could hear that too.”

Your chest goes tight.

“You used to talk,” Better Bobby goes gently, watching your face. “Not to anyone. Not on the phone. Just—out loud. To the room. To yourself. To him, even though he wasn't there. Do you remember?” His thumb traces your jawline, feather-light. “You'd say things like he doesn't listen anymore. And he didn't kiss me goodbye again today, that's the third day in a row, am I keeping count now? Is that what I'm doing? Keeping count?”

Your eyes burn, blurring his familiar features. 

“And I don't think he sees me. I'm standing right in front of him, and he's looking through me like I'm furniture. Like I'm one of Clark's display pieces. Something you walk around.”

“Stop,” you whisper.

He doesn't stop, but his voice goes softer. Almost tender.

“You were so lonely.” He says it like it's the saddest thing he's ever learned, and maybe it is. Maybe loneliness sounds different from the other side of a wall. Rawer, louder, the way a voice sounds in an empty room because there's nothing else to absorb it. “And so sad. And so angry, baby—”

You flinch because you don't—you weren't angry. You were hurt. That's a smaller, quieter, more acceptable thing than anger.

Because anger would mean admitting that what Bobby did wasn't just a failure of attention but a choice. Night after night after night, a man choosing the path of least resistance over the person lying next to him, and if you let yourself be angry about that, then the whole careful belief of maybe it's me, maybe I'm asking for too much, maybe love is supposed to feel like this after a while collapses, and what's underneath it is—

“—you were so angry, and you didn't even let yourself feel it. You said it like it was your fault. Like if you could just be more interesting or prettier or less needy, he'd—”

Hot, liquid feeling surges up from your chest to your throat. “Stop.”

He stops. But his eyes don't leave yours, and in them you can see that he knows. He heard it all, you realise. Every whispered self-indictment, every quiet renegotiation of your own worth to accommodate Bobby's shrinking attention.

He heard the thing underneath it too, the thing you buried so deep you forgot it was there. 

The rage. The white-hot, screaming, incandescent fury of a woman who gave everything to a man who couldn't be bothered to look up from a television screen, who turned your love into background noise and let you stand in doorways wondering if you were still visible. 

You buried it because anger felt like giving up. Because if you were angry, it meant something was wrong, and if something was wrong, it could be over. If it was over, then you'd given your whole heart to someone who let it sit on a shelf and gather dust, and that was unbearable. So you turned the anger inward instead, folded it into self-doubt, and let it eat you rather than the situation, because at least that way the situation could still be saved.

Better Bobby heard you bury it. He heard the burial, and he heard the body underneath it, and he's looking at you now with something that isn't pity or judgment. Isn't the performative concern that Bobby used to deploy in those final months when he bothered to notice you were hurting at all. That tight-jawed what's wrong that really meant please don't make me deal with this. 

This is something else. Recognition. The look of a thing that knows what it sounds like when someone swallows their own rage until it poisons them. Until it makes them abandon everything they once knew for a world of yellow, buzzing lights and monsters in the dark. 

“It wasn't you,” he says, his hand cupping your cheek. His palm is cool, his fingers curving, and he holds you there. There’s no force, no hard grip, he’s just holding. Cradling. The way you'd hold something you found in the dark that was shaking. “It was never you. You could've been perfect. You were perfect. And he still would've pulled away because that's what he does. That's how he's built. He gets close, and it scares him. So he retreats, and that's his malfunction, not yours.”

It’s then you start crying.

Not like earlier. After the attack. That was shock, adrenaline, your nervous system shorting out. 

This is different. This is slow and terrible, coming from somewhere so deep you didn't know the room existed. 

It's the crying you should've done months ago, in the apartment in Santa Clara, on the nights when Bobby was asleep three feet away, and you were staring at the ceiling, wondering when you became the kind of woman who measures love in absences. He didn't kiss me today. He didn't ask about my day. He didn't look up. Keeping count. Tallying the deficit. The anger you didn't let yourself feel and the grief you couldn't afford mixed with the loneliness you absorbed like radiation, quietly, invisibly, until it changed the composition of your bones.

Better Bobby pulls you in when the first sob breaks. Slow and careful, his arms folding around you, and your face presses into his chest.

He holds you while you shake apart. His hand moves on your back, but there's more uncertainty in it now. He pauses at your shoulder blade. Adjusts. Resettles his palm. Like he's figuring out the right pressure in real time. Learning the weight of comfort.

His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel the slight furrow of his brow against your hair, the way his body is holding very still around the motion of his hand. He’s noting each shudder, each ragged breath, trying to understand the mechanics of this. What crying is. What it means. Why your body does it and what it needs from his.

“I love him,” you choke out. Waterlogged. Muffled against his chest. “I love him so much. And he just—he stopped. He just stopped, and I keep thinking if I'd done something different, if I'd been—”

“No.” Firm the way a hand on your shoulder is firm when you're about to step into traffic. “Don't do that.”

“—if I'd been less”—”

“No.”

His arms tighten around you. You feel his jaw clench against the top of your head, a brief flash of what might be anger.

At the sentence, at the shape of the thought, the idea that you would carve yourself smaller to fit inside Bobby's shrinking attention span. His hand on your back goes still and then resumes, slower, like he's reminding himself to be gentle.

“You did nothing wrong,” he says into your hair. “You loved someone. You loved them well. And they couldn't hold it. That's not a flaw in the love. That's a flaw in the hands.”

You cry until there's nothing left. Until you're just breathing, wet and ragged, against his chest. The sobs eventually thin to hiccups, then to shudders, finally settling into a deep, wrung-out stillness, the exhaustion that comes after. 

Better Bobby holds you through all of it. Doesn't shift. Doesn't pull back. Doesn't ask if you're okay, which is a kindness in itself because the answer is obviously no and being asked to say it out loud would be one more weight.

When you finally pull back, your face is swollen, and your eyes are raw. Better Bobby looks at you with an expression you've never seen on Bobby's face. Open and bewildered, creased with tenderness in a way that seems to be happening to him without his permission. Like he reached for the right emotion, grabbed something bigger than he expected.

He touches your face. Thumbs the tears off your cheekbone, one side and then the other, careful, methodical. His brow furrows. Curious. The furrow of a thing encountering a phenomenon for the first time and finding it far more complex than anticipated.

“Sad,” he murmurs. Almost to himself. Almost wonderingly.

You sit together in the yellow light for a long time. The hum fills the silence.

Then you reach out and touch his face.

Your fingertips on his cheekbone. Tracing the line of his jaw. The scar from the cabinet door. The corner of his mouth where real Bobby's grin always starts, one side before the other, that lopsided asymmetry that used to make your heart stutter.

Better Bobby goes still.

Then he hums. Low in his throat. Warm. A sound that starts in his chest and travels up through all of him like a vibration through a struck bell. His eyes close. His head tips into your palm like a cat pressing into a hand, like he's been waiting for this, this specific thing, your skin on his skin, voluntary and gentle, initiated by you.

The difference matters; it matters enormously, you can tell by the way his breath changes, goes uneven, almost delicate. 

His lips part, just slightly, lashes fluttering against your thumb.

“That feels good,” he whispers huskily. And then, quieter, with a note of genuine wonder, “How odd.”

You watch him lean into your hand, and the expression on his face is unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. Bobby's face, but not Bobby's expression. It could never be Bobby's expression, you realise suddenly, because Bobby would've turned it into a joke by now, would've kissed your palm or made a quip or done something to break the sincerity before it got too heavy. 

Your hand stills on his cheek. He opens his eyes. Looks at you.

“I need you to make me a promise,” you say.

There’s another ripple in his expression. The tilt of his head. That almost animal curiosity, the slight cock to one side that doesn't quite track as human body language. “A promise?”

“Yes.”

He studies you. Processing. “What is a promise?”

The question is genuine. Not rhetorical, not evasive. He's looking at you the way he looked at your tears. With concentration, focus, and a desire to understand. You can almost see the gap between knowing the word and understanding the weight, and he's standing at the edge of it, waiting for you to build the bridge.

“It's—it's a commitment. Something you say that you can't take back. Something you keep even when it's hard. Even when you don't want to. Even when circumstances change.” You swallow thickly. “When you make a promise, you don't break it. That's the whole point. It's the one thing that's supposed to be unbreakable.”

Better Bobby is quiet. Considering. His eyes move across your face in that precise, reading way.

“I understand,” he says carefully, solemnly. Like he's holding the concept in his hands and turning it to see all sides. “An oath. A contract between two beings that supersedes circumstance.”

You blink. “Something like that.”

He angles his face closer, attention fixed and unblinking on you. “Then ask.”

You drag your eyes over his face. Bobby's face, Bobby's eyes, Bobby's scar. The face of a man who loved you and couldn't say it and showed it by looking away until you forgot what it felt like to be seen. The face of a thing that isn't that man and chose to wear him anyway because it heard you through a wall and wanted to be the version that stayed.

“Promise me… you won't hurt me,” you say quietly. “Not the way he did.”

The words hang in the yellow air. The hum shifts. Not louder, but denser somehow, as if the walls themselves are listening, as if the promise is being registered by something larger than the two of you.

Better Bobby's expression changes. Curiosity dissolves. What replaces it is— 

You don't have a word for it. Not solemnity, a gravity older than language. It rises from the part of him that isn't Bobby: the vast and ancient thing beneath the boy’s face. The part of him that understands what you are asking is not a small thing. That the promise you want is, for a being like him, a kind of architecture. A structure that, once built, holds.

“I promise,” he says. No hesitation, no charm, no Bobby-grin to soften the weight of it. Just the words, low and clear, carrying the same absolute certainty as his no earlier. A reflex, a law carved into whatever he is at a level deeper than the face, deeper than the voice. “I will not hurt you. Not the way he did. Not any way.”

His hand covers yours on his cheek. Presses it there. Holds it.

“I don't know how to break a promise,” he tells you, quieter now. “But I think that's the point.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your hand is on his face, cool to the touch, and his hand is on your hand. You watch each other for a long time, unwilling to move first.

He breaks the stalemate first, taking your hand into his.

“Come with me,” he urges with that restrained excitement in his eyes, barely contained behind Bobby's careful coolness. Something almost boyish in its sincerity. “Somewhere that's not yellow.”

You look at his hand, using your other to wipe the tear tracks off your face. “Is it safe?”

And then it returns. 

Not the gentle Better Bobby who strokes your hair and says I've got you. The other one. It surfaces behind his eyes like a shape moving under dark water. Vast, amused, ancient. His chin dips slightly. His mouth curves.

And for a half-second, the thing looking out at you from Bobby's face is not performing warmth or mimicking tenderness. It's something that has walked these hallways since the beginning. Something that heard you through a wall and chose to want you rather than simply take you, and the distinction between those two things is the only reason you're still breathing.

“Baby,” he drawls, and his voice is Bobby's, but the tone is deeper, older. “I am what's safe here.”

It lasts a second. Less. Then he blinks and the ancient thing submerges and Better Bobby is back, warm-eyed and easy-mouthed, holding his hand out to you in the yellow light like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he says, lighter now. Normal. That crooked half-grin back. “Trust me.”

You take his hand, and he pulls you up.

He leads you through the hallways. Different route this time. Sharper turns, narrower corridors, and Better Bobby moves through them with liquid confidence, his hand secure around yours, his pace unhurried. You pass through a section where the carpet gives way to tile, and the tile gives way to something that feels like packed earth beneath your feet. 

The walls shift from yellow to grey, and you tense, your grip tightening, and he squeezes back. Once. Reassuring.

Then the hallway opens.

You stop.

It takes your brain a moment. Several moments. Because what you're looking at doesn't belong here, can't belong here, is fundamentally incompatible with everything you've experienced in this place so far, and yet here it is: sky. Actual sky. 

Not blue exactly, but deeper and richer. The colour of late afternoon, easing toward evening, a gradient of gold and amber, close to violet at the edges. And beneath it, trees. Dense, old-growth, the kind of towering canopy you'd find in the Santa Cruz Mountains, all ferns and filtered light and the rich, complex smell of living earth. A path winds through them, beaten dirt, dappled with sun. 

You can feel it on your face. Not quite the real sun of your world, but it’s not fluorescent. 

You stand in the threshold between the hallway and the forest, and you don't breathe because if you breathe or blink, it might disappear.

“Level 14,” Better Bobby announces behind you casually, tracking your reaction. “Some people call it Paradise.”

“How—”

“Doors.” He shrugs. “Everything here has doors. Entrances and exits. You just have to know where they are.”

You step forward. Grass. Real grass, or something so close you can't tell the difference, and the sensation is so overwhelmingly normal after the carpet and concrete and yellow that your eyes fill again, and you press your hand over your mouth.

Better Bobby steps up beside you. He's watching the trees with that curious expression, head slightly tilted, but underneath it, there’s satisfaction. Quiet pride. He found this, and he brought you here because you were crying on the floor, and he didn't know what else to do except find you somewhere beautiful.

You grab his hand.

Hard, sudden, fingers lacing through his, knuckles blanching. Because there are trees and you don't trust anything that looks like the real world, because the real world abandoned you.

Better Bobby looks down at your joined hands, and his lips part. That smile appears again. The new one, the one still taking shape on features designed for smirking, learning in real time how to hold something softer. Slow. Almost shy.

He doesn't comment. Doesn't tease. Just holds your hand back and starts walking.

“It's safe here,” he tells you, feeling the tension in your grip, the coiled readiness. “This level is safe. Nothing hunts here.”

“You said the yellow—Level 0 was safe.”

“Level 0 is my territory. Things occasionally wander in.” He says my territory without emphasis, but the words land heavily anyway, carrying the weight of what you saw behind his eyes a few minutes ago, the brief flash of the creature that owns these hallways. “Here—” He gestures with his free hand. The amber light moves across his skin, and he looks different in it, softer. More like Bobby at golden hour on the fire escape back home, and the resemblance hits you like a fist. “Nothing wanders. Nothing wants to wander. It's peaceful. Even the things that live here are gentle.”

You walk. He leads you deeper, and the canopy closes overhead like a ceiling, green and gold, light falling in shafts through the leaves and landing in warm patches on the path. You hear birdsong. Birdsong. You haven't heard birdsong in… you don't know how long. The sound cracks something open in your chest that you thought had scarred over.

Your grip on his hand loosens. Slightly.

The path winds along a stream. Clear water over smooth stones, the sound of it gentle. Nothing like the dripping in the pipes on Level 2. Simply water moving over rocks because gravity says so. 

The path opens into a clearing. Tall grass. A meadow ringed by trees, the canopy breaking to reveal that impossible sky, and in the centre a fallen log covered in moss, the kind of thing you'd find on a trail in Big Basin or Castle Rock. The kind of thing you and Bobby used to perch on when you went hiking in the early days and kiss until your mouths went numb.

Better Bobby guides you to the log. You sit. He sits beside you. Hands still joined.

A bird—small, brown, ordinary—lands on a branch above you and turns its head and looks at you with one bright black eye, and you stare back at it, your chin trembling. Because it's a bird, just a bird, and you'd forgotten how much of the world you were missing.

“I didn't think this place could be beautiful,” you say quietly, looking at the amber light filtering through the canopy, the way it falls on the tall grass in warm pools. “I thought it was just… yellow. And carpet. And things with teeth.”

“Most of it is,” Better Bobby replies honestly. Not sugar-coating it.”But most of anywhere is. The trap of this place, if you can consider it one, is that you’d never want to leave. How could you? When everywhere else there’s death.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because it shouldn't exist. Because this whole place is wrong. It's not supposed to be here. None of it. And somewhere inside all that wrongness, there's this—” You gesture at the meadow, the sky, the bird, the stream. “It doesn't make sense.”

Better Bobby is quiet for a moment. Watching you the way he does—full attention, total focus, the listening that feels less like politeness and more like study.

“Maybe that’s exactly why it exists,” he says. “Maybe it was built by mistake. Or maybe it exists because nothing is ever just one thing.”

You turn to look at him. He's sitting beside you in amber light with his earring catching gold instead of fluorescent. And his face is Bobby's face, but the expression on it is something Bobby hasn’t worn in a long time, if ever. Patient, present, content with simply being here without reaching for a camera, without filtering the moment through a lens, or needing a barrier between himself and the thing he's looking at.

“I don't want to call you Bobby anymore.”

He goes still.

The uncertain one. A brief, visible tension through his shoulders, his jaw, the hand holding yours tightening by a fraction. His eyes flick to your face, and the light in them is guarded in a way you haven't seen from him before. Wary. Like you've touched something unexpectedly tender and he's bracing for what comes next.

You see the calculation, the quick processing, and you understand. He thinks this is the beginning of something else. A rejection. A pulling away. You're not Bobby, you'll never be Bobby, and I don't want the reminder. He's already building the wall behind his face, that smooth, easy mask he can slip back into, the charming nonchalance to protect himself. 

“You're not him,” you go on quickly. Before the wall finishes closing. “That's—that's the point. You're not him. You're something else. And it feels wrong to call you by another person's name when you're your own—” You fumble. Gesture at him, at the clearing, at everything. “Your own being. Your own person. Or—whatever you are. Whatever the word is. Entity?”

His jaw loosens, shoulders dropping a fraction. The wall stops building.

“What would you call me?” he asks quietly. Like the answer matters more than he wants to show.

“Maybe… BB?” You say it, and it feels right. Simple. Still him, still connected, but his. Not borrowed. Not a copy of a copy. “If that's okay?”

He's quiet for a long moment, simply gazing at you. The light shimmers on his face, and his expression shifts through layers. The careful architecture of Better Bobby rearranging itself around this new information, this small, enormous thing you've just given him. A name. His own name. Not the one he stole. The one you chose.

You lean your head against his shoulder lightly.

You can feel it through the contact between you, through the place where your temple rests against his shoulder. Something in him settles. Deepens. A satisfaction so total it's almost palpable, like a beam slotting into place.

He likes it. Being seen as separate, being known as his own being. Not the understudy, not a replacement, not the better version of someone else, but simply a version of himself. You can feel how much he likes it in the way his thumb resumes its slow circuit over your knuckles, in the way his head tips to rest on yours, in the breath he lets out that sounds like it's been held for centuries.

“BB,” he repeats, testing it. His voice comes in a low, warm rumble. Bobby's timbre with something deeper underneath, and the two letters sit in the balmy air, small and perfect.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “BB.” A beat, then, “Thank you. For hearing me.”

A hum starts low in his chest, a thrum you feel before you hear it. It travels the length of his arm to where his fingers are laced through yours. He squeezes once, and when he speaks again, the easy charm has drained out of his voice, leaving it quieter, almost reticent.

“I was lonely too,” he admits.

Your heart squeezes, quick and helpless.

You sit together for a long, long time, the light pooling thick and lazy around you. And for the first time since you fell through the wall, what settles in your chest isn't fear, isn't confusion, and not grief.

It's peace.

The walk back is different.

BB leads you through the same threshold, and the yellow returns, followed by the buzz that resettles on your skin like a coat you forgot you were wearing. But something in you has shifted. Loosened. The meadow is still sitting inside your chest, warm and quiet. You carry it back into Level 0 the way you'd carry a cupped handful of water.

And you're talking.

Actually talking. Not the halting, guarded exchanges of the past weeks. Or the questions that go in circles, the silences that stretch like hallways.

You're talking, and BB is listening. Somewhere between the threshold and the familiar territory of your room, you say something about Clark—about the time Clark tried to assemble a display bookshelf himself and got the shelves in upside down, and you'd had to redo the entire thing at midnight while Clark stood behind you insisting it looked fine—and BB laughs.

It's a good laugh. It's Bobby's laugh. Low, surprised, that huff through the nose that real Bobby does when something catches him off guard, and it makes you smile. Actually smile. Your cheeks ache with it. 

You can't remember the last time your face did that.

“He sounds like an idiot,” BB remarks, grinning. That cocky half-grin, the one that crinkles one eye.

“He's not—okay, he's a little bit of an idiot. But he means well. He’s just going through a rough patch right now. He doesn't know how to—”

“Accept help?”

“I was going to say read an instruction manual.”

BB snorts. “Same thing.” 

He bumps your shoulder with his. Easy. Playful. And you bump him back, and the normalcy of it—the sheer, stupid, ordinary normalcy of walking and talking and bumping shoulders with someone—is so sweet it makes your throat tight with a different kind of ache. An emotion closer to joy, which is worse because joy in a place like this is borrowed. 

“You know,” you begin, squinting at him, “for a—” You stop, gesturing vaguely at him. “You're not bad company.”

“Not bad company.” He puts his hand over his chest. Bobby's mock-wounded face, the one real Bobby used to pull when you beat him at cards. “I'm overcome with emotion.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, I'm serious. I'm going to treasure this moment. Not bad company. I'm getting that tattooed.”

“Can you even get a tattoo?”

His mouth hooks into that infuriating half-smirk that unfailingly warmed your blood for years, “Baby, I can do whatever I—”

He stops.

Mid-word. Mid-stride. His body goes rigid so fast it's like watching someone get hit with a current. Every muscle locking at once, his hand tightening on yours hard enough to hurt. His head turns. Not the way a person turns their head. The way a thing turns. Too sharp, too angular, his chin cocking to one side at a degree that doesn't belong on a human neck with a faint click. His eyes go flat and dark, and the creature behind them surges to the surface, breaching deep water.

You suck in a breath, eyes snapping around you, searching. “BB?”

He doesn't answer. He's listening. Every line of his body orients toward something you can't hear, his nostrils flaring slightly, and the hum in the walls shifts tone. Barely. A semitone. Like the whole level just inhaled.

“BB, what—”

He moves.

He doesn't explain. His hand releases yours and both of his are on your shoulders, turning you, walking you. Fast, with an urgency you haven't seen from him before, not even with the strange thing in the hallway. His jaw is set, eyes scanning the corridor with a focus that's mechanical, inhuman, processing information from sources you can't perceive.

“Please talk to me—”

“Shh.”

It’s not BB's voice. But an older rumble. Something that's done calculating, moved on to acting, and doesn't have the bandwidth for warmth right now.

He takes you to your room. The warm nest. The blankets. He guides you down with one hand on the back of your head, the way you'd ease someone into a car, pulling the blankets around you, and you grab his wrist because his eyes are wrong. They're flat, black, and old.

The thing in the hallway, whatever it is, has made him become the thing he was in the dark with the Smiler, and that version of BB is a version you can't reach.

“Stay here,” he instructs sternly. His voice is low and tight, thrumming with that sub-frequency that vibrates in the walls. “Don't move. Don't make a sound.”

“What's happening? What's—”

“Stay.”

He looks at you. One second. A flash of the warmth—buried deep, almost submerged, but there, still—and then his expression closes like a door slamming. BB straightens and turns toward the hallway.

You blink, and he's gone.

Just gone. Between one blink and the next, the space where BB stood is empty. The air where his body was is settling, displaced, like water closing over the place where a stone sank. 

The hum holds its earlier shifted note. That slightly wrong semitone, tense and high, like a held breath.

You sit in the blankets with your knees pulled to your chest, heart in your throat, and stare at the empty doorway and beyond it, listening intently.

Nothing. No tearing. No shrieking. No sounds at all. Just the hum and the buzz and your own breathing and the silence so total it frightens you more. 

You wait.

The meadow is still inside you: the bird, the stream, the warm light, the way BB laughed when you told him about Clark's bookshelf. The stupid, gentle joke about the tattoo, the way his shoulder bumped yours, and you bumped him back, and for thirty seconds, you forgot where you were and what he was, and the whole impossible situation felt like a walk home from somewhere good with someone you liked.

You press your face into your knees. You wrap your arms around yourself.

You wait.

BB comes back eventually.

You don't know how long it's been. Time in the Backrooms is a broken clock. Sometimes the minutes stretch into hours; sometimes what feels like an afternoon is over before a thought can finish forming. 

You've been sitting in the blankets, knees to chest, listening to the hum slowly, slowly settle back to its normal pitch, the tension of Level 0 releasing one degree at a time. You didn't sleep. You didn't move. You just sat and breathed, holding the meadow inside you like a candle flame in cupped hands.

You hear him before you see him. Footsteps. Slow. The particular rhythm of his walk. Bobby's gait, but smoother, more intentional, the way a predator moves even when it's not hunting. Then his shape appears in the doorway.

Something's off.

He's standing the way he always stands—one shoulder against the doorframe, hip cocked, that easy lean—but the details are wrong. Slightly. His edges are too sharp. The line of his jaw looks as if it were drawn rather than grown. His skin has a quality to it, like wet paint, freshly applied. And his eyes.

BB’s eyes are settling. That's the only word for it. The flat, black depth that swallowed the warmth when he left is receding, draining away, and Bobby's eyes are rising to the surface again. You watch it happen. You watch him reassemble himself.

He was something else, you realise. Whatever he went to do, wherever he did while away, he dropped Bobby's face to do it. And what you're looking at now, standing in the doorway, is the process of putting it back on. Climbing back inside the shape of a person. Buttoning up the human suit.

“BB.”

He blinks. The last of the darkness drains from his eyes. He looks at you, and the warmth returns. In layers, like watching a photograph develop, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of you. The too-sharp lines of his face soften into the Bobby you know, and his mouth does that almost-smile, the one that says I'm here without words.

“Hey, baby.”

“What happened?”

Not a question. A demand. You say it flat and steady, holding his gaze, and you don't let him do the easy-grin deflection, the don't worry about it. You've had enough of that for one lifetime. You made him promise.

BB reads it on your face. The refusal to be contained.

He exhales through his nose—Bobby's habit, the one that means I don't want to talk about this, but I'm going to—and pushes off the doorframe and comes to sit beside you on the blankets. Close. His knee touches yours.

“There's something new,” he says after a pause. “In the Backrooms. Something I haven't encountered before.”

You stare. “An… entity?”

“Yes.” He turns the word over like he's not sure it's sufficient. “It’s been… circling. Mainly the perimeter of Level 0. Not entering. Not yet anyway. Just... moving along the edge. Testing it.” His jaw works. That muscle at the hinge, the one that flexes when Bobby's thinking, when Bobby's holding something back. “It's been doing it intermittently. Coming close, then retreating. Like it's taking measurements.”

A shiver skitters down your spine. “What does it want?”

“I don't know.” And you understand that BB doesn't say I don't know often or easily. BB is the thing that knows this place, that moves through it like blood through a vein, that owns Level 0. Admitting ignorance is not in his nature. It sits wrong on his face, like a shirt buttoned crooked. “It's different from the others. Not like the Smiler. Not like the Howlers, either. Not like anything in my experience. It's very new.” A tense pause, then, “And very, very powerful.”

The way he says powerful makes the hum in the walls dip. Just for a second. A brief, almost subliminal drop in frequency, as if Level 0 itself heard the word and flinched.

You stare at him, your heart thrumming in your chest. Bobby's face, creased with a concern that doesn't quite fit the cocky architecture of it. BB in a rare moment of honesty about his own limits. Something new, he said. Something powerful. Something that makes a thing that unmade another entity with its bare hands sit next to you on a pile of blankets and admit it doesn't have an answer.

You exhale, turning to stare at the yellow wall instead. 

“I want you to teach me,” you tell him after a moment.

His head turns. The dog-tilt. Quick, surprised.

You look back towards him. “About this place. The levels. The entities. The doors, the rules, whatever—I want to understand it. I don't want to just—” You gesture at the blankets, the room, the warm patch you've been sleeping in for however long you've been here. “I don't want to be something you put in a nest and guard. I want to know what's out there. How to move through it. I don't want to be helpless whenever you leave.”

BB studies you. That long, reading look, line by line, extracting meaning. You expect resistance. Protectiveness. The instinct to keep you in the soft, warm place where nothing can touch you, where he can fold himself around you like armour and pretend the world ends at the walls of this room.

Instead, slowly, he nods.

“There are rules,” he insists. The caution is audible. Measured, considered, a thing that’s used to absolute control, negotiating the edges of a concession. “I go with you. Always. You don't wander alone. Not until you understand enough.”

“Okay.”

“And there are levels I won't take you to. Places where my presence doesn't offer the protection it does on 0. Places where—” He pauses, choosing his words the way you'd choose a path through uneven ground. “Places where going would be… foolish.”

“Okay. Deal.”

You watch him watch you, just like earlier in the sunlight. “Okay,” he says eventually. “I'll teach you.”

Time passes.

You don't know how much. The Backrooms don't have seasons, don't have sunrise and sunset. No reliable Monday into Tuesday into Wednesday that structures a life on the other side of the wall. What you have is rhythm—the rhythm of sleep and waking, of walking and resting, of BB's hand on yours as he leads you through doorways you're learning to see.

You miss the real world.

It hits you at strange moments. 

Not when you'd expect, not during the long stretches of yellow or the nights when the hum shifts pitch and BB goes rigid and watchful beside you. It hits you in the quiet. In the nothing moments.

You'll be sitting in the nest sketching a corridor layout, and the pen will skip, and you'll shake it the way you used to shake the pens at Clark's register. And the muscle memory will drag the whole world through. 

The smell of the showroom, lemon polish and particleboard, the radio playing low from the boombox behind the counter, the particular quality of California dusk through the front windows when the strip mall parking lot emptied out.

The apartment. The couch. The sound of Bobby's camera clicking in the other room.

You miss rain. Not Level 14 rain, or drizzle of the Poolrooms. Actual rain, East Bay winter rain, the kind that hammered the apartment windows and turned the parking lot at Clark's into a shallow lake and made Bobby curse because he'd left the car windows cracked again.

You miss the smell of wet asphalt. You even miss traffic. The dull boredom of a slow Tuesday shift with no customers, leaning on the counter with a magazine, watching the clock crawl toward closing.

You miss cereal. The specific crunch of it, dry, eaten by the handful out of the box at midnight because you were too tired to make real food after a close. You miss the weight of your own blankets on your bed, not the gathered nest-pile BB assembled for you. You miss the answering machine clicking on. You miss the phone ringing at all.

You think about going back.

Not the way you thought about it in the first weeks. That was rantic, clawing, animal desperation to find the wall you fell through and push back to the other side. That's burned out. What's left is quieter. More deliberate. A slow, circular calculation that runs in the background of your brain like a programme you can't close: Is there a way? If BB knows the doors, if the doors go between levels, if levels connect to each other in ways that don't follow geometry, could one of them connect back? Could there be a threshold that opens onto Clark's storage basement, onto the real world?

You don't ask BB. Because the calculation always stalls at the same place, the same, indestructible wall. 

The wall in your chest. The one built from the last six months of your life in Santa Clara, from every unanswered question and unfinished sentence and cold sheet and blue TV light and grunt. 

The wall that asks one simple question: Go back to what?

Go back to the apartment where Bobby looked through you like glass? Go back to the doorway where you stood with your keys in your hand and your heart in your eyes, and he didn't look up? Go back to being the woman who measures love in deficits, who keeps count of kisses the way she keeps count of inventory, watching the numbers dwindle, knowing exactly what the shortage means, and not being able to stop counting.

Bobby is probably relieved.

The thought arrives fully formed, mid-step, on a walk through Level 4, and it stops you so completely that BB turns back, his hand sliding to the small of your back, his head doing that quick, concerned tilt. You wave him off. Fine. I'm fine. But the thought is there now, lodged behind your sternum like a splinter, and you can feel it every time you breathe.

Bobby is probably relieved. Bobby is probably sleeping diagonally again. Bobby is probably eating cereal over the sink, leaving his bowl on the counter. Watching TV with his feet up and the apartment is probably messier, quieter. Less cluttered without your books and your magazines and your shoes by the door.

Your presence in every corner asking to be noticed. 

Bobby is probably lighter, breathing easier. Maybe he looked up from the television one day and realised the doorway was empty and felt—what? Guilt? Or the guilty cousin of relief, the exhale of a man whose obligation to pretend has been finally lifted?

You haven't felt needed in months. Not once.

The realisation surfaces slowly, a gradual saturation of a truth you've been standing ankle-deep in since before you fell through the wall. 

Bobby didn't need you. Bobby needed the idea of you—the girlfriend, the warm body, the person in the apartment who made it feel less empty—but he didn't need you. The particular, inconvenient you who wanted to be talked to and looked at and held and kissed goodbye every morning. That version of you was too much work. 

That version required maintenance he couldn't be bothered to perform.

But the ache—god, the ache. It hasn't faded. You thought it would. You thought time and distance and the sheer alien absurdity of your circumstances would erode it the way the Backrooms erode seemingly everything. Until the original shape is unrecognisable. 

But the ache for Bobby sits in the centre of your chest like a second heartbeat, stubborn and alive, and it doesn't care that he let you down.

It doesn't care that the last thing he gave you was a grunt. Love has no quality control. Love doesn't audit the recipient and adjust its intensity based on merit. 

You still love Bobby with the same enormous, stupid devotion you loved him with on that Thursday morning when the sun was on the sheets and he ignored the phone and pulled you closer and rasped stay. That love has not diminished by a single degree despite every reason it should have, and the persistence of it is the cruellest thing about being here. 

Because it means you’re aching for a man who made you feel invisible while standing in front of a being who has never once looked away.

You cry about it. Once. In the nest, in the dark, turned away from BB, muffling it in the blankets.

He doesn't say anything. His hand finds your shoulder. His thumb moves, once, twice, a slow circuit over the curve of bone. He doesn't ask what's wrong because he already knows—he's always known, he heard it all through the wall—and the kindness of his silence, the restraint of it, the choice to hold space instead of fill it, makes you cry harder.

You stop crying. You wipe your face. You pick up the notebook.

And you start mapping instead.

BB finds the notebook for you. God knows where, god knows how, a composition book with a mottled black-and-white cover and pages that smell like basement storage. 

You hold it and the weight of it in your hands feels so familiar it aches. The pen he gives you is a ballpoint, blue ink, the cheap kind that skips if you press too hard. You uncap it and the click of the cap settles something in your chest. An old reflex. The same one that used to kick in when you opened the inventory binder at the store. 

The satisfaction of a system, a structure, a way to organise chaos into a shape you can hold.

If you can't go back, you'll go forward. If you can't be needed there, you'll be needed here. Anything but the slow decay of being unwanted. And then, one day, when you're ready, you'll ask BB to find you a door back.

One day.

Level 0 comes first. The hallways you know, the ones BB takes you through, the turns and junctions and the places where the carpet changes texture and means something. A border, a threshold, a shift in territory. 

You draw diagrams. Floor plans. Rough, imprecise, the proportions wrong because the proportions are wrong. Because the hallways don't obey geometry in any way you can verify. But the act of drawing them—of putting pen to paper, using the things Clark used to tell you about rendering shapes and rooms—makes it less vast. Less formless. Containable. 

The pen moves and the world shrinks and for the first time in months you have purpose.

BB watches you work with undisguised fascination.

He sits beside you while you sketch, his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck, and sometimes he corrects you (that corridor turns left, not right or there's a junction there you haven't found yet) and sometimes he just watches your hand move and hums in his throat. That low, warm rumble that you've started to associate with contentment. 

His chin digs into your shoulder when he leans in to see your shorthand and you flick his nose without looking up and he huffs—offended, amused, delighted, nosing closer—and the exchange is so easy, so thoughtless, so much like two people who’ve known each other long enough that the edges have been worn smooth by repetition.

Half the time you forget he's not human.

That's the truth you don't examine too closely. Because it would mean confronting what it says about you, about your standards, about how broken your idea of normal has become. 

But BB sits beside you with his chin on your shoulder and his warmth against your side. He asks about your shorthand, remembers the answer, asks follow-up questions. He brings you food without being asked.

The line between an inhuman entity wearing a man's face and a person who cares about me blurs until it's less a line and more a smudge, a gradation, a slow dissolve from one thing into the other.

He cares for you. Genuinely. Not the way you care for a pet. 

You see it in the small things first. The way he checks the temperature of the carpet before he lets you sit, and how he positions himself between you and the corridor when you sleep. His head turns toward you when you shift in the nest, tracking your movement the way a compass tracks north. 

Most of all in how he says your name. Not baby, not the endearment—your actual name, the one he uses rarely, carefully, like he's holding it in his mouth and tasting each syllable. When BB says your name, it sounds like a discovery. Like a fact he's still pleased to know.

“You're organising it,” he says one day. Amused. Impressed. “The way you organised the inventory at the store.”

“It helps me think.”

“You're applying human systems to a place that doesn't follow human rules.”

“Is that a problem?”

He considers this. His head tilts. “No,” he replies slowly, like he's arriving at a conclusion that surprises him. “No, I think it might be… useful. No one's ever tried to map it like this. Most wanderers are too busy surviving to catalogue."

“Well,” you say teasingly. “I've got you for the surviving part.”

He goes quiet. You glance up from the notebook. His face is going through layers again, rearranging, the cocky default giving way to the newer expression underneath. The one that showed up when you named him. A door opening inward.

He catches you looking, and the default snaps back, the half-grin, the raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he drawls lightly. Entirely failing to conceal the sudden warmth radiating off him like heat from a furnace. “Yeah, you do.”

You add to the notebook every day. Layouts, landmarks, and the sensory details that serve as navigation. 

BB takes you exploring.

Not every day. Some days the hum is wrong, or BB is tense in a way he won't explain, or you can feel the level holding its breath the way it did the night he disappeared and came back wearing a freshly assembled face. On those days, you stay in the nest. You write in the notebook. You read the pages you've already filled and trace the paths you've already walked and commit them to memory because memory is the only filing system you've got. 

On those days, the ache comes back—Bobby's hands, Bobby's mouth, the way he used to drop his forehead against yours in the dark and whisper your name, just your name, over and over—and you let it sit in your chest and you don't fight it. But you don't follow it, either. 

You just write around it. Inventory the grief the way you inventory everything else. Label it. File it. Move on to the next entry.

But most days, BB takes you out.

Level 1, first. BB walks beside you, and his posture changes here. Subtly mostly, the ease tightening into a coiled attention. His head on a swivel, hand at the small of your back with a pressure that says I'm tracking everything in this room and nothing will get within twenty feet of you.

You sketch the layout in the notebook while he stands guard. You mark the exits, the supply caches, the places where other wanderers have left graffiti on the shelving units. Messages, warnings, crude maps of their own.

You get braver. You ask questions. About the Smilers, the Howlers, about the hierarchy of things that live here. How they relate to each other and what makes some dangerous and some merely present. 

BB answers. Not always fully, not always clearly. There are concepts here that he doesn't have a human language for. Mechanics that exist in the gap between what he perceives and what your brain can hold, but he answers, and you write it all down, and the notebook fills.

You develop a routine. You wake up, eat whatever BB has found or produced, and you walk. You explore together, map, and come back. You sit together in the nest afterwards and talk. 

And the talking is easier now, less charged, less careful. You tell him about your life. The books you loved. The way you used to organise your bookshelves by colour rather than by author, because it made you happy to look at them. The hiking trails in the Santa Cruz Mountains, Big Basin and Castle Rock, the way the redwoods smelled after rain.

He listens the way he always listens. Total attention. Full presence. The thing Bobby couldn't do. The thing BB does like breathing.

And you catch yourself, one evening, doing something unthinkable. 

You’re sitting in the nest with your notebook open, pen behind your ear, telling BB about the time you got lost on the Skyline-to-the-Sea trail. You had to navigate back using a park map you'd annotated so heavily it was more your handwriting than cartography. BB’s laughing. That low huff through his nose, his shoulder pressed against yours. 

You're laughing too, and the yellow light is warm, and you realise, suddenly, that you haven’t thought about Bobby in three days.

The guilt is instantaneous.

A hot, lurching, physical thing that grabs you by the sternum and pulls. Three days. You went three days without the ache, and the absence of it feels like a betrayal so total it makes you nauseous. As if the love you carry for Bobby is a fire that requires constant tending, and you let it gutter, and that makes you—what? 

The kind of woman who forgets? The kind who moves on? The kind who finds comfort in a pair of borrowed eyes while the original owner of those eyes is somewhere in Santa Clara, probably sleeping diagonal, probably relieved?

You go quiet. BB notices. 

His shoulder presses against yours (a question, not a demand), and you shake your head, picking up the pen. Start sketching a corridor you mapped that morning, but the lines are slightly too hard, the ink pressing dents into the page. 

BB watches your hand and says nothing, and the nothing is the right thing, the exact right thing, and you hate him a little for being so consistently, unbearably right.

You grow comfortable.

Not comfortable like safe, or comfortable like home. Because this place is neither of those things, and you know it. The notebook full of entity classifications and danger ratings is proof that you know it.

But comfortable the way you get with a person—a being, entity, a whatever-he-is—when enough time has passed that their presence stops being a question and starts being an answer. 

You stop flinching when he appears in doorways. You stop tensing when his hand finds yours. You lean into his shoulder when you're tired, and he holds steady. The meadow on Level 14 becomes your Sunday, your weekend, the place he takes you when the yellow gets to be too much, and you need to remember what sky looks like.

You stop keeping count.

You don't notice it happening. It's quiet cessation of a habit so ingrained you didn't know it was still running until it stopped. 

No more tallying. No more, he didn't today, that's the fourth day in a row. Because BB doesn't generate deficits. BB doesn't create gaps to count. He’s present the way the hum is present. Woven into the structure of your days so thoroughly that his attention isn't an event anymore, it's an environment. 

You live inside his attention the way you live inside Level 0. It's just where you are.

But the ache for Bobby doesn't go away. Only migrates from the centre of your chest to somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter, a room in the back of you where it can sit with the memory of your first kiss and his arm around your shoulder by the ocean and the way he used to say stay and mean it. 

You don't visit that room every day anymore. But you know it's there. You can feel its weight when you lie down at night, BB's arm around your waist, his breath on your neck. 

The ache says remember, and you say I know, and you close your eyes, and you stay.

Your handwriting fills the notebook. Page after page. The careful, slightly messy script. A system. A structure. 

A way to survive.

“It's circling again.”

You look up sharply. 

BB is standing at the edge of the nest, head tilted, that almost-human listening posture—chin cocked, eyes unfocused, his whole body oriented toward a frequency you can't hear. His jaw is tight.

You set the pen down. “How close?”

“Closer than last time,” ee says evenly, too evenly. “It's running along the edge and then pulling back. Then running a little further.”

Ignoring the sudden chill at your nape, you say, “Like it's looking for a gap.”

His eyes flick to you. A beat of surprise follows. Quick and subtle, the kind he still has when you demonstrate that you've been paying attention to the lessons, that the notebook isn't just busywork but comprehension.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Like that.”

You pull your knees up. Wrap your arms around them. The notebook sits open on the blanket beside you, the page half-covered in your shorthand. A corridor map, danger annotations, the new symbol you invented last week for an unknown entity, and behaviour unclassified. You used it for the first time yesterday. The ink is still dark.

“What are you going to do?”

“I need to check the perimeter. See if anything's shifted. If it's been probing a specific section or moving along the full boundary.” He's already calculating. The ancient one surfaces behind Bobby's eyes, not all the way, just enough to sharpen the edges. To give his posture that predatory geometry that doesn't belong on a twenty-something in a crop top. “I want to understand its pattern before I kill it.”

“BB.” You say his name, and he stills. Focuses. The ancient thing recedes a fraction, and the warmth returns to the surface. You hold his gaze and say, carefully, gently, “Be careful.”

His mouth parts. 

He crosses the nest in two steps. Drops into a crouch in front of you, his knees on the blanket, and his hand finds the side of your head. His fingers glide over one side of your face slowly. He strokes, long, gentle, from your temple to the nape of your neck. 

“Stay here,” he says gently, his thumb tracing the curve behind your ear. “Stay in the nest. Don't go into the corridor. Not even the first junction.”

“I know the rules.”

“I know you know.” His hand stills in your hair, cupping the back of your skull. He dips his head until his forehead is close to yours, not quite touching, his breath warm on your face. His eyes are darker, layered, and the thing behind them is looking at you, too. For a moment, both of them are present. BB and the creature he's built on top of, and both of them are saying the same thing. “I'll be back.”

“You better be.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. The private curve that's his and not Bobby's, the one you named into existence in a meadow on Level 14. He presses his lips to your forehead. Holds them there for a beat. You feel the hum vibrate through the contact, that low sub-frequency that lives in his chest and transfers through skin, settling behind your sternum like a second pulse.

Then he straightens. His hand slides from your hair. The softness drops from his posture in a single clean motion. 

What's left is the thing that walks these hallways, silent and certain and very, very old.

He rounds the corner, and the yellow swallows him.

You pick up the pen. Open the notebook to a fresh page. You write: Entity X — perimeter — closer. Testing the boundary for gaps. BB checking pattern. Unknown motivation. Unknown capability.

You underline unknown twice.

Eleven minutes.

You know this because you've been counting. 

Your brain just does it now, keeps a running tally of the seconds since his silhouette disappeared. Because your body has learned that when he's not here, the math of your survival changes. 

With him, you’re the safest thing in this strange place. Without him, you’re a girl sitting on a damp carpet in a place that eats people. But BB always comes back, you remind yourself. Always. 

You're sketching the rough map of the corridors you explored yesterday, trying to get the proportions right on a hallway junction that you're fairly sure had five walls, when you hear the footsteps.

Not his. His steps are almost silent, a predator's tread, weight distributed in a way that isn't quite human. These are boots. Multiple sets. Heavy, deliberate.

You close the notebook slowly.

Six figures come around the corner.

Not researchers BB warned you about. Wrong uniforms, wrong insignia, a logo you don't recognise stitched onto black tactical gear. They're armed. Not with the improvised weapons most wanderers carry. Real weapons. Professional grade. The kind that suggests funding, organisation, a chain of command that exists somewhere outside this place.

The one in front spots you and signals the others to stop. He says something into the radio on his shoulder, clipped and fast, and you catch the words “confirmed,” and “companion” and “entity absent.”

They waited for BB to leave.

“Ma'am.” The lead one steps forward. Voice flat. Professional. “You need to come with us. We're here to extract you.”

Your body tenses at those words, coiling, and you stand at once. “No.”

It comes out sharper than you expect. Hard-edged. The backrooms have made you harder than you realise.

“Ma'am, that's not—”

“I said no,” you repeat firmly. “I'm not going anywhere with a bunch of strangers.”

His jaw tightens. He glances at the others. Some signal passes between them. A shift in posture, a nod, the silent language you’re not privy to.

He reaches for your arm.

You hit him.

A closed fist, fast, driven by weeks of survival instinct and adrenaline and the specific, white-hot fury of being grabbed by a stranger in a place where the only person who touches you has earned it inch by inch.

Your knuckles connect with his cheekbone. The man’s head snaps sideways, and for one bright second, you feel savage satisfaction.

Then three of them are on you.

You kick. You bite. Drive your elbow into someone's throat and hear someone choke behind you. You're feral with it. No technique, no training, just the scrappy, vicious fighting of a girl who's survived the backrooms and is not going to be dragged by men who couldn’t even bother to introduce themselves. 

Your nails rake across someone's forearm and draw blood. You wrench free of one grip and slam your heel into a kneecap. Someone swears, loud, furious.

“Fucking—hold her, HOLD HER—”

A hand fists in your hair. Yanks. Your neck snaps back, and your eyes water. Someone wrenches your arm behind you hard enough that the joint screams. You thrash, snarling. Your free hand catches someone across the mouth. You feel a tooth cut your knuckle.

The lead one is in front of you again. There's a red mark blooming on his cheekbone where you hit him, and his professionalism has curdled into something uglier.

“You want to do this the hard way?”

You spit at him. It catches his vest.

He hits you.

Open palm across your face. Your head rocks to one side. The world around you whites out for half a second, and then there's carpet under your hands and knees. Your lip throbs, burning numb, and you can taste copper in your mouth, dribbling. A boot slots between your shoulder blades, pressing you flat, and your cheek presses against the damp fibres. 

Your wrists get pinned behind you roughly at an angle that sends bright, screaming pain up to your shoulder.

“Stay DOWN—”

You’re on the floor, bleeding. There’s a boot on your back and hands pinning your wrists. You’re away from the only safe thing in this place, and the carpet is wet against your split lip. You’re afraid. For the first time since your encounter with the Smiler, you’re terrified. Immediate, animal fear of being held down by someone stronger than you.

You open your mouth. You fill your lungs.

And you scream.

“BB—”

One word. It tears out of your throat raw and desperate, hitting the yellow walls, and the walls absorb it, and the walls move.

The fluorescent lights don't flicker. They detonate.

Every tube in the hallway blows simultaneously, glass raining down like ice, and in the darkness that follows, the hum of level 0 drops—drops—drops into a frequency that you feel in your teeth, in your ribs, in the boot on your back that suddenly isn't pressing as hard because the man wearing it has stopped breathing. Not dead. Frozen. 

The way an animal freezes in terror when it smells something at the top of the food chain.

The walls crack. Clean fissures running floor to ceiling, splitting the drywall in deliberate, surgical lines, as if something were tearing its way through the building's architecture. The carpet ripples under your cheek. You feel it. The backrooms responding, contracting, the whole of level 0 seizing like a body in pain.

The boot lifts off your back.

Not because the man chose to move it. Because the floor tilted. Subtle. Just enough to shift his weight. Just enough to free you. The backrooms—him, it, the thing that is both—clearing the path.

You hear them before you see them react. The soldiers. Breathing fast. The click of weapons being raised. Someone screaming “what the fuck what the fuck what the—”

He comes out of the dark.

Not through a door but from the dark itself. Like the darkness peeled open and someone stepped through the seam. 

He’s not fully human-shaped.

The Bobby suit is slipping. Shoulders too wide. Arms too long, hanging at angles that make your hindbrain scream. His fingers have too many joints—you can see them in the fractured emergency glow of the one tube that didn't shatter—long and wrong, curling like they're remembering a shape that predates hands. 

His face is still Bobby's face but the geometry behind it is pressing outward, cheekbones like blades, jaw too sharp, too angular, the skull beneath rearranging itself into something that was never meant to be looked at directly. And his eyes are black. Fully, completely, endlessly black. Two holes in the front of his skull that open onto something without a floor.

He sees you on the ground.

The blood on your lip. The bruises on your skin. The tear tracks cutting down your face.

BB sees the boot print on your back.

There’s a sound.

It booms from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling simultaneously. From every surface of level 0, because he is level 0, and every square inch of it is snarling.

The remaining fluorescent tube doesn't shatter. 

It melts. The glass softens and drips. The carpet under the soldiers' feet goes wet, soaked, saturated, as though the floor is turning into a swamp.

You press your face into the carpet and close your eyes.

It takes less than a minute.

You don't watch, but you hear it. Screaming that starts human and ends keening. Wet sounds. Heavy sounds. The particular acoustic signature of a body being opened by something that doesn't need tools. That horrible, snarling, clicking growl of pure rage.

One of them manages to fire a weapon, and the sound of the shot is enormous in the enclosed hallway. It cuts out, followed by a crunch of bone, and another, and another, and another—

Then there's nothing.

Silence.

The level settles. The hum reasserts itself, climbing back up from that sub-basement frequency to its usual buzz. You can feel it in the carpet against your cheek, scratchy and too warm.

One fluorescent tube fizzes back to life overhead. Yellow. Sickly. 

You feel the air change. The temperature drops, and you know he's close before anything touches you. 

When it does—a hand on your shoulder, delicate, so delicate—it's not quite a hand yet. Too many joints. The fingers too long, still retracting to Bobby's proportions, still remembering how to be the thing that strokes your hair instead of the thing that just—

You turn over.

He's crouching over you. Still wrong. The proportions haven't settled. BB’s arms are too long, and his spine is curved at an angle that doesn't work with human vertebrae. His face is a rough draft. Bobby's features sketched over the older, sharper one. Black fluid coats his hands. His jaw. His chest. Not all of it is black.

His eyes are still dark, but the blue is bleeding back in around the edges. Like ink dropped into water, spreading, reclaiming.

You reach for him.

Your hands are shaking so badly that you miss the first time. 

Your fingers slip against the wrong texture of his jaw, the skin too smooth, too cool, still settling back to its bony configuration. You reach again, and this time you get his neck (too long, the vertebrae too prominent, sharp ridges under your palms where Bobby's neck was smooth), and you pull.

You pull yourself into him, and you cling. 

Arms around his neck, face buried in his throat, legs curling up, making yourself as small as possible against his chest because if you can get close enough, maybe nothing will ever reach you again. 

You wrap yourself around him with a muffled sob. One sob, then another, then a third that breaks open into something ragged and ugly and not at all brave.

You’re shaking and bleeding, crying into the neck of a monster, and you don't care. You don't care about the wrong temperature, the wrong shape or the black fluid soaking into your shirt. 

You don't care.

BB freezes. One second. Two. The violence still running, the gentleness needing a moment to boot up. You feel it. The exact instant the system switches. His whole body shudders once, and then his arms come around you.

Tight. So tight. He scoops you up like you're nothing—one arm under your legs, one around your back—and pulls you into his chest and holds you against him like he's trying to absorb you. Like he could fold you into his body and keep you there where nothing touches you ever again. 

His chin comes down on the top of your head. His whole body curves around you. You feel the strength in every inch of him. The same strength that just did what it just did, repurposed. Every ounce of force that tore six armed men apart, now calibrated with impossible precision to the exact pressure of holding without breaking.

“I'm here.” His voice. Rough. Not fully Bobby's voice yet. There's an edge underneath it still, something vast and deep, like hearing someone speak from several floors down. “I'm here, baby. I'm here.”

You press closer. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. Bobby's jacket. Your face is against his throat, and you can feel the absence of a pulse under your cheek. No heartbeat. Just the hum. His hum. Vibrating through his chest and into yours.

“They—” Your voice is thick, muffled against his skin. “They grabbed me, they were trying to—I fought, I tried to—”

“I know.” His hand finds the back of your head. Cradles it. His fingers—the right number of joints now, almost fully Bobby-shaped again—thread into your hair the way they do in the nest, slow, gentle, the careful repetitive motion that means safe, you're safe, I'm here. “I know. It's over.”

“There were six of them and I couldn't—”

“You don't have to.”

His other hand finds your face. Tilts it up. His thumb traces your split lip with a touch so light it barely registers. Just the ghost of contact, the pad of his thumb skating over the cut, and you watch his jaw tighten. The blue in his eyes flickers. Darkness swims underneath it, surfacing and submerging, and you know he is looking at the blood on your mouth, and memorising who put it there, and the fact that they’re already dead is not enough. Will never be enough.

“Does it hurt?” Quiet. Bobby's voice now, almost entirely. That specific soft register he uses in the nest, the one that makes your chest ache.

“A little.”

His thumb moves to the bruise on your cheekbone. Traces the edge of it. Down to your jaw. Along the finger-shaped marks on your wrist, and the sound he makes is barely audible. Low, tight snarl. A vibration caught behind his teeth.

“I should have been here.”

“You came.”

“Not fast enough.”

You almost laugh. What comes out instead is a wet, clogged sound. “You came very quickly, BB.”

“Not fast enough,” he repeats, and means it. 

You put your head back against his chest. He holds you tighter. He hums. Shaky at first, the frequency wobbles. Then it steadies. Finding its rhythm. His song. The one that doesn't exist anywhere outside of him.

You feel the backrooms settle around you both. The lights dim softer. Temperature rises, degree by gentle degree, until the air feels like a room in a house instead of a hallway in purgatory. He’s doing that. Rewriting the space around your body because you’re shaking, and he can't make you stop shaking, but he can make everything else softer.

“BB.” Your voice is small. Muffled against his chest.

“Yeah?” Immediate. Soft.

“Don't leave.” You swallow. Press your face harder into the fabric of his jacket. “Just—for a bit. Don't leave.”

His arms tighten, cheek pressing against the top of your head. You feel him breathe—not because he needs to, but because you need to feel it, and he knows what you need, even before you know it yourself.

“Never,” he whispers.

One word. A law. Written into the fabric of this place. Never. As in: the sun will come up. As in: water runs downhill. As in: I will be here.

You close your eyes.

The shaking ebbs, not all at once but in increments, your body releasing its grip on the panic the way a fist unclenches. One finger, then another, then another. His hand keeps moving over your hair. Rhythmic. Patient. He will do this for as long as you need.

He will do this forever if you let him.

You stay like that. On the floor. In the hallway. Curled in the lap of a thing that’s just killed six men.

The backrooms are changing. You can feel it beneath you, a shuddering grind. Hallways folding. Routes sealing shut. The architecture of level 0 quietly, methodically, permanently rearranging itself around you both. Doors that used to lead here now lead nowhere. 

He’s taking you somewhere no one will find you.

And you let him. Eyes closed. Face against his chest. Listening to the hum.

You let him.

M.E.G. INTERNAL — MAJOR EXPLORER GROUP

DEPARTMENT OF ENTITY RESEARCH & CONTAINMENT

▓▓▓▓▓▓ CLASSIFIED // LEVEL 4 — RESTRICTED // URGENT REVIEW ▓▓▓▓▓▓

INCIDENT REPORT: IR-0-27 DOCUMENT ID: MEG-ENT-0000-IR-0-27 CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 — URGENT FILED BY: Operations Director ██████ DATE: ██/██/199█ RE: Unauthorised Engagement With Entity 0 / Companion — Hostile Extraction Attempt by External Agency STATUS: CRITICAL — ONGOING CONSEQUENCES

SUMMARY OF INCIDENT

On ██/██/199█, at approximately ██:██ hours, a six-person tactical unit operating under the authority of ██████████████████████████████████ (hereafter "the Agency") conducted an unauthorised extraction attempt on the individual designated "the Companion" in M.E.G. Entity 0 documentation.

M.E.G. had no advance knowledge of this operation. We were not consulted or informed. We were not given the opportunity to do what we have spent the last eighteen months doing, which is explicitly and repeatedly recommending against exactly this course of action.

Our recommendation, stated in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier and reiterated in no fewer than six inter-agency memoranda, was as follows:

"Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range."

The Agency disregarded this recommendation.

All six members of the tactical unit are dead.

RECONSTRUCTION OF EVENTS

The following timeline has been assembled from recovered equipment (three body cameras, one partially functional radio unit) and corroborating seismic data from M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Levels 0 through 3.

██:██ — Six-person tactical unit enters Level 0 via access point ██████. Equipment and insignia consistent with ██████████████████████████████████. The unit is armed with ██████████████████████████████████. They are equipped for a hostile extraction. This was not a rescue. This was a retrieval.

██:██ — Unit locates the Companion in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. Entity 0 is not present. Body camera footage confirms the unit waited for Entity 0 to leave the Companion's immediate vicinity before approaching. This indicates prior surveillance. The Agency was watching. We did not know they were watching. This is itself a security failure that is being reviewed separately.

██:██ — Unit lead makes verbal contact with the Companion. Instructs her to comply with the extraction. Companion refuses. She states clearly, on camera, that she does not wish to be removed. Her exact words are "No" and "I'm not going anywhere."

██:██ — Unit lead attempts physical restraint. The Companion resists violently. Body camera footage shows her striking the unit lead in the face, drawing blood from a secondary operative, and disabling a third with a knee strike before being subdued by multiple operatives simultaneously. She fought like someone who has been surviving the Backrooms for ██████, and it shows. The Companion is subsequently struck across the face by the unit lead and forced to the ground. Bruising consistent with forcible restraint is visible on both wrists.

I will repeat that for the record: a civilian who had clearly, verbally, on camera refused extraction was beaten to the floor by a six-person tactical unit. 

██:██ — M.E.G. seismic monitoring stations on Levels 0, 1, 2, and 3 register a simultaneous anomalous event. The reading does not correspond to any known geological or structural phenomenon. Dr. ██████ has described the waveform as "an earthquake." I am including her analysis verbatim because I do not have a better description.

██:██ — The Companion screams.

██:██ — Entity 0 arrives.

The gap between ██:██ and ██:██ is approximately 1.3 seconds. Entity 0's last confirmed position was ██████████████████████████████████, an estimated █████████████ meters from the Companion's location. It covered this distance in 1.3 seconds. We do not have a theoretical framework for this. We are not going to develop one. It doesn't matter. What matters is what happened next.

██:██ (CONCURRENT) — What we did not understand at the time—and what has only become clear through post-incident analysis—is that Entity 0 did not move through the Backrooms to reach the Companion. It moved the Backrooms.

Temporal monitoring equipment across Levels 0 through 266 recorded simultaneous, catastrophic time distortion events at the moment of Entity 0's displacement. On Level 1, clocks ran backwards for approximately 3.7 seconds. On Level 2, a monitoring team reported experiencing the same eleven-second interval twenty times in succession. On Level 49, two operatives aged approximately 6 years in the space of 1.3 real-time seconds. Medical examination confirmed accelerated cellular turnover consistent with temporal compression. Both operatives have been placed on medical leave.

Entity 0 tore through the temporal fabric of the Backrooms to close the distance between itself and the Companion. It did not navigate. It did not transit. It ripped a hole through the structure of the intervening space.

The damage on the lower levels was temporary. The damage on Level ███ was not.

Level ███ is gone.

Level ███—a fully mapped, documented, and intermittently populated level of the Backrooms—no longer exists. It was not sealed. M.E.G. operatives who attempted to access Level ███ via three separate confirmed entry points found nothing. Not empty corridors. Not blank walls. Nothing. The space that Level ███ occupied is simply absent. As though it was never there at all. 

Entity 0's transit path between its last confirmed location and the Companion passed directly through Level ███. The conclusion is unavoidable: Entity 0, in the 1.3 seconds it took to reach the Companion, annihilated an entire level of the Backrooms as collateral damage. The way a bullet destroys the wall behind the target. Level ███ was simply in the way.

We do not know if there were casualties. Level ███ was classified as intermittently populated. Wanderers passed through; some may have been sheltering there at the time of the event. We will likely never know. There is nothing left to recover. There is nothing left to examine. An entire level of reality was erased in 1.3 seconds.

Dr. ██████ has requested that this section of the report be classified as Level 5. I have denied this request. Everyone needs to read this. Everyone needs to understand what we are dealing with.

██:██ through ██:██ — Body camera footage for this period is partially corrupted. What remains has been reviewed by myself, Dr. ██████, and Dr. ███████████. Dr. ████ has declined to review it. Her decision is respected.

Entity 0 was not in its standard manifestation. I am not going to describe the specific deviations in this report. The footage is available for personnel with Level 4 clearance and a strong stomach.

The engagement lasted approximately 42 seconds.

Entity 0 did not use weapons. Entity 0 is the weapon.

All six operatives were killed. Cause of death for four: ████████████████████████ Cause of death for the remaining two: ██████████████████████████████████. Recovery of remains has been deemed inadvisable at this time, as Entity 0 ██████████████████████████████████.

██:██ — Final body camera footage shows Entity 0 approaching the Companion. It is partially restructured to its usual template, but not fully. The Companion does not retreat. She reaches for it. She clings to it. Entity 0 gathers her. The word "cradles" appears in three separate reviewer notes, and I am allowing it despite its lack of clinical precision because nothing else is accurate, and assumes a protective posture. Audio, though degraded, captures the Companion's voice saying something indistinct, and Entity 0 responding with a single word. Audio analysis has been unable to confirm the word. Dr. ██████ believes it was "never." The camera fails shortly after.

ASSESSMENT OF CONSEQUENCES

I said in Section 7.2 of the Entity 0 dossier that I did not want to see what it does to us. I have now seen it. I was right not to want to.

But the killings are not the primary concern of this report. Soldiers die. Operations fail. This is the nature of work in the Backrooms. The primary concern is what this incident has done to years of carefully maintained observational neutrality between M.E.G. and Entity 0.

Entity 0 tolerated us. That is not an exaggeration or a simplification. We have operated monitoring equipment on Level 0 for eighteen months. Entity 0 knew it was there. It knew we were watching. And it allowed it, the way a homeowner allows a bird to nest in their gutter. Not because they approve, but because it doesn't bother them enough to act.

That tolerance is, as of this incident, in question.

Within 48 hours of IR-0-27, the following changes were observed:

Level ███ remains nonexistent. Repeated attempts to locate it via all known access points have failed. Dr. ██████ has formally recommended that it be struck from the Backrooms cartography index. The level is not missing. It was unmade. The temporal scarring along Entity 0's transit path shows no sign of healing or regeneration. This is, as far as we can determine, permanent. An entire level of the Backrooms has been permanently destroyed as a byproduct of Entity 0's emotional response to a threat against the Companion. 

M.E.G. monitoring equipment on Level 0, sublevel ██████ through ██████, ceased functioning. Not damaged. Removed. Every sensor, every camera, every seismic monitor. Gone. No debris. No evidence of destruction. The equipment is simply no longer there.

Three M.E.G. personnel conducting routine observation on Level 0 reported that the hallways they had used for months had "rearranged." Routes that previously led to confirmed Companion sighting locations now terminate in dead ends. Level 0 has been restructured. We believe Entity 0 has deliberately altered the architecture to prevent future observation.

The Companion has not been sighted since IR-0-27. She is not at any previously confirmed location. The blanket nest—documented across seven sighting reports as Entity 0's primary base of operation with the Companion—is empty. Every blanket, every scavenged item, every trace of habitation has been removed. As though no one was ever there.

Entity 0 has not been sighted on Level 0 since IR-0-27.

The implication is clear: Entity 0 has relocated the Companion. To where, we do not know. Dr. ██████ has proposed that they may have moved to a sublevel of Level 0 that is not represented in our current mapping. A level beneath the level, a space that Entity 0 has carved out or always possessed and simply never used until now. Until it had a reason to hide something it could not afford to lose.

We have, in the space of one unauthorised operation conducted by an agency that ignored every warning we provided, lost the single greatest research asset in the history of M.E.G. entity studies. The Companion is gone. Our access is gone. Years of carefully accumulated observational data has been rendered functionally useless because the subject has moved to a location we cannot find and sealed the door behind it.

FORMAL OBJECTIONS

I want the following on the record:

M.E.G. explicitly, repeatedly, and in writing recommended against any attempt to extract, contain, or engage the Companion. These recommendations were provided to the Agency through proper inter-organisational channels on ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/198█, ██/██/199█, ██/██/199█, and ██/██/199█. Each was acknowledged. None were followed.

The Companion was not a hostage. She verbally refused extraction, clearly, and on camera. The Agency proceeded with force. This is not a rescue. This is an assault on a civilian by a government-adjacent organisation operating without jurisdiction inside a space they do not understand.

The Companion was injured. She fought back and was beaten to the ground for it. She bled. And the thing that has been protecting her heard her scream its name. We told them what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it. We told them. They didn't listen. At least six people are dead because they didn't listen.

Entity 0 has, until now, operated within a framework that M.E.G. was beginning to understand. It was predictable. Perhaps not in its actions, but in its priorities. The Companion was the variable. The Companion was the key. And now the Companion is gone, and Entity 0 has demonstrated that its response to perceived threats is not merely violent but architectural. It didn't just kill the threat. It restructured its entire domain to prevent the threat from recurring. It sealed Level 0. It erased its footprint. It took its Companion, and it disappeared.

An entire level of the Backrooms was destroyed. Gone. Erased from existence as collateral damage during Entity 0's transit. If there were wanderers sheltering on Level ███ they are dead. Or worse. Or something we don't have a word for because the space they occupied no longer exists in any meaningful sense. We will never know. The Agency's unauthorised operation may have cost lives far beyond the six operatives they sent in, and we have no way to calculate the true body count because there is nothing left to count.

We do not know where Entity 0 is. We do not know if it will allow future contact. We do not know if, the next time an M.E.G. operative enters Level 0, Entity 0 will distinguish between us and the Agency. We may have inherited the consequences of someone else's stupidity, and we may pay for it in personnel.

RECOMMENDATIONS

All M.E.G. operations on Level 0 are suspended indefinitely pending reassessment.

The Agency is to be formally censured and barred from independent Backrooms operations until further notice. Their response to this censure is noted and disregarded.

No further attempts to locate, contact, or extract the Companion are to be conducted by any organisation, under any authority, for any reason.

If—and I stress if—Entity 0 re-establishes contact with M.E.G. personnel, the interaction is to be treated as a diplomacy scenario, not a research scenario. Entity 0 is not a subject. Entity 0 is, functionally, a sovereign power that we have just watched an allied agency declare war on. We will conduct ourselves accordingly.

Someone needs to tell the Agency what "apex predator" means. I have included a dictionary to help and clear the confusion.

Filed: ██/██/199█

Operations Director ██████

Addendum, handwritten:

She screamed his name, and the level cracked open.

I've been doing this for eleven years. I have never seen a response that fast. 1.3 seconds. It wasn't travel. He didn't cross the distance. The distance stopped existing. She called, and the Backrooms folded to put him where she was. And everything between them—every hallway, every corridor, every room, an entire level—ceased to exist because it was in his way.

The body camera audio from the aftermath is mostly static. But there is a moment, mostly degraded, where you can hear humming. And underneath the humming, faintly, a voice. Hers. Saying "don't leave." And then his. One word.

We are not dealing with an entity that lives in the Backrooms.

We are dealing with the Backrooms. And it is in love.

God help us all.

▓▓▓▓▓▓ END OF REPORT // FILE STATUS: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED ▓▓▓▓▓▓

[sexy-monster-fucker]

but I Think We Might Go Really Nice Together

Mayor Jerry Generazzo x F!Reader

Summary: You are one semester away from getting hired on full-time at Beaverton University. That’s when a meeting with the staff reveals that they are looking to cut your program. If you do not raise the money in time, you will have to move for work. In the chaos of it all, you find yourself falling for the guy you consider an enemy to nature. Perhaps he isn’t as bad as he seems.

CW: 18+, f!reader, reader is best friends with Mabel, flirting, secret relationship, makeout, nipple play, kinda body worship, oral f!receiving, p in v, biting, hickeys, creampie

a/n: am I slowly branching into writing for more animated characters? Yes I am. also before anyone says something about how many times I used ‘—‘ in this, I don’t a.i. generate anything I write, it’s just really easy to type it on an iPhone and I like the way it looks better than just a dash I got long winded with this one yall

word count: 16.7k

title track 🎶🦫

~~~

The wood of the handmade sign in your hand was slowly rubbing your skin raw. Drowned out by the loud yelling of your friend to your side as she argued with the man who dared continue on ridding the beauty of nature. His big project for the beltway was on the back burner for now. Animals still remained in the river below where he needed to expand, so this was his next idea.

It seemed like the two of you were the only people in the town who cared about wildlife. Everyone else was more concerned with their own convenience to care about the natural habitats that would get destroyed. So the two of you made it your duty to protest every one of Beaverton’s new projects that jeopardized that. This time, it was a lake right outside of Beaverton University. A place you had grown fond of with how often you spent time at the university. It was like a second home to you due to the demanding hours of your job. The easiest place to go relax and calm yourself after a stressful day, or even just enjoy your lunch break at.

“There are fish in this lake, Jerry! You’re going to destroy their home,” Mabel extended her arms out to point at the body of water.

“Mabel, I’ve already told you we have plans to rehome all the fish in a bigger lake outside of town. The people want the parking garage!” Jerry gestured back.

It went like this every time. Back and forth. Mabel and Jerry often talking over each other. Shouting to try and get their point across. Often ending with the two of you being escorted off the premises, a little harder to do since construction had not began.

“But this is their home! Plus there’s plenty of parking on the other side of the building. Why do you even need to build a whole garage?” Mabel stomped her foot and questioned him with a raised brow.

“Mabel, it’s a pond! Come on, don’t you think the fish will be happier in some giant lake somewhere else? Everyone wants convenience. It cuts the walk time to the center of campus by six minutes. Those numbers add up,” Jerry pointed to his watch.

After hours of protesting, the sun had began setting. Mabel and Jerry had worn themselves out bickering. So the mayor had retreated, making Mabel celebrate a little. Jumping up and down while hooting and hollering. High fiving you harder than you were prepared for. Bending down to grab a rock and skipping it across the lake. She was thrilled. Her energy was contagious. That was until you looked at the time.

“I feel like we should do something to celebrate!” Mabel chuckled with excitement.

“You know I’d love to, maybe we should save it for if he actually cancels the project,” you said, already setting the alarms on your phone for the morning.

Mabel tapped her chin with her finger. Staring up at the sky and thinking with a hum, “Fair. We could still hangout if you want!”

You sucked your teeth, “Mabel, I’ve got work in the morning and it’s late. How about tomorrow evening you swing by my place? We can watch a movie and order pizza?”

“Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow, teach,” she smiled with a finger gun. Dropping her skateboard on the ground and riding away. The informal nickname making you laugh as you waved to her. She was your best friend. Pretty much your only real friend. Since moving to Beaverton almost two years ago, you had been so involved with work there was no time to meet people. Acquainted with some of the professors at Beaverton University, but you were still quite a bit younger than all of them. And just old enough to be considered “old” to the students. A strange point in your life all together.

You walked back to your car parked on the other side of campus. Throwing the sign you had hand painted in the backseat. Driving home listening to the pop radio station. Not really paying attention to it as the same song that always played came on again. Passing the city and all its lights, you approached your suburban neighborhood. The house you rented nestled nicely between two almost identical to it. It was a mundane life, but one you cherished. Happy to keep your head up. A career you loved, a friendly neighborhood, and a nice outdoors within reach. Despite the loneliness dedicating yourself to a career brought with it, you would not change it.

Stretching as you got out of the car. Walking up the small sidewalk path from the driveway, your automatic lights turned on to illuminate the way. Unlocking the door, the familiar warmth of home greeted you. You tossed your keys into the little ceramic bowl on the table next to the door. Letting out a sigh that quickly shifted into a yawn. Slipping your shoes off, you headed toward your bathroom. Changing into the pajamas you had shedded this morning. Going ahead and brushing your teeth just in case you got too sleepy. Walking back to flop onto your couch and turn the TV on. Mindlessly clicking through all the local channels, deciding to watch the late night news. Halfway dozing as you tried to unwind. The news anchors went on about some local tragedies; house fires, car accidents, the usual. Catching your attention when they started talking about the expansion on the beltway. Expressing that most of the locals looked forward to it, but the project’s hiatus continued. Finally, some good news.

Quickly ruined when they cut to commercial break. Mayor Jerry’s face overtook your entire screen. Explaining his plans for construction and campaigning his reelection. Audibly scoffing, you turned the screen off. Deciding to call it for the night.

~

You woke up to the sound of your phone vibrating on your nightstand. Sunlight peaking in through your blinds. Dragging yourself out of bed, you got ready for the day ahead. Classes spread out throughout the day. Actually being given the opportunity to lead one by a coworker. Helping you gain experience for the solo position you would be taking in the autumn.

Stepping outside, you locked your front door. Warmth from the already risen sun dancing across your skin. Birds chirping and bees rubbing against the flowers in your garden. Deciding it would be nice to ride your bike today. Giving you the opportunity to clear your rapid running mind before the meeting with the dean today. Everyone had to attend, it was typical for the end of the year. Usually just laying out the plans for the next semester. Hopefully he would show you to the room that you would get to claim as your own. The sun warmed your skin as it rose higher into the sky. Giving you optimism for the future.

Locking your bike to the rack, you headed inside. Classes you were assisting with practically speeding past you. The one you got to teach yourself went well. Thoroughly enjoying your day at the university. So when it was time for the big meeting at the end of it, your anxieties had mostly vanished. Walking down the halls with Dr. Sam and her team. Papers from the class you taught held tightly in your hands. Some others you had agreed to grade for your fellow professors mixed in. Not counting the books and folders you needed to store. You really needed to remember your book bag. Many professors were already gathered inside the room. Most of the seats filled, except the front row. Which is where the four of you ended up. Everyone’s posture changing when the Dean’s voice cut from the back of the room.

His presentation was typical. Discussing highs of the semester. Reminiscing on events and victories of the teams and clubs. It was not of much interest to you. Focused solely on what he ended with. Your brain hyperactive as anticipation made your leg shake. He would welcome you as a member of the staff finally. Thrilled beyond words.

“As many of you may know, Beaverton University has seen a decline in new enrollment over the last few years. And because of that, we are now experiencing some rather unfortunate budget cuts,” the dean began, adjusting the glasses on the tip of his nose, “We have made the difficult decision to cut some programs from our roster. Those programs are as follows: Introduction to Theater, all Russian language courses including Elementary, Intermediate, and Advanced, and Conservation Biology.”

Your heart sank.

The words came out so casually from him, but it was uprooting every aspect of your life in an instant. Feeling the world close in around you as your heartbeat sped up. Hands shaking so much you had to clasp them in between your thighs. All other words drowned out by the ringing in your ears. Refusing to meet the eyes of your fellow teachers who had just received the same news. Knowing how devastating this was.

Only brought back to reality by him dismissing everyone. Looking to the door and catching the theater teacher storming out, followed closely by the foreign language professor. Everyone else staggering and talking. No urgency from them. Their jobs were secured. Dr. Sam’s hand on your shoulder followed by an apology the only thing you could focus on. Nodding silently as she left.

You stood and walked to the front of the room where the dean still resided. Face red as you questioned him, “You’re cutting my program? Y-You told me I’d have a position here in the Fall. You promised!”

“Miss Y/L/N, there are certain things out of my control. I understand you are upset, but I cannot keep funding programs that have a low attendance rate,” he tried to dismiss you.

“You didn’t even give my program a chance,” you rebutted.

“I’m sorry, but unless you can get the money required for the course before the end of this semester, there is nothing I can do,” he said hoping to discourage you.

Your eyes widened, “Get the money? You’re saying if I can come up with it myself, you’ll give me a chance?”

He scoffed, “Yes. But I don’t imagine you will be able to raise that kind of money in six weeks, Miss. And I don’t see anyone jumping to fund wildlife conservation.”

You nodded, “Get me a number. I’m going to try my hardest, sir. This school is important to me.”

A loud sigh from him. Shaking his head and beginning to leave the room, “I’ll draft up an email. Don’t get your hopes up, Miss Y/L/N.”

But he did not know you. He had no idea of what you were capable of when you put your mind to it. There were things you could accomplish that others would call impossible. This was just your next project.

Yet as you left the room, a certain dread found its way into your stomach. Wrapping itself tightly in your intestines and spreading through your veins. How in the world were you supposed to make that kind of money in such a short amount of time? Hands tightening around the stack in them as you tried to calm down. Maybe staying late and alone would help. You could hide in the labs until you were done. Walking down the hall, you pondered. Everything. Your decision to move to Beaverton. The fact you would likely be out of a job in the next few weeks. Now of all times? When you were only a semester away from being hired full-time? The universe had a way of playing tricks on you. It was disheartening in a way you were not prepared for.

Crashing into someone took your mind off it. Fumbling the stack of books and folders you needed to take to the lab. Scattering all across the linoleum floor, and yourself caught on your hands and knees. Wincing at the scuff that began burning on your knees. You pushed yourself back so that you were not in such a compromised position. Sighing loudly and cursing softly under your breath. Embarrassment creeped its way into the back of your throat.

“Woah-ho-ho! Sorry about that,” a familiar voice sounded from above you. Only making this moment worse as you looked up at the suited man. Trademark smile and greying black locks. Registering who he was at the same time he registered you, “Oh! You’re Mabel’s friend from the protest. Y/N, right?”

You patted off your clothes as you stood, “In the flesh. Now, what’s the Mayor of Beaverton doing at a college campus? There’s not any wildlife here for you to run away, unless you count the frat down the road.”

Which made him laugh. Shaking his head as he spoke, “No, no. I’m not here for any new expansions to the ever growing highway. Just here to make sure I’m appealing to the younger demographic. Gotta campaign if I want to get reelected.”

You nodded, reaching down to start collecting your things scattered between you, “Right. You better hope Mabel doesn’t catch wind. She’ll make sure and scare off any potential voters for you.”

Jerry took a knee. Reaching for the last book you needed and offering it out to you. Soft eyes and a smile. Kindness came naturally from him, despite the differing opinions you had on natural habitats. Chuckling at your comment, “That Mabel. She sure is… something.”

You began to take the book from him, “Yeah, I think she’s always been that way. To hear her grandma talk atleast. She used to get caught trying to free the class pets when she was a kid!”

It had both of you laughing. Sharing in an emotion you never expected to with him. Having viewed him as your enemy this whole time. With all the construction and renovations you had become aware of. The town that used to inhabit so much wildlife, seemingly having vanished. Maybe he was not some supervillain like you had envisioned.

“Her determination is admirable, I’ll give her that,” Jerry said. Both of you standing to your full heights. Your paperwork and books tucked beneath your arm. Jerry’s hands on his hips, “Seems like you have the same determination.”

You chuckled off the compliment. Running your hand up and down your arm trying to collect your thoughts. Feeling the soft flicker of something in your stomach. Chalking it up to some mild anxiety that talking to him one on one gave you.

You stepped back, “Well, I’ve gotta get these papers graded. It was, uh, good talking to you, Mayor Jerry.”

“Actually just Jerry is fine,” he waved you off, “And I was hoping you could maybe show me to the courtyard?”

It stopped you in the tracks, “Oh! Of course I can.”

Waving for him to follow beside you. Walking in a silence that made your skin crawl. For the most part, you were socially checked out for the day. Drained and ready to go home, but you wanted to make an impression on the school. Needing to prove to them your program was still worth funding. That people cared about wildlife conservation.

“So, how did you and Mabel meet?” he nonchalantly asked.

Casualty catching you off guard. Curious to why he would care about the finer details of you and Mabel’s relationship. He is a man of the people, so maybe this was his version of small talk. So you obliged, “I started interning here last year. She was in the biology class I was observing. One day, we were starting the dissection section of the teaching. She came in with a big sign protesting us cutting into the animals’ bodies. Even though the animals were dead, she cared. I think that’s incredible. So I introduced myself to her after the class was dismissed. Told her I thought what she stood for was pretty cool, and we’ve been friends ever since. I spend a lot of time with her and her grandma. She’s sick, so Mabel takes care of her.”

You had been talking for so long, you did not even notice his eyes on you. Blinking to refocus on him beside you. Embarrassment of your oversharing painting your face. Trying to laugh it off, “She’s like my only friend. I’m really busy with work and stuff. I love Beaverton, I just don’t have the time to explore. Married to the job, y’know?”

Immediately realizing how bad that sounded. If you could put your own foot in your mouth, you did already. Kicking yourself mentally as you stared forward and chewed the inside of your cheek.

“I totally get it. Being the mayor is a full time job. Twenty-four seven, three sixty-five. Having to solve everyone’s problems. Trying to make everyone happy. I don’t have time to socialize for real. And my mom’s my best friend,” Jerry said with a laugh.

He was empathizing with you. Genuinely understanding your struggle in a way many people could not. Your chest suddenly felt warm when you looked back to him. His eyes closed and nose scrunched as he laughed. Beginning to view him as company rather than a bother. Catching yourself smiling at him while he was not looking.

His brown eyes opened to ask you more questions, “What’re you looking to teach?”

“My focus is Wildlife Conservation. Animals need all the help they can get, you know? For now, I’m helping out the agriculture and physical world concepts professors. Occasionally dabbling with the biology teacher,” you wiggled your fingers at him to emphasize your point, “They’re all great. Just… having my own space would be even better.”

As you gushed about your potential career, the same sadness could not help but find its way back into your mind. Realizing that there was a good chance none of those things you said would be true after the following weeks. But there was no need to dump that on the mayor out of nowhere.

“That’s amazing,” Jerry smiled, hooded eyes looking you up and down. Catching him in the act. His face running pink when he realized what he was doing. Something was different here. Something he could not pinpoint. Deviating immediately to a joke, “G-Guess that means you’re not my biggest fan then?”

You chuckled, “It’s not you, it’s the things you keep building. I guess I thought you were some evil guy all this time, but this… this has been nice.”

He playfully elbowed you in the side, “You think I’m nice?”

Blowing a raspberry as you rolled your eyes. Over exaggerating your fake laugh as you continued forward. Stopping in front of the doors to the courtyard, you looked up at him. Pursing your lips and raising an eyebrow. Pointing a finger at him, “You’re good at that, you know?”

“It’s how I keep getting reelected,” he smirked, straightening his suit jacket with confidence. Both of you laughing again. Strangely comforting. Feeling like maybe you had finally found another friend who could understand you.

You sighed, gesturing to the door outside, “Here’s your stop, Mr. Mayor. Have fun getting those new votes.”

“Does that mean you’re my first new vote?” he had a ‘Vote 4 Jerry’ sticker pinched between two fingers. The cocky smile written across his face had you smiling back. He was good, and he knew that.

“Not a chance,” you grinned, snatching the campaign sticker from him. Tucking it into one of your folders and walking away from him. Not knowing that his eyes lingered on you until you were out of his sight.

Problems feeling lighter even if for a moment. Feeling like there was a jump to your step as you headed to the lab. Flicking the fluorescent lights on in the empty room. Taking a seat at one of the taller tables, giving you better space to spread everything out. Typically, you liked taking a data sample of which question was most commonly missed. That way you knew what part of the lesson plan you needed to improve.

You chewed the eraser on your pencil as you painstakingly read through one of the quizzes. Vibration from your phone caught your attention. Mabel’s name followed by a green recycle and paw print emoji popped up with a message next to it, “RED ALERT: JERRY IS IN THE COURTYARD RIGHT NOW!!¡!¡!!”

Smiling at your screen, you took it in your hand and began typing, “Grading papers, good luck.”

Which she almost instantly replied with a frowny face. Following it shortly with, “Extra cheese on the pizza. Thinking that new movie about the animal cops for tonight. Can’t wait!”

Smiling as you typed back a pizza and cheese emoji. Having to refocus so you would get done before it was time to hangout. Making it halfway through all the quizzes. Grades varying, but not a failure yet. It made you hopeful that your teaching style worked.

But

You had to think of a way to raise some money. There had to be something to get the people interested. A concert? You didn’t know anyone who played, so finding someone would be difficult. Plus having to pay them would be pointless. A silent auction? No, you didn’t have anything to offer. You spun around in your chair tapping your pen to your chin as you thought. Staring at the walls as they spun around you hoping for inspiration to strike. That’s when you noticed the blue orb drawn on the next Saturday of your calendar. That’s it! An Earth day celebration. You could invite local vendors and small business owners. Maybe even get some of the food trucks out to draw a crowd. Put a donation jar at every table so maybe they could raise some money for you while making money for themselves. You could make cute earth themed decorations and pass out some grow your own seed kits to the kids. Maybe even ask the agricultural teacher if she could bring one of her horses for the kids to ride. It was perfect. All you had to do was put it all together within the next two weeks.

Not a lot of time.

You began frantically texting Mabel. Spilling everything out for her. Suddenly stopping before you hit send. Thumb shaking above your phone screen. You could not tell her. There was no way. Her plate was already full. School and having to care for her elderly grandmother. What kind of friend would you be to put more stress onto her? So you deleted the message. It would be easier to discuss in person anyway. Tell her it would just be a fun way to raise some money for your department. No need to add the bit about budget cuts.

You would raise this money on your own. And if you couldn’t, you would have to leave Beaverton.

Finishing up all your work, you hurried home. Making sure to send Mabel a text as you left. Peddling fast, enjoying the night breeze on your face. A million different ideas running through your mind. You would make this work. Somehow.

Once you got home, Mabel was already waiting for you. Sitting on your steps scrolling through her phone. Face lighting up when she saw you. Waving with her entire arm until you joined her. Unlocking your door, Mabel chanted, “Movie night! Movie night!”

A whole pizza and half a movie later, the two of you were sat on opposite ends of your couch. Only halfway paying attention to the unfortunately predictable plot of the movie you had chosen. A twist villain? Who could’ve guessed.

“Oh, I had something I wanted to talk to you about,” you casually said.

“Shoot,” Mabel pointed a finger gun at you.

“I’m going to put together an Earth Day Celebration in a few weeks. Thinking the Saturday after next. I wanna fundraise some money for the department,” you said, knowingly withholding the true reason.

Mabel sat up, “Oh yeah? What’re we talking here? Bake sale? Silent auction?”

“More like a big festival. Pony rides, bounce houses, vendors and food trucks. I want to bring the community together for something that matters, plus put some money into BU’s pocket, y’know?”

“Dude. That sounds awesome! How can I help?” Mabel’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

You went on to explain your grand plan and how exactly you would need her assistance. Decorations, flyer designs, marketing; it was all vital to the success of this. Even if Mabel only thought it was for extra money. Guilt dared to wrap its arms around you, but truth be told you were too distracted by all the planning.

~

And for the next week, you spent every free moment you had preparing for the Earth Day Celebration. Posting it in all the local groups on every social media site. Getting the proper approval to have it on campus. Reaching out to local vendors. Making decorations. It was all coming together in a way you were not expecting. Even if you had drained yourself to make it happen.

It was only a few days away now. Having lost sleep and being so preoccupied, the days had blended together. Standing outside the school with Mabel now. The sun beginning to set already. Stacks of flyers in both your arms, you planned.

“Okay, I’ve got these things plastered all over campus. No body is walking around without seeing one. As for the rest, I’ll take these to the people near my house,” zooming onto the top down view of her home on the digital map, “And you can take the ones near yours. Door to door salesmen may have went out of style, but you and I are bringing it back.”

You laughed, “People might think we’re Mormons.”

“Well, we are spreading the good word. I guess,” Mabel joked. Tucking the flyers away into her backpack, she dropped her skateboard on the ground. Pointing back at you, “Text me when you make it home!”

“I will!” you waved as she rode off. Tucking your own flyers into your book bag. Tightening the strap around your body as you took off on your bike. Spending more time then you’d like to admit passing out flyers to every single person that would come to the door on your way.

Your eyes were growing heavier with each new house. Walking your bike beside you, typically leaving it at the fence of each home. Knocking, encouraging citizens to come down and raise money for the university. Explaining how fun of an event it would be for families of any shape and size. Thanking each person and telling them you could not wait to see them Saturday.

Feeling the way your words slowly began slurring together, you decided to call it quits after the next few houses. Wanting to finish off this block of housing. You could always wake up early tomorrow to tape them on people’s mailboxes if you had to. Dragging yourself up the sidewalk to your next stop. Ringing the doorbell, you laid your eyes closed.

You held out the flyer before the door even fully opened. Beginning your rehearsed monologue without looking up, “Good evening. We’re hosting an Earth Day festival at Beaverton University this Saturday. Proceeds will go directly into continuing the funding of the Wildlife Conservation program. We would love for you to come out and join us—“

“Y/N?”

You stopped speaking entirely. Eyes going wide as you looked up to meet the eyes of the homeowner. Jerry. In a white robe with a ‘J’ embroidered on it. Clearly settled in for the evening.

“Mayor Jerry! Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize this was your house,” you straightened your posture and hugged the flyers to your chest. Forcing a smile that was definitely not hiding your discomfort.

He chuckled, “That’s okay.”

“It’s late. I really do apologize for bothering y—“

Cutting you off by stepping out of his house and onto the welcome mat. Extending his hand to accept one of the flyers, “You’re not a bother. Let me take a look at that.”

Hesitantly, you handed over one of the papers. Standing awkwardly as he hummed to himself while reading it. Curious eyes glimpsing at the black chest hair that peaked from beneath his robe. Causing heat to rise to your face as you forced your eyes down to the sidewalk. Noticing his house slippers. This guy really took his relaxation seriously.

“Fundraiser, eh?” Jerry’s eyes lifted from the page to your face.

“Y-Yeah. Um, there’s some budget cuts going on. An-And we need to raise the money ourselves or— Ugh. That’s not important. It’s a fundraiser for Earth Day. There’ll be games and food and a market with local vendors,” you looked at him with contorted eyebrows. Words pouring from your mouth like vomit after one of the spinny rides at the carnival. Closing your eyes and attempting to compose yourself. Pushing your formal voice, “It’s really late. I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t be out knocking on people’s doors. Especially the Mayor’s. I’m sure you’re getting ready for bed.”

“I actually just helped mom to bed. Would you want to come inside? We can discuss it more,” he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.

Your face bled instantly. Breaking a sweat at the invitation. Mouth falling wide enough that you could have caught flies in it. Stammering as you tried to speak, “I-I wouldn’t wa-want to impose—“

“You aren’t. Now come on, I’ll make some hot cocoa,” he stepped to the side to let you walk inside. Gesturing with an outstretched hand towards the entrance.

There was no way you were about to do this.

Yet your legs were already moving and the smell of some perfumey candle was taking over your senses. Before you knew it, you were sat at his dining table. Your items placed on the table and your hands folded in your lap. Jerry across the room from you heating up the hot chocolate. You looked around the open floor plan. Seeing all the pictures of all the years of his life plastered on the walls. An only child. A debate captain. Beaverton University graduate. The first election he won, back when his hair was still mostly black. Watching him grow up as your eyes scanned each framed photo. Humanizing him to you.

“So,” Jerry began over to the table with two mugs between his fingers. Sitting one gently in front of you then taking the seat beside you, “Budget cuts at Beaverton University?”

You stared down at the marshmallows floating in the hot liquid. Perfectly covering the top with an even number. Still way too hot to drink, you began, “Yeah. Not everything can get funded every year, and this year Wildlife Conservation happened to be on the chopping block. We had a meeting last week and it felt like a ton of bricks dropped on me. They told me if I wanted to stay, I’d need to find someone to fund it or raise the money myself.”

Jerry looked at the flyer as he took a sip of his own, “Hmp. I see.”

“It’s not like anyone is jumping to fund a niche subject, you know? And the community loves a get together, so I’m hoping to raise enough that I get hired for the next semester. Cause if not, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’d have to move all over again. Find another job to student teach at. I… I don’t want to start over,” you sighed, resting on your elbow and pinching the skin above your nose.

You were unsure why you felt the need to share this with him. Maybe it was the crush you had began harboring after last week’s encounter, or the stress of planning all this. Regardless, you felt hopeless. Tears dared to well up in your eyes as you looked at the wood of his table. Pulling your lip between your teeth to stop yourself.

“And you put all this together in a week?” Jerry asked.

You nodded, struggling to meet his eyes.

“That’s incredible. This is something to be proud of, Y/N,” he said. Genuinely complimenting you in a way you had not heard in a long time. A soft sense of pride making its way into your stomach. Giving him a closed mouth smile. Finally reaching for your hot chocolate and taking a sip.

Jerry’s fingers tapped on the tabletop. Thought clear behind his eyes before saying, “I could give you the money.”

You choked. Covering your mouth with your hand as you tried to force the rest of the liquid in your mouth down. Coughing to clear your throat of what had gotten caught. Looking over at him wide eyed, “Wh-what? No, I can’t—“

“It would be a donation, of course. Specifically to your program so it doesn’t get cut,” he continued as if he had no second thought about it.

Embarrassment bubbled in your throat, leading to an accidental outburst, “NO.”

You stood up with your hands planted firmly on the table. Breathing heavily and blinking rapidly. Cups rattling and some liquid spilling out of yours. The silence was deafening. Closing your eyes and trying to regain composure. Running a hand down your face and exhaling, “I am so sorry.”

Jerry stood silently. Waiting for him to kick you out. To scold you for behaving so rudely. Just to reinforce all the things you were feeling about yourself. You made a fool of yourself. His footsteps across the floor echoed in your ears. Knowing he must have been seething beneath the surface.

But when he returned, he had a paper towel in his hand. Cleaning the spill off the table. Delicate movements showing that he was not upset nor angry. You were taken aback by his kindness. Part of you still believing he was hiding a part of him. The part that would shout or degrade. Even if everything else proved differently.

“So… why don’t you want me to just give you the money?” his voice was steady.

You took your seat once more. Stiffening your posture and folding your hands neatly together. Breathing out, “I don’t want charity.”

“Gotta feel like you earned it?”

Your eyes widened as you looked at him. A sly smile thrown at you now. You nodded with blushed cheeks.

“I totally get it. Feels better if you know you’ve worked hard for it,” Jerry walked over and threw away the paper towel. Rejoining you at the table and leaning on one of his arms. Looking deeply into your eyes, “It seems like you have a great plan. This event is sure to be the talk of the town. And I will make sure I am there to support you.”

You chuckled under your breath, “I’m sure you have more important things to do than come to an Earth Day festival.”

“I think helping you stay here is important,” Jerry said it as easy as breathing. His hand reaching for yours as he said it. Resting atop yours against the table. His touch ignited your skin. Intimate in a way that some would consider innocent, but it had you a flustered mess.

You blew your breath out in a soft laugh, “Why’re you being so nice to me?”

“Because I like you,” Jerry said matter of factly. Face going blood red when he realized how that sounded. His eyes went wide and he cleared his throat, “I mean— a-after our chat the other day, of course. You were nice to me, too. And I consider you a friend.”

Your eyebrows wrinkled up your forehead, “Hmp. A friend. I never expected to be friends with the Mayor.”

Jerry smiled. Laughing as he tried to calm his thumping heart. Embarrassed, but still charming. Making a fool of himself like he used to when he was a high schooler. Never the best with intimate conversations or feelings. Sometimes saying things bluntly or too casually. Your smile back at him eased his discomfort, “Does it make you feel special?”

He was teasing you. Shimmying his shoulders and flattening a hand to his chest waiting for your response. Clearly determined to keep that smile on your face.

You giggled, “You’re ridiculous.”

Exploding in laughter. Having found someone that matched your sillier side. Maybe you were developing a crush on him.

“Look, I’m going to give you my personal cellphone number. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to text or call me,” Jerry got up and opened a drawer. Pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. Both which had his campaign imagery all over them. Ripping it and giving it to you with his name and number neatly printed across it. You smiled as you tucked it into your pocket. Taking the pen from him and writing your own name and number on the paper.

You stood, collecting your things, “Thank you for inviting me inside. Hopefully I haven’t overstayed my welcome.”

“Of course not,” Jerry smiled. The two of you walking to the door together. He opened it for you, taking his place in the entryway as you stepped out onto the porch. Dull glow from the porch light the only thing illuminating your face. Turning to wave goodbye to him for the night. He pointed at you, “Text me when you get home, okay?”

“I will,” you grinned. Unintentionally skipping back to your bike. Fueled by your feelings for him. It was like a second wind that helped get you home. Keeping your promise to let him know you were home. Scrolling to see Mabel had texted you well over an hour ago that she had made it home herself. Had you seriously spent that much time with Jerry?

Once you were through your threshold, it was like you got punched by a wave of sleepiness. Your body barely allowing you to drag yourself to your bed. Having severely overdone it the last few days.

But it would all be worth it.

~

As the next few days continued, you would get the occasional text from Jerry. Taking pictures of flowers in his garden, or birds on his fence posts. And you would do the same. Staying up later than you meant to texting back and forth some questions and answers. Learning about each other. Swiftly morphing into a phone call after he helped his mother to bed every night. Liking the sound of his voice as he grew sleepy, when it was more gruff and low. And maybe he had let it slip once that he liked hearing your voice before bed. Which maybe made you stay up later than normal replaying the words in your head. In the short time you had each other’s numbers, you had developed a routine of sorts. One that made butterflies flap around your stomach.

It was the night before the festival. Having already got several of the more outdoor friendly decorations set up at the venue. Jittering with excitement as you and Mabel finished things up in your home. Standing up on the step ladder, Mabel stretched to add the final lettering to your arched decoration. A cute display explaining what the Wildlife Conservation program was all about. Something you hoped would make students show an interest in the program, possibly helping your chances of success.

This was going to work.

Mabel’s phone had her playlist going as you folded some craft paper into flowers and other shapes. Attaching them to a makeshift paper chain that you could hang from one side to the other.

Your phone buzzed. Ignoring it at first until two more notifications followed. Deciding to check it. Jerry’s name. He had sent a picture of the banner for the festival on campus. Following it with a selfie of him pointing at it, and a message, “It’s almost time!”

Smiling without realizing, it caught Mabel’s attention, “Who’s that?”

Stuttering out a lie, “J-Just one of the vendors asking something silly.”

Quickly typing a reply to Jerry with maybe too many emojis and sitting your phone back down. Clicking the ringer off on the side as you did so.

“Everyone seems really excited for tomorrow,” Mabel smiled, cutting out another letter for the display.

You finished the final staple in your paper chain, “I sure hope so. I’m pretty excited myself.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry I won’t be able to come help out. Grams has got plans, and you know how I have to look out for her,” Mabel said as she stretched to reach the top of the arch.

“It’s no problem. I’m just happy you’re helping me now,” you braced the bottom of the step ladder when it started to wobble. Both of you laughing at the fall she almost took, “Besides, some students in the agricultural club offered to set up first thing in the morning. The Ag professor will be bringing one of her ponies for kids to ride, so she’ll be there too.”

“It’s great you’re doing all this as a fundraiser. Beaverton University’s about to get one hell of a teacher,” Mabel said.

Deep down you wanted to tell her the truth. Your stomach flipped when she said those words. It was the first thing you had blatantly kept from her. But you would never forgive yourself if you put that stress on her. You could handle it.

Sighing, “Right.”

Once things were finished, you and Mabel rode together to drop off the final pieces. Leaving them in the lab on campus so it would be easy to access tomorrow. Taking her home right after so she did not have to skateboard home in the dark so late. Thanking her over and over for all the help she had provided. Which she waved off with a “what are friends for?” Telling you she would most likely swing by Sunday morning to talk about how it goes. Wishing you all the best, she went inside. Waving from inside the car, you promised to tell her how everything goes.

The preppy beat of a new pop song played over your radio. Somehow fading out when your phone lit up in your passenger seat. One of Jerry’s selfies you had set as his contact photo taking over the whole screen. Sliding it to answer, it took over the radio of your vehicle, “Hi, Jerry.”

“Hey. How’re you doing tonight?”

“I just dropped Mabel off at her house. We finally got all the display finished and dropped off at the university. Heading home now,” you said as your eyes stayed on the road.

“That’s great! I can’t wait to see it tomorrow,” his smile was audible.

Continuing the casual conversation until you pulled into your driveway. Taking your phone in hand, you tucked it between your shoulder and ear. Fumbling with your keys as you unlocked your door. Laughing at a joke he made. He had a serious dad energy for a guy without kids. It was charming. It was late, so you decided to get ready for bed. Carrying your phone around on speaker. Doing your nightly routine while talking to him. It was almost like he was here with you.

Snuggled in bed, you had your phone lying on your nightstand. Listening to him talk about some awkward interaction he had once. Barely able to pay attention as you drifted off. His voice was so calming, it put you to sleep. Feeling safe with him talking to you.

“Y/N…?” his voice trailed off in your mind.

Half delirious, “Yeah?”

You could hear him chuckle at your sleepy voice, “You’re falling asleep on me.”

“Nah,” you replied in a whine.

His chuckling continued, “Get some rest. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You grunted in disapproval, “But I wanna keep talking to you.”

“We can tomorrow, I promise,” Jerry cooed.

“Hmp,” you huffed, “Okay, since you promise. Goodnight.”

Hardly remembering setting your alarm or hanging up. You were asleep quicker than you could finish the sentence.

~

Although things were not supposed to start until ten , you were wide awake at six. Excited for the day ahead of you. You got dressed in your overalls and a custom tie dyed and painted t-shirt. Wanting to really look nice for the event. Doing your hair and makeup the way you liked. It was like you were on cloud nine as you left home. Biking to campus, you began to set everything the rest of the way up. Finishing your display in just enough time for the vendors to begin showing up. You helped them where needed, whether it be setting up tents or unfolding tables. Whatever they needed, you were their go-to girl. Losing yourself in helping everyone, you barely noticed the time.

You finished helping the final vendor when you waved them goodbye. Heading to the front of the event so you could see how many people had began coming in. Passing many people on your way. Smiling and thanking people for coming by. Filled with hope that this was working out. Once you were at the front, you noticed a large crowd surrounding one area.

The object of their attention coming into view.

You were shocked beyond words at the sight. A dunk tank with none other than Jerry sat inside. Wearing swimming trunks and a ‘Vote 4 Jerry’ t-shirt. Banners with his campaign imagery all around it. This time with little drawings of Earth and people holding hands around it. Keeping to the theme of the festival. Surrounded by people, all waiting their turn to try and sink the mayor. Walking over, you tried to blend in with the crowd. Watching as he laughed and agged people along. Pointing and joking with all the citizens. Hair still in place, meaning no one had sunk him yet. He looked happy. Really in his element.

Your attention got grabbed by the table in front of the display. A younger guy smiling and thanking people. Handing them tickets, then directing them to the end of the line. You noticed a cash box in front of him. Finally taking the time to read the sign: “$1 a throw.” They had not been registered for the event to your knowledge. Maybe this was just an excuse for him to campaign. Steal the crowd he knew would already be here. It made your stomach twist with anger. Deciding to march up to the table for answers.

Greeted by the man’s wide smile, “Hi! Interested in trying to dunk Mayor Jerry? A dollar gets you one of these to throw at him.”

Following his hand to the heavy red bag laid on the table.

“Of course, this one’s just for display. We have a whole bucket of ‘em over at the front. What do you say?” his chipper attitude dulled the frustrated that wanted to seep out.

“I’m actually the person who put the festival together. I wasn’t aware that you guys would be here today,” you gestured towards his t-shirt that matched Jerry’s, “Are you guys just wanting to be where the people are? Makes it easier to raise money, I suppose.”

“Yeah, it was kinda last minute. Jerry called me the other night and asked me to find him a dunk tank before Saturday. I apologize, I was under the impression Jerry got it all approved. He said he wanted to help raise money for the Earth Day Celebration,” the young man said.

Twisted anger quickly morphed into butterflies flapping around your insides. He set all this up last minute for the event. For you. If cartoonish hearts could have appeared over your head right now, you imagined they would have. Fawning as you looked back to Jerry. Sat up high in the tank and shrugging as another person missed the target. Even after you had declined his charity the other night, he still found a way to help you.

“It’s no problem,” you said to him, “Have fun, if you guys need anything let me know. Tell Jerry Y/N says ‘thank you’.”

Continuing on to make sure everything was running as smoothly as possible. Stopping by each station and booth and vendor to ask if there was anything you could do to help them. Finding it easy to talk to people when you were like this. Liking the casual conversations and learning about the local businesses around Beaverton. Trying samples of many products the people offered.

Finding yourself standing off to the side watching the agriculture teacher walk the horse while a kid gleefully smiled on its back. Excited to see so many happy faces all around you.

“Y/N!” you heard your voice called from behind. Turning to see Jerry waving at you. Hair disheveled and t-shirt sticking to his chest. Showcasing his thick chest hair and soft tummy. Taking your breath away in an instant. Unable to stop yourself from smiling like a girl seeing her crush. Waving back at him as he finally caught up with you.

“H-Hey! Looks like someone finally got you,” you laughed. Trying your hardest to keep your eyes on his face. But he looked so good. You could not stop yourself from glancing up and down his body.

Jerry belly laughed. Looking down at himself as he spoke, “Believe it or not, one of the tee ball boys sunk me. First one of the day, seemed to make everyone really happy. Even if I look like this now.”

“I think you look really good,” you flattened your hand against his arm. Eyes fixated on his chest hair you could see through the wet fabric. Realizing suddenly how forward your compliment came off. Looking up to his face that was now flushed red. His lips parted like he wanted to say something but could not muster it. In a panic, you removed your hand from his arm. Folding both arms behind your back and laughing awkwardly. Pushing up on your toes and rocking to try and buy time as you thought of something to say.

Jerry leaned forward, slipping his hand around yours as he spoke, “You look stunning today.”

Turning your head to meet his eyes as he slowly pulled away. Eyebrows arching up your forehead as you processed the compliment. Understanding he whispered so no rumors got spread around the smaller town. Wanting to keep things private to the public. If there even was something to keep.

“Mayor Jerry!” someone called out to him. Breaking you both away from the moment. His hand releasing yours as he turned. Jerry plastering his best picture worthy smile and greeting the person. He was extremely friendly with all citizens. Knowing everyone was a potential voter, but also being raised right. He was a real man. One who cared and loved his work.

You patted Jerry on the shoulder to get his attention, “I’ll see you around, Jerry.”

“Hey, come by the dunk tank and we can talk some more. Okay?” he said flattening his own hand to yours.

Blush painted your face as you looked between his brown eyes. Blinking as you refocused, “Yeah. I’ll try.”

The rest of the event went on without a hitch. People filled the space. Vendors sold out of things. Families laughing and enjoying their time together. It went better than you could have ever imagined. Even getting to introduce yourself to some new people. Taking a portion of your time to try and sink Jerry. Who, of course, antagonized you with each failed attempt. After four throws, you finally hit the bullseye. Watching him go under the water and come up laughing. Lying to yourself about the way it made your insides knot together. Especially when he ran a hand through his wet hair and winked at you. Unprepared for the blatant flirting going on between you.

After closing ceremonies, you went around collecting the donation jars from each booth. Thanking each person for coming out and helping raise money. Overcome with gratitude for everyone. Having all the money in one place, it was finally time to count. Meeting up with Dr. Sam in front of the back doors to the building. She had agreed to count it all for you, with the assistance of her two teammates of course. Handing over the box, you thanked her again, “I can’t express how grateful I am you offered to count this for me, Dr. Sam.”

“Of course, Y/L/N. I was not going to be much help decorating or hosting a booth. This is the least I can do for you. Those of us who care about wildlife have to stick together,” she smiled widely at you.

“Thanks again. I’ve gotta get back and start taking everything down and cleaning up,” you waved as you began back to the area the festival was held.

She waved, calling out to you, “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know!”

Things were looking up for you. The day had been a roaring success. People from all over Beaverton had came by to enjoy festivities. Feeling like a strong community. It reminded you why you loved this place so much. Even if you were not as involved as some, it felt like you belonged. Catching yourself humming one of the songs from the radio as you bagged trash and recyclables. Making sure to leave the place as clean as before the event was set up. Moon and stars overhead reminding you how much time you had spent here today. Wiping the sweat off your head when you threw the last bag into its bin. Deciding to walk to your favorite place on campus and savor the calm night.

You sat on the edge of the bank. Feet dangling barely above the water. It was still. The breeze rattling the trees a little, and the occasional frog jumping into it. You would miss this when it was inevitably drained. Enjoying it for now.

Footsteps approached from behind. Looking over your shoulder to see Jerry. Clothes changed, wearing his typical suit minus the jacket. A tie with spring colors popping against the white button down. Back to his usual put together self. Smiling as he sat down beside you, mimicking your position. Greeting him with a smile that he returned. Surprising you that he was still around. You could have sworn he had left with the crowd. Wondering when he had gotten into something more formal.

Silence other than the crickets singing. It was comforting. To be able to sit with someone without needing to force a conversation. Letting the other’s company be enough.

“It’s beautiful here,” Jerry said after a moment.

“It is,” you sighed, “This is where I go when I need to clear my head. It’s too bad the parking garage is going here.”

Jerry’s eyes went wide. The genuine hurt in your voice had his chest tightening. Looking across the lake to the tree-line. Seeing the way the night sky reflected against the perfect water. Catching the ripple of small frogs returning home. Never considering how much building new things took away from the life that already existed in these areas. His main concern was making life easier for the citizens of Beaverton, more convenient.

Realizing what you said as his silence rang in your ears. Looking up at him and holding your hands out in front of you, “I-I didn’t mean— Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand,” Jerry smiled, waving you off. Immediately pivoting the conversation, “Things went good today.”

You breathed out. All the money would be finalized tomorrow. Telling you whether or not you hit your goal. Anxiety of it all still heavy in your stomach. Resting your hands on the soft grass helped regulate it. Glancing over at Jerry who was still fixated on the lake.

“Thank you,” you said lowly. Looking down to hide your vulnerability, “For doing this today. You were a hit, as always. I really love this town and I want to stay here.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you get to,” his hand reached for yours. A soft smile overtaking his face as he looked at you. Thumb rubbing against the top of your hand as he held it in his. Blushing as you met his eyes. This was becoming more than kindness. You could feel it in the way he spoke. His eyes telling you that this meant something to him.

The two of you looked in each other’s eyes. Noticing when his eyes dipped down to your lips, then instantly back to yours. Both of you leaning in without thinking. Interlocking lips. It felt like magic. Sparking something deep inside you.

Breaking away, the corner of his mouth curved with a smile. Taking your hand in his, “I want to take you on a date. Wherever you want. Just a… real date.”

You were blushing like an idiot. Embarrassed and feeling a little guilty. Of all the people to fall head over heels for, you chose the guy who was more concerned with innovation than conservation. You smiled, “Oh, I don’t know when I’ll have time—“

“We can go right now,” Jerry suggested.

“But what about your mom?”

“I already had one of the care takers come for the night. My whole evening was dedicated to you, so why not continue?” he grinned, squeezing your hand.

If there was one thing you knew about him, he was persistent. It was attractive. Especially with how persistent he was about you. Still smiling you looked up at the sky. Rolling around ideas in your head.

“So? Where does my lady want to go?” Jerry fluttered his lashes and raised a brow. Putting on a bit of a posh voice as a joke.

You met his eye, “You know, I haven’t really got to explore Beaverton very much. How about you take me to your favorite place?”

Jerry stiffened his posture. Blinking rapidly as a surprised look took him over. While a man of the people, not many cared to get to know him. Yet you continued wanting to learn more about him each time you interacted. It made him feel special. His heart skipping a beat, “M-My favorite place?”

You nodded, “Mmhmp.”

Smiling widely, he stood up, “Okay. I can do that.”

Helping you up to your feet, Jerry guided you both to where he had parked. Derailing a little to go grab your bike. Putting it in the back of his car. You chatted the entire way to the old diner right inside town. A place that was basically frozen in the 1950s aesthetically. When you walked in, the woman behind the counter recognized him. Taking the two of you over to a booth that Jerry claimed was his. Making the waitress laugh. The menu was simple. Opting to let Jerry recommend what was good. He ordered a burger and fries with milkshakes for the two of you. Listening to him talk about how this place was where his mom always took him when he was younger. Claiming it had not changed throughout his life, and that it was just as good as the first time. Learning more about one another over the course of the dinner. Jerry asked about where you came from and about the types of things you enjoyed. A genuine interest in you as a person. There was no denying how your attraction for him was blossoming. He was dreamy.

Time flew by, accidentally staying up until the restaurant closed. Noticing the generous tip Jerry left. He held your hand as he walked you both back to his car. Kindness was so deeply woven into him, there was no faking it. His mother had raised him right. This was more than a crush.

The car ride back was filled with laughter. Sharing funny stories from childhood and college days. Bonding over some more nerdy passions you both shared. His love for horses making you smile. His car pulled into your driveway. Hopping out, he walked around the car to open your door for you. Then getting your bicycle out of the back of his car, walking it up to rest against your garage door. Coming back and offering you a hand as you stepped up. More gentlemanly than anyone had ever treated you. He extended his arm out to you, interlocking them. Walking you up the concrete sidewalk to your front doorstep. He released you once you were both upon the stoop, but his hand found itself wrapping his fingers through yours. You stood facing him with your back to the door.

“Tonight was incredible,” you swooned.

His hooded eyes looked down at you. Definitely proud of himself for getting a younger woman on a date with him. Smiling somewhat cockily, “I’m glad I got to take you out. I really like you, Y/N.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you grew flustered, “I like you too, Jerry.”

He smiled widely. Sensing some mischief forming behind his eyes, “Like me enough to vote for me?”

You rolled your eyes with a playful smile, “I don’t know about that.”

Jerry clinched his free hand over his chest. Faking like you had punched him right through it. Face contorting as he winced. Groaning in pain, “Ouch!”

You both erupted in laughter. Playful banter too natural between you. You were unsure of when it happened, but you were falling hard for him. Growing beyond a crush or fling. Something in you longed for him. His presence had you letting walls down and feeling emotions you had no clue you could.

In the midst of laughing, your hand had cupped your mouth and your eyes had closed. When you reopened them you caught his eyes watching you. Entranced by how carelessly you laughed. A smile that had your heart leaping out of your chest. Like he was thinking all the same things about you.

“You’re beautiful, Y/N,” he said deeply. Making sure you understood how much he meant it.

“Thank you,” you said back. Feeling this conversation coming to its end sooner than you wished. Swallowing before speaking once more, “I guess this is goodnight?”

Jerry brought your hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly, “I guess so. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight,” you whispered. Waving a little awkwardly with the hand he had just kissed. Both of you smiling, even if you did not want the night to end. Watching him begin back to his car with his hands tucked into his pant pockets. Turning to unlock the door, you could not help yourself.

“Jerry,” you stopped him, “Do you want to come inside?”

You swayed back and forth chewing on your lip. Watching his eyes rake all the way down your body then back up to your face. Taking a hand from his pocket and flattening it against his hair, he sighed. The breath quickly morphed into a smile. Taking long strides to rejoin you, his hands slipping onto your hips immediately. Lips interlocking faster than you could comprehend it. Kissing like two starved animals. Your hand tangled in the back of his perfectly laid locks. Jerry lifted one hand to reach behind you for the doorknob. Pushing it the rest of the way open and guiding the two of you backward into your home.

Breathing heavily between kisses, Jerry kicked the door closed behind him. Hands coming up to cup both sides of your face as he deepened the kiss. Backing you into the wall with a soft thud. Teeth bumping momentarily, tongues exploring each other’s mouths.

Jerry was panting as he spoke between kisses, “Where’s your bedroom?”

Giggling at his eagerness. You twisted his tie around your hand and slowly began leading him down the hall. His face flooded red as he followed your lead. Entranced by you entirely. Trying to focus despite all the blood rushing to his groin. Walking into the mostly dark room, you clicked on a lamp so the two of you could see each other better. Standing directly beside your bed frame, you stopped. Loosening his tie and dropping it to the floor, you made quick work of the buttons down his chest. Taking them one by one until the thin cotton fabric was hanging off his shoulders. Leaving him in the tank top beneath.

“I haven’t done this in a… a long time,” Jerry admitted when your hands flattened against his stomach. Curving along the expanse of it until you were untucking it from his pants. Making him all too flustered.

“That’s okay. We can take our time,” you smiled, fingertips barely touching his skin beneath his shirt. A tease of thick hair leading down his entire body. Every touch was molten. Sending your body into overdrive.

Assisting you in pulling the shirt over his head, Jerry admitted, “That’s the thing… I don’t know if I can take my time. Especially with a woman as beautiful as you. With your hands all over me and all.”

It made you blush brightly. Understanding what exactly he was alluding to. The outline of his hardening cock against the slacks he wore helping paint a picture. You would be lying if it did not make you want to see more. Undoing his belt, you began shoving his pants down his legs. Allowing them to pool at his ankles, leaving him in only his boxers. Cock print clear through the fabric. Gawking at him without thinking.

Guiding your eyes back up to his face, Jerry clicked his tongue, “My eyes are up here.”

You giggled. Playfully shrugging your shoulders and wrapping your arms around his neck. Kissing him once more. Hand framing his jaw as it traveled down his torso to feel his chest hair. Masculine in a way you had no clue turned you on.

“You’re making me feel underdressed here,” Jerry grinned widely. Pulling back just enough to let his eyes stare at your chest. Looking back up at you for permission. A not so subtle hint.

Taking your own shirt in hands, you pulled it over your head. Dropping it with his own clothing. Leaving you in only your bra. Biting your lip as you took his hands and guided them around your back. Encouraging him to undo the garment. Lips interlocking as he did so. Letting it slide off your arms and into the floor, Jerry went wide eyed at your bare chest. A large hand immediately cupping one of them. Rubbing his thumb across the nipple to make it pebble up. Earning a gasp from you. Dipping down to capture your nipple between his lips, he flicked it with his tongue. His hand matching the movement with his fingers. Nails digging into his shoulders, you tried to stabilize yourself. Overcome with arousal as he continued on your chest.

Jerry looked at you with sex drunk eyes. Needy by nature, he began kissing down your neck. Traveling down your body leaving kisses in his path. He began to undo the button of your pants, dragging them down your legs. Guiding you out of them one foot at a time. His hands splayed on the back of your thighs as he knelt before you. Looking up at you through hooded eyes. You were shaking with anticipation. Not expecting to see him this desperate. Your heart was racing as you tenderly threaded a hand through his hair. Petting against the salt and pepper locks, Jerry let out a small noise.

Planting soft kisses against the fronts of your thighs, Jerry ventured until his lips met the hem of your panties. Swallowing against his watering mouth, he kissed against them. Hooking his hands in the curve of your knees to guide you onto the edge of the mattress. Spreading your legs as you scooted back just enough, he took his place between them. Curling a finger around your panties, he pulled them off your body. Leaving you completely revealed for him. His eyes fixated on your entrance as he breathed lowly. A smile creeping across his face when he noticed how slick you already were for him. Placing both your legs over his shoulders, he became eye to eye with your core.

Diving forward, Jerry licked a stripe up your core. Swirling his tongue around your clit before pulling back to look up at your face. Mouth agape with the moan that had rolled through you. Eyebrows upturned as you met his eyes. Needing more right away.

Jerry knew exactly what that look meant. Returning to your entrance, his tongue worked magic. Lapping into you with obscene sounds. His thick fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. Your head was thrown back as you called out to him. Back arching to meet his movements. He was almost too good at this. Steadily getting you closer to your high.

Then you felt a finger begin to caress your entrance. Sliding it inside and curving it. Pumping it perfectly. Your hands flew to his hair. Tightly tangling your fingers through his dark locks as you whined. Thrusting to meet his finger over and over. The knot inside you begging to be released.

“I can feel how close you are,” Jerry huffed almost out of breath, “Let me have it.”

Desperation on his tone making your head dizzy. Only a few more movements and you were seeing stars. Calling out his name as he latched onto your clit. Continuing to suck and flick the bulb as you rode your high. His finger pumping to meet the spasming of your walls.

A wicked smile planted across his face when you looked down to him. Chin glistening. Removing his finger from your core, he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. Crawling up to hover above you. Pinned between his arms.

You tugged him down onto the mattress by his shoulders. Gleeful laughter coming from him as he fell beside you. Intently watching you get up on your knees and straddle his lap. Cock twitching at the sight. Hands ghosting up your legs as he grinned up at you. Hooking a finger around the band of his boxers, you dragged them down slowly. Firstly revealing his dark pubic hair that was nicely trimmed, then the beginning of his shaft. Allowing his erection to spring free as you removed the fabric fully.

Wrapping your hand around the base, you stroked him a few times. Loving how his face contorted in satisfaction. Biting your lip when you thumbed at the tip. Hips jumping at it. Not wanting to tease him any longer, you lined him up with your entrance. His hands grabbed your hips as he looked up at you wide eyed. Sinking slowly onto the tip. Eyes rolling back into his head, he groaned at the sensation. Taking your time to slide him fully inside until your hips were flush.

Trying to keep himself together, Jerry kept his eyes closed. Eyebrows knitted together in thought as he breathed with parted lips. Adam’s apple jumping as he swallowed harshly. Focusing on the feeling of your walls encapsulating his length. Still sensitive from the orgasm he had given you, the occasional pulse had him aching for more.

Raising up on your knees and dropping down on him one more time, Jerry let your name out as a moan. Fingertips digging into the meat of your hips. You leaned down to place a kiss on his throat. Kissing down to his shoulder. Biting the flesh and soft sucking. Rolling your hips as you did so. Leaving a purple mark that could be easily hidden by his clothes. Prominent enough that he would see it when he looked in the mirror.

Jerry’s heavy lidded eyes opened so he could watch you. Words struggling to form, he was able to say, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

And he meant it. Your already flushed face somehow reheated. Leaning down again, you kissed him. Continuing to ride him. He was losing himself with each lewd sound. Clapping of skin. His hand tangled in the back of your hair, holding your lips to him.

“Wh-Where can I cum?”

“Inside,” you breathed.

Smiling widely between kisses, Jerry’s hand went down to the base of your back. Holding you still as his body jerked upward. Spilling his seed deep inside you. Cock twitching with each rope of cum. Grunting and groaning in pure bliss. You swore Jerry had never looked sexier.

Staying still for a moment before rolling off of him onto the mattress beside him. Jerry wrapped his arm around you, pulling you into his side. You flattened a hand against his chest as you nuzzled into him. Hearts still racing, lungs burning from how out of breath you both were. A soft sweat glistening across both your bodies. It brought you peace to be here with him. A calmness you had not felt in a long time.

A soft kiss was planted on your head. His hand joining yours on his chest. Fingers intertwining, his cheek rested against your head. Legs tangled together so that you could be as close as possible. Bare and vulnerable together. Maybe this was what real couples did.

“I’ve had the best day with you, Y/N. There’s something special about you. I don’t… don’t believe in soulmates or anything like that. But you’ve taken a place dear in my heart. I want to spend my time getting to know you,” Jerry admitted lowly.

Hiding your face into his hairy chest, you were blushing brightly. You had not had a long term relationship since right out of high school. Even then, you did not feel this connection with them. Jerry was different. Like he saw you for all you were. Accepting each piece as a whole. Caring about you. It made things so natural.

“Me too, Jerry. I’m glad we started seeing each other,” you mumbled.

Shifting so the two of you could share a quick peck on the lips. Not much more of a conversation was had. Both of you falling asleep comfortably together.

~

Jerry was still asleep when you woke up. Having rolled around throughout the night, his arm was tossed across your body. Spooning comfortably. You decided it would be nice to surprise him with breakfast. Quietly and slowly sneaking out of bed, you went into your bathroom. Getting dressed in some casual clothing and heading into the kitchen.

The loud knock on your door made you jump. Walking over and looking through the peephole, your heart dropped. It was Mabel. Hands tucked into her pockets as she stomped her foot impatiently.

This was bad. Really bad. Of all the times for her to show up at your home. She chose the one time Jerry happened to be here. Making as loud of a noise as possible. Fearing she would wake him in the other room if she continued.

You cracked the door open before she could knock again, “Hey, Mabel.”

“Y/N!” her excitement clear from the smile on her face, “I’ve got great news!”

She pushed past you without a second thought. Even as you tried to stop her from advancing, she was already inside. Panic was slowly setting in as you questioned her, “What news?”

“I was coming to talk to you about how the fundraiser went, but there’s something even better. LOOK—“ she extended her phone screen out to you with an article opened that you could barely read, “Mayor Jerry is canceling his stupid parking garage!”

“What?” you questioned under your breath, taking Mabel’s phone from her. Your eyes skimmed the article now that they could focus.

“Yeah! You know that lake on the outskirts of campus? They were gonna drain it and level it, but apparently he called it off last night,” Mabel explained as she flopped onto your couch.

“That’s awesome!” you smiled.

That’s when it hit you. You were there with him last night. It was where he had kissed you, then asked you out. The place you had told him was your favorite spot. Where you went to unwind.

Had he done this for you?

You heard movement in your room. Swearing your heart stopped beating. A lump formed in your throat as you glanced back to Mabel. She had not heard it.

Thank god…

“Uh… Mabel, look, I’ve got some things I really need to do this morning. Is there anyway you could come back later?”

Mabel scrolled through her phone, “Ah, come on, teach. What do you gotta do? I can help!”

“T-This isn’t something you can help with. Please, we can go get lunch or something. I just need to be alone,” you flexed you fingers. Trying to act as natural as possible.

“You know I can help you with anything,” Mabel rebutted, not really noticing how sweat beamed along your forehead and you gritted your teeth.

Then the door to your bedroom opened. Your heart sank all the way to your ankles. Eyes flying open as your head whipped to the side. If Mabel had not heard it, she would definitely notice now. Mortified that this was happening you kept your eyes on the doorway. Jerry’s still half asleep figure stretching.

Your mouth was agape. Somehow, Jerry was still groggy enough that he had not noticed your guest. Mabel jumped up when she saw him.

“Oh my God!” Mabel shouted, pointing aggressively at him, “He’s in your house! He found out where you live!”

She was too busy panicking to really think about the situation. Stammering and stepping in front of you as to guard you from him. But it struck her suddenly when neither of you were panicking, “Wait…”

“Mabel, listen—“

She turned. Eyebrows pinched tightly together as her eyes looked to yours. Betrayal and heartbreak. Lips partly like she needed to say more but couldn’t. Her eyes grew glossy before you. Fist clenching against the fabric of her jacket as she stepped away slowly.

“Oh my God, Mabel! What’re you doing here?” Jerry clutched the t-shirt on his chest.

Mabel completely ignored him. Looking at you like you had just kicked her puppy, “You’re with… him?”

All you could do was open and close your mouth. Being caught entirely red handed. Every emotion shooting through you like static as you tried to say something. Anything. Then Jerry walked over to stand beside you. His arms snaking around your waist. Examining your panicked face.

“You canceled the parking garage?” you asked lowly. Confusion tugging your brows together. Making Mabel whip her head between you and Jerry.

Jerry’s eyebrows raised, “Uh… y-yeah, last night after the festival. What’s she doing here?”

“What are YOU doing here?!” Mabel pointed aggressively.

You stood silently. Not sure what you had done to deserve such a grand gesture from him. One that he was not even making a spectacle about doing. Just a genuine act of kindness.

“I am at my girlfriend’s house. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here out of no where,” Jerry said scowling at Mabel. The tension in the room growing thicker with every passing moment. Until Mabel looked back to your front door.

“I… I have to go,” Mabel said, backing away from you.

“Mabel, please—“

She held her hand up to stop you. Shaking her head as she exited your home. You cupped your mouth. Sighing with your head hung low. Beating yourself up for keeping such a large secret from your best friend.

“Y/N?” Jerry asked concerned.

“I messed up. I knew I should’ve told her,” you said lowly. Breaking away from him, you began frantically getting dressed. Throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt. Not even taking the time to fix your hair. Jerry was stunned as he followed you through your home. Watching you, unable to vocalize the questions running rampant in his mind. You patted your back pocket to make sure you felt your phone, going to grab your keys from beside the door. You turned to look at Jerry, “I have to go make this right. Just lock up when you leave.”

“But Y/N—“

“I have to go!” you rushed out before he could even ask a single question. Grabbing your bike, you peddled faster than you ever had. Taking the usual path she took to her home. Playing it over and over again in your mind the whole ride. All the times you should have came clean. Every opportunity to have a serious conversation with her. Just to explain the situation. Instead, it came to bite you in the ass. There was no one to blame but yourself.

Once you arrived, you skid your bike to a halt. Dropping it and rushing up to her front door. You knocked frantically. Waiting patiently until it opened. Grandma Tanaka looked up at you with a soft smile. Reading you quickly, she invited you inside. Taking her seat in the living room and asking, “Must’ve been bad this time. She didn’t say a word.”

Sighing, you rubbed the back of your neck. Too embarrassed to meet her eye, “Yeah… I messed up. Where is she?”

A huff resembling a laugh, “You know.”

Finally looking at her. An eyebrow raised and her eyes darting to the back door. Following her gaze it struck you where she had gone. Walking past Grandma Tanaka, you thanked her. Heading out the back door and into the forest behind their home. Following the same path she had led you down countless times. Fingers grazing the tall grass, watching the bugs fly around you, plants flourishing. A reminder of why you loved this place so much.

The sound of running water told you that you were close. Stopping at the familiar small rock at your feet. Then you spotted her. Sat upon the rock near the glade. The one she liked to hangout at after a long day. Her place to go when she needed to clear her mind and relax.

“Mabel,” you tried to get her attention, but she ignored you. Hugging her legs tighter to her chest. Refusing to acknowledge your existence. It hurt, but you understood. Continuing forward, “I know this seems like a betrayal for you. Believe me, I do. But I need you to understand…”

Her shoes scuffed as she shifted. Hiding her face from you as you rounded the rock. Wishing you could look her in the eyes. She was your best friend and you had hurt her. Maybe you had been for a while.

“There’s some things I haven’t been telling you. Jerry and I started seeing each other in the last few weeks. We just really hit it off, and when I was passing out flyers for the festival I happened to end up at his house. He’s been a big support of mine with what’s going on,” you finally admitted. Catching Mabel’s curious eyes look up at you from her legs. Finally ready to admit what was really going on, “Mabel, my… my program is getting cut. They told me two weeks ago if I didn’t get the money, I would be out of a job. I didn’t have the money myself. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I didn’t want to stress you out anymore than you already are with your grandma. And I thought if I told you, you’d think I was some kind of loser. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just afraid I would lose my best friend.”

Mabel sat up a little more, resting her chin on her knees. Letting the breeze cascade over both your bodies as she thought.

Sighing, “You did hurt me.”

The pause after her words had tears welling up in your eyes. Forcing yourself to look down so she could not see them. Refusing to make her feel guilty when this was all your fault. Ears ringing and vision blurring, you clenched your fists. Waiting for more.

“You shouldn’t keep things secret from me,” her feet appeared in your vision, “I always want to be there for you, Y/N. Because you’re my best friend.”

Her hand on your shoulder gave you the courage to look up at her. Tears flowing down your cheeks as you sniffled. A smile on her face told you she meant it. Wrapping her in a tight hug as you sobbed. Grateful for someone as understanding as Mabel in your life. Proud to call her your best friend.

Her hand patted your back a few times as she spoke, “Now quit crying. You’re getting my shirt all wet with your tears!”

Standing up to your full height, you wiped your hand under your nose. Both of you laughing together. Mabel smacked you on the back playfully, “Let’s head back to the house. You can tell me about the fundraiser on the way.”

Following behind her, the two of you began out of the woods. Telling her about the vendors and how many people showed up. Then telling her about Jerry’s dunk tank. Laughing hard when you talked about him going under water.

“Out of all the people in Beaverton… Jerry is who you pick?!” Mabel squinted at you with confusion.

You cupped your palm against your face, “God, I know. If you told me a few weeks ago, I would have laughed in your face.”

Giggling together. Mabel looked you up and down. Noticing the blush on your cheeks and the dreamy sigh you released. Reality finally settling into her stomach, “Down bad, eh?”

You widened your eyes as you looked at her. Gazing up at the sky through the trees. Thinking of a response, but only nodding in agreement.

She had never seen you like this. Not about anyone. It filled her heart with joy to see you getting yourself out there. She had practically begged you forever to try online dating or even going out to places with her. Now she understood that you had to do things at your own pace. Even if she did not think it was the right way.

When you made it back to her house, Grandma Tanaka was out on the back porch waiting for the two of you. Greeting you with a glass of water and a soft smile, “I knew you two would make up.”

Mabel kissed her on the head, “Yeah, yeah. You always do.”

You thanked her for the glass. The three of you going inside together. Sitting at her round dining table and talking. Explaining the event to her and giving more details. And how you wished the two of them could have joined you yesterday.

Rapid knocking on the front door caught all your attention. Mabel walked over and opened the door and to her surprise it was none other than Jerry. Looking a little disheveled and frantic. Speaking before she even got the chance to acknowledge him, “Mabel, I know I am the last person you want to hear from right now. But I always have to listen to you protesting everything I do, so this one time you have to listen to me. You’re angry, you’re hurt, and I don’t expect you to suddenly be happy that I’m seeing your best friend.”

“Jerry—“ she tried to stop him.

“Just listen! You can hate me, but please… don’t be upset with Y/N. I care about her a lot. I would do anything to make her happy, even if that means I have to distance myself so that you two can continue being friends. I can stay far away from you, Mabel. Make sure Y/N doesn’t talk about me too much, never be over at her place at the same time as you, whatever it takes. She loves you, Mabel. And I… she’s incredible. It’s like she changed something inside me. I’m not going anywhere, so I need you to keep being her friend despite that,” Jerry confessed.

Your heart was overflowing. Stepping forward, Mabel moved so you could be seen. Walking through the doorway, you watched Jerry’s face light up a little. Wrapping him in a deep hug before he even knew it. Heart thumping loudly as you held him tightly.

Mabel chimed, “Well, I never thought it would be you. But I’ve never seen Y/N so happy.”

Jerry smiled widely, “I promise to keep her happy.”

“You better,” Mabel playfully slapped Jerry’s arm, “Because if you think I was a problem before, wait until you hurt my best friend.”

Jerry nervously laughed. Knowing that Mabel was being dead serious. The two beginning to casually converse. All of you joking and smiling together. Happy that both people you cared most for were going to try and set their differences aside for you.

Your phone vibrated in your pocket. Stepping away so you could answer the phone, “Hi, Dr. Sam!”

“Y/N,” her voice was low and steady, “I need you to know, you did a really good thing with the celebration yesterday. It’s not your fault at all.”

“Wh-What?”

“You didn’t raise the money, sweetheart,” she solemnly said.

Your smile quickly faded as the words settled. Swallowing against a dry mouth. Tears immediately welling to your eyes. Her voice fading out as you heard her repeating an apology over and over. Over explaining the reasoning behind why this happened. Just not enough donations, not because your cause was unworthy. Turning to look back at Jerry and Mabel as they tried to chat. Mabel must’ve made an offhand comment about construction that got under his skin. They were pointing and talking loudly. Not that you could hear them.

Your hand cupped over your mouth. Rubbing against it and trying to find your voice again. Warmth flowed down your cheeks as you tried to keep your composure. Only getting out a simple “Okay.”

Hanging up and placing your phone back in your pocket. Despite your best efforts. Putting your heart and soul into the fundraiser. Wishing on all the stars. You still were short. You felt like a failure.

Jerry happened to look over to you. Seeing the way your shoulders hung low, and how tears stained your cheeks. Immediately knowing something was wrong, he called out your name as he rushed over to you. Mabel right behind him. He placed his hands on your shoulders, slouching so he could look at your face. Mabel’s hand on your arm as well. He questioned, “What’s going on?”

You sobbed. Falling forward into his arms. Nestling your face into his chest to hide the sounds that fell from you. Body shaking as each wave of sadness crashed through you. Mabel asked your name lowly, hoping to encourage you to speak. Lifting to meet her eyes. Your own sad ones breaking her heart.

“We didn’t… get the money,” you said. Jerry and Mabel looked to one another as if maybe one of them misunderstood you. Hoping that was the case.

“Wh-What?” Jerry asked.

“Wait,” Mabel interrupted, “Does that mean you lost your job?”

You nodded. Standing up and running your hand under your nose. Tears continuing to flow down your face. Speaking through a broken voice, “I’ll have to go somewhere else and find a job.”

“So you’ll have to leave Beaverton?” Mabel asked, concerned and sad.

You exhaled, “Yeah.”

Mabel’s face contorted. Eyebrows pinching as she got slightly angry. Looking to Jerry and stomping her foot, “Isn’t there something you can do about this? Like go talk to the dean or-or use your campaign funds— something!”

“No,” you spoke before Jerry got the chance, “I told myself if I couldn’t raise the money, I wouldn’t accept the charity either. I would just have to deal with it.”

“Y/N…” Jerry tried.

You stepped away from the two of them. Going to grab your bike from where you had discarded it on the ground in your rush. The pit in your stomach growing with each passing moment. Closing your eyes unable to face either of them, “I’m going home. I’ll text you guys later.”

And you did just that. Despite clearly hearing Mabel scolding Jerry for not stopping you. Jerry saying the same thing to Mabel. Your heart had shattered. Fighting off tears that dared blur your vision. Swearing there were weights tied to the wheels as you forced yourself to bike faster. Cursing yourself the entire trip. Feeling foolish. As soon as you got home, you locked the door behind you. Flopping onto your couch because the smell of Jerry on your bed would have been too much to bear. Tears continuing down your face as you cried yourself to sleep.

~

Over the following weeks, you applied to many different jobs. Finding a city with several opportunities for your career. Far away from here, which was unfortunate. You were planning to move there now. Packing things slowly but surely. Reporting to finish out the last month of your job. Fighting to get out of bed most days. Abandoning your normal routine in favor of late nights alone. Sometimes going to lay in the fenced in backyard to look up at the empty sky on quiet nights. Deep down, hoping for a shooting star that you could wish on. Delusional that it could fix it all. Having distanced yourself from the life you were living so it would make all this easier. Change was never easy, but especially when it felt like it was forced upon you.

You were nearing the big move, so you spent most daylight packing. Occasionally Mabel or Jerry would come by to help. Trying to pretend like this was fine, or that they understood your choice. But deep down, neither of them could. A part of you assumed their was a resentment forming. It didn’t matter. Not when you were packing away your entire life into some boxes.

A ring of your doorbell. You sat down one of the many boxes filled with your things. Opening the door, surprised to see Jerry in his full suit. A half smile tugging at his mouth, “Hey.”

“Hi,” was all you said. Stepping out of the way to let him inside.

This had not been easy for either of you. Deciding you would try and keep things going even with the distance. But there was no denying the strain all of this put on you. The inevitable move looming heavy above both your heads. A sadness that neither of you could shake latching onto every interaction.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jerry began, fidgeting with his fingers as he walked in a half circle.

You leaned against the entryway frame. Arms crossed over your chest as you awaited whatever he was going to say. He walked over to stand right in front of you. Extending his hand as an offering, “But I’m going to need you to come with me.”

Frozen a little. Not really in the mood for any scheme or game. You sighed, “Jerry, I’ve got a lot—“

The look on his face broke your heart into a million pieces. Eyebrows curved and a soft pout on his lip, “Please?”

Even though your exhausted body begged you not to, you took his hand. Letting him lead you outside. Opening the door for you like the gentleman he was. The ride was mostly silent. His air conditioning humming in his hybrid vehicle. Watching all the familiar streets pass by through the glass. A town you had grown to love. One you had planned to stay in for the foreseeable future. Resting your head against the glass, you tried to control your emotions. Disappointed in yourself. Holding yourself to a made up standard that things had to go one certain way. It was like a punishment for your failure. Angry that things had not worked out. No excitement for a new beginning. Only the feeling of leaving behind a life you were just starting to be excited to live. Finding your people here, but having to leave them.

His car stopped at a more rural location. Trees surrounding a river that flowed next to it. The park was only a street over. The clearing in the trees looked new, however. A path leading to a log cabin-like building. Surrounded by planted flowers and some bushes along the walls. The two of you got out at the same time. Walking along the laid stone path to the short steps up the building. Jerry unlocked the door and let you walk inside first. A beautiful rural inside. With a large fireplace against the center of the back wall, a large map of Beaverton and all its landmarks, tables not yet adorned with objects.

“This place is beautiful,” you said breathlessly, “How have I never seen it before?”

“We just built it,” Jerry said, “With the expanding of the beltway, and all the renovations to the city, I’m needing more space to plan things.”

It made you sad. Thinking about all the beautiful nature that would be destroyed to expand the city. Understanding that people cared about convenience and efficiency. Maybe things would have been different if you got to stay.

“And I’m hiring some new people. Personal architects. A demolition team. It’ll make everything so much easier,” Jerry went on. Only breaking your heart further. Until you felt his hand on your shoulder. Looking up to him, his eyebrows laying flatly across his eyes. Mouth turned up on the corner in a smile.

“How would you feel about being the wildlife conservation coordinator for Beaverton?”

You went wide eyed. Turning to fully face him. Shock clear across your expression, “What?”

“I need someone who can make sure we’re doing things with the natural habitat of all creatures of Beaverton in mind. I want to make sure we live alongside them. Protecting them, while still improving our city. I used to not care about the animals. Just whatever would make me look good enough to get reelected. But you changed that. I built this place for you,” Jerry said as he took your hand in his.

Blinking rapidly, your mind could not comprehend what he was saying. Moreso not allowing you to comprehend it. The warmth of his hand was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“I know this isn’t the job you dreamed of. And I would understand if you told me no. But I want you to stay here in Beaverton. With me,” Jerry said. Meaning every word.

Tears welled up your eyes. Stammering as your mouth gaped open like a fish out of water. Only able to ask, “Why?”

Jerry chuckled. Skin between his brows pinching as his head fell slightly to the side. Breathing deeply, “In the short time I’ve known you, things have changed. Things inside me. You are the best thing that’s happened to me. And there isn’t a world where I can go on without you by my side. I want to be with you every single day.”

Tears overflowed from your eyes. Sniffling as you rushed into a hug with him. He had kept this secret from you. This explained his distance over the last few weeks. Convinced that he was angry with you, so he was detaching from you. When he was actually working to give you a place here. In Beaverton. Like he had told you to begin with.

“Thank you,” you cried, “I-I didn’t want to leave you, Jerry.”

His lips met yours in a soft kiss. His hand caressing your cheek sweetly. Pulling back to look into your eyes. A smile returning to your lips filling him with joy.

“I can’t believe this,” you gestured around the room, then back to yourself, “You did all this for me. I… I’m so happy. No one has ever cared about me the way you do, Jerry.”

“You deserve it. All of it,” he smiled.

This was the start of a new beginning. One you could actually look forward to. Getting to peruse your passion, even if it was not the way you had pictured. In the town you loved. Surrounded by like minded people, and the man you had fallen head over heels for.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! This was such a fun story to indulge myself in. It feels like a I wrote a rom-com spinoff and I love it. This took some time because I found myself lost in it. I’ve been struggling a lot in my personal life lately, so I am beyond grateful to have gotten to write this. And I’m so happy I finished it just in time for Earth Day!! As always, my inbox is open. Comments and Reblogs are appreciated! Love ya //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @person-005 ~ @swe3tyann ~ @richielynne728 ~ @m4rb13-s0d4 ~ @xierra926tumala ~ @invadergir45 ~ @vinn1e8 ~ @helloworll ~ @whatiswhathuh ~ @pixar-pal ~

[redwinelewis]

MY MAN ON WILLPOWER | R. GRACE

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing ryland grace x pilot!reader

summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust

word count 8K

content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.

a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language

masterlist | read on ao3

you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.

you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.

what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.

you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.

it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.

“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Beware the Wolf || Loki

A/n: I'm not entirely happy with the smut on this, but I pushed through somehow. One thing to remember while reading is that during the Goldberg scene, I used the way the manga depicts his lisp. Please enjoy.

Warning(s): arranged marriage au, gender-neutral reader, Charlotte Reader, Devil Fruit, family drama, sins of the mother, angst, distrust, teasing, dirty talk, understanding, size kink, losing control of ability, oral, rough sex. Words: 5,985.

Tag list: @marsilis @hoo-hoo @jj-ma26 @guillotine-enjoyer @whateverthought @trouble-sistar

No Minors Allowed!!

I should have known.

The attention is a dead giveaway, shoved down your throat like the island's best confectionery; so saccharine that it rots your common sense and infects your mind. Mama’s attention is a delicacy all her children crave. Including you. So when the truth comes out, you are irritated. Blaming yourself certainly will not soothe the pain, so you spare yourself the pity.

“Don't give me that sour look,” Big Mom orders. She leans forward in her candy-themed throne; the eyes of her Homies watch in silent glee as she chastises you. “Make yourself bigger. It's easier to talk to you that way.”

You suppress a sigh. Activating your Devil Fruit, you grow in height to an appropriate size for her, replacing your expression with a look of aloofness. While it is a useful power, you hate to use it like this. Height is no easy property to master, especially for something so mundane as preventing Mama from putting stress on her back.

“Are you certain it's me you want to do this?” You ask. “I'm not being ungrateful but there are far more suitable replacements.”

The Homies retort to spite you, uttering obscenities.

“Ungrateful shit.”

“Asshole.”

You could be both; you honestly want to be. The temptation to bare your teeth at the woman who controls your life like a puppet on a string is almost too hard to ignore. You are mad; you deserve to express yourself. But in the end, you opt to tuck tail. Disobedience will cost your soul. You slide your hand behind your back, clenching it into a fist. Hopefully, Mama will reconsider, but her mind is set.

“There certainly are, but none I care to expend,” she simply states.

You tighten your jaw. Of course. Expendable; that's an appropriate word for what you are.

“I understand,” you lie. Your Haki gives away your annoyance, however.

Big Mom raises a curious brow, then leans forward in her seat again. The air in the room suddenly feels heavy as her menacing presence swallows you like quicksand. It is almost hard to breathe.

“You do understand the importance of this union, don't you? I won't settle for another setback, not after the amount of groveling I had to do to that stubborn king.”

You understand. But why must you be the one to suffer? You have an island to tend to, a responsibility as a Minister. No, you do not wish marriage on any of your siblings, especially a loveless arranged marriage, but such is the fate of Mama's less-liked children.

Besides, as desperate as Big Mom is to have the power of the Giants beneath her finger, choosing you to bear the weight of a political union is ill-advised. You simply are not spouse material. She could offer better. Thinking badly of yourself puts a bitter taste in your mouth, but it's true. The Giants are going to see how lightly she is taking the union; they are not dumb, and again, she will suffer their scrutiny.

There is another reason, however, that you are against marriage to King Harald's youngest son.

“I do, but–”

“But what?” Big Mom interjects in annoyance.

Her Haki is so suffocating that you shrink back down to your normal height to show her that you mean no disrespect. Even the Homies cease their insufferable chattering. Would she understand your reasoning?

I'm not Lola.

Loki of Elbaph will not accept you. He had turned down Chiffon. You are certain he will do the same to you.

The irritated expression on Big Mom's face urges you to swallow your worries, however.

“Nothing, Mama. I'll leave for Elbaph in the morning.”

Big Mom smiles widely. Her Haki vanishes, a weight off your shoulders that makes you feel much better.

“Good, child. When you return in a week, a grand tea party will await you. Ma Ma Ma!”

You force a smile. A week. That is a lifetime in Hell for someone like you. But what does she care if you suffer for her? You are expendable after all.

–

It's comforting to know, during this stage of the trip, sailing east toward Elbaph, that you are not entirely alone. Mama, to ensure your safety, had sent two of your siblings with you.

The first, standing with you on the deck of the ship near the bow, you almost wish had just remained home. He will not leave you alone, even when it is clear that you are not entirely listening to him.

“You lickity better start listening to me if you don't want to disappoint Mama,” Persospero argues.

He gently thumps you over the head with his cane for the third time. You are tempted to roll your eyes, but to avoid being thumped again, you nod.

“I am listening, Brother Peros. You said to be as sweet as possible. Mind my Ps and Qs in front of the royal family. I plan to.”

He groans as though he is suspicious of you, but does not give a response. Lifting his cane, he gives it a taste. You curl your nose in response; germs must not be a word he is familiar with.

“And?”

You hum. And what? The clueless expression on your face makes him narrow his brown eyes.

“I knew you weren't lickity listening.”

He raises his sticky cane to thump you again, but a calm, yet serious voice interrupts him.

“Refrain from teasing our sibling too much. We're here.”

Katakuri ambles onto the deck from the bowels of the ship, joining you and Perospero near the bow. You give him a grateful nod, then turn to the eldest brother, sticking out your tongue as if to goad him. He simply glares and ignores you for the moment.

“I contacted the king in Warland. He will send an escort to meet us at the docks,” Katakuri mentions. “As instructed, we will remain here on the ship for the time being.”

You frown. There is the kicker. Neither of your brothers are allowed on the island. You will be alone, though, to an extent, you are sure. Katakuri would never let you go completely alone. You glance at him.

“Will I be able to contact you?”

“As if we'd trust you to behave yourself. Kukuku,” Perospero answers teasingly.

He removes a baby transponder snail from his coat and tosses it to you.

“If you need us, you can call us,” Katakuri adds.

You smile at him. It feels better to know that Katakuri will have your back, should you need him. Perospero not so much, but you are grateful to have him along for the trip regardless.

Moments later, the ship docks in Elbaph. What you see both shocks and awes you. It's something you will never forget. A colossal tree rests in the center of the island, growing high into the clouds; so high you can not see where it ends. At its base, near the center is a frozen forest, leading to a grassy plain that ends at the coast. You can make out a mountaintop castle in the forest, but not much else.

A dreadful silence fills the air, and then suddenly the heavy sound of footsteps meets your ears. You stiffen as a Giant emerges from the frozen forest, a woman with long blonde hair. She reaches the coast quickly and stands before the ship, gauging you and your brothers with a sharp expression. It almost feels like a showdown. The air is tense and it's obvious why.

You step forward, offering her your name and your hand. There is an obvious size difference, but it would be rude not to show her some respect. The woman stares at you a moment, as though she is unsure, then leans down and lifts out her finger. It's an awkward shake, but you are glad she recuperated.

“My name is Gerd. We should head on to the castle. My King requested to meet you.”

You understand. Turning to your brothers, you nod to show that you are ready. Katakuri says nothing, but the comforting look in his crimson eyes indicates that he believes in you. Perospero, on the other hand, appears less than enthusiastic.

“This is important. Don't you lickity mess it up.”

You consider flipping him the bird, but to give off a good impression in front of Gerd, you simply nod. There are no goodbyes exchanged, no loving words. The children of Big Mom do not express their care openly, but for once, you kind of wish both of them would have told you how much they appreciate you for not running when you could have. You certainly thought about it.

Departing from the ship down the gangplank, you join Gerd on the shore. She rests her hand on the ground and for a moment, you stare at her in uncertainty. Does she want you to–

“It will be faster for me to carry you to Warland. The bridges connecting the two regions are not suited for those smaller than the people of Elbaph,” Gerd explains.

You hum in understanding, but you still don't like it. Would it be appropriate to use your Devil Fruit instead? You can not directly match the height of a Giant, but she would not have to carry you. It would probably be best to ask the king first. In reluctance, you step up onto her hand, sitting down so that you don't make an ass out of yourself and fall.

Gerd slowly stands and begins to walk toward the tree. You can hear her footsteps as she enters the forest. The frozen air nips at your body, not yet accustomed to the weather, but she shields you with her hand in an attempt to keep the wind from reaching you.

“Thanks,” you say in appreciation.

She seems hesitant to speak to you. A deep uneasy sigh leaves her mouth, jostling your hair, but in the end, she gives in. Her sharp light blue eyes fall on you.

“This union most likely will not happen. After everything Linlin has done, I do not see my people welcoming you with open arms, least of all Prince Loki.”

At least she is honest. You understand, though. Years of bad blood can not easily be ignored. You do not know what made the Giants turn on Big Mom, but you know she is not as innocent as she claims.

“It's no problem if you don't,” you state. “Mama should let this one go, but she is desperate to create a utopia for all races to live in peace together. I'm not sure why it's so important to her, but as her child, I have to at least try.”

Gerd's expression softens.

“I'm sorry you have to go through this.”

“Don't be,” you retort. “It should be me who is sorry. Your people should not have to cater to her or me.”

The conversation soon dies off as Gerd takes you across a wooden rope bridge into the upper region of Elbaph. She, to your relief, unshields you, allowing you the chance to glimpse upon the primary village. It's impressive, an entirely different environment than that of Totto Land. The buildings, for one, are massive; houses and watchtowers made of sturdy wood as opposed to candy and chocolate.

The Giants roaming around look a bit on edge, but their smiles hold no secrets; they do not hide the fear of their souls being taken, not like the people back home. It's comforting and it makes you wish that they had turned you away immediately. You have no idea what Mama wants with this union, but something in the pit of your stomach fills you with dread.

It's fine. So long as Loki turns me down.

At the entrance of a fortified castle, Gerd kneels. You take it as the journey is over, so you stand and leap to the ground, pleased to be on your feet again.

“Stay here. I'll be back to get you once the king is ready,” Gerd orders.

You reply with a brief nod, watching as she opens the door to the castle, sinking into the darkness within. The door closes behind her. In the meantime, you sit on the upper step with your feet dangling off the edge as you stare out at the village. A few Giants spare you a look, but none of them approach you. It's better this way, you reckon.

A short amount of time passes, then the door opens again. Before you can glance back, the shadow of a hand dwarfs you. It's so unexpected that you do not move in time before a Giant grabs you by the back of the shirt, lifting you in the air.

“H-hey. Put me down.”

A deep chuckle is the only reply you get. Whoever they are, leads you into the castle like a mother cat carrying her kitten. You have no idea where they are taking you, more focused on keeping your shirt from choking you to death, but thankfully, the trip does not take long. Behind another door, you see Gerd and another Giant resting on an enormous throne; King Herald, you are certain. The former stares at you with wide shocked eyes.

“Look what someone left on our doorstep,” the Giant carrying you says with a chuckle.

“Loki,” Herald chides.

You hear him hum in disappointment, then he unceremoniously lets you go. You shout in fear, but thankfully Loki catches you in his other hand. A clever ruse. On your back, trembling, you stare up in shock and irritation at him, but he simply sticks out his tongue to mock you. This is him? Prince Loki.

She wants me to marry him?

He is extremely handsome, yes, with long light hair and muscular tattooed arms, but his people skills need work. You understand that you are the child of Elbaph's nightmare, but treating you like a toy is uncalled for. Standing on your feet, albeit unsteadily, you straighten out your clothes, then square your shoulders. Loki tilts his head.

“Oh.”

“That was–”

No. No, no.

Behave. You had promised Perospero that you would be sweet. As much as you want to cuss him for scaring the hell out of you, doing so would only exacerbate the situation. You take a deep breath, relaxing your shoulders.

“Thanks for catching me.” Despite your appreciation, your tone has a bite to it.

Loki hums. He gives you a look of disappointment, but like the flip of a coin, his expression changes.

“I'm undecided.”

“Undecided,” Herald repeats.

What does he mean? You stare at him in disbelief, waiting for an explanation, but Loki gives none. He rudely lifts you again by your shirt, then ambles over to Gerd, handing you off to her. You are never going to get used to this.

“But Loki…” Herald tapers off, then sighs. “A week, son.”

Whether he heard him or not, Loki walks out of the room without a word.

You are in shock. This is not at all what you had expected.

He was supposed to say no.

Why didn't he?

–

It takes three days, three long and infuriating days for you to come up with an answer to an existing question of yours. Why didn't Loki say no?

At first, you had thought that he might have warmed up to the idea of marrying you, but based on the past, and the blatant display of displeasure he seemed to show when you met his gaze, you quickly dismissed it. Then, you had thought that maybe he just needed some time alone and away from you, but somehow, no matter where you had escaped to he always seemed to be. In this time, he went to any length to annoy or fluster you, either by humiliating you or making comments that boiled your blood.

The reason for his answer is simple, you come to realize.

He's torturing me.

With a sigh of annoyance, you flop down on your bed, a frame made of blocks with a foam mattress that Road reluctantly put together for you. Gerd leans down, giving you a look of pity.

“Are you OK?” She asks.

No, you certainly are not. The memory of the last confrontation with Loki is still fresh in your mind. Your face feels heated.

“Did I set myself up for that one?” You ask.

Gerd snorts. “You sort of did.”

Wonderful.

“I should have just kept my mouth shut.”

You could not help it, though. Loki had been itching for a confrontation. You had been down at the river when it happened.

A bright pink salmon several times bigger than you leaps upstream and then disappears within the water’s depth. It's truly unbelievable just how massive everything on Elbaph is. You can hardly contain your curiosity as you rest on Goldberg's shoulder as he prepares a fish net - Gerd claims that he's an amazing cook.

“Do the salmon get bigger than that?” You ask him.

It's been like this most of the day. You ask questions and either Gerd or Goldberg answers you, seemingly unphased by your curiosity. There is still an air of uncertainty around them whenever they meet your eyes, but at least they are kind enough to talk to you. Some of the Giants turn up their noses and ignore you - Prince Hajrudin for one - but you do not hold it against them.

“Shome do. If they shurvive the Underworld below, they will shpawn and leap back up the waterfall,” Goldberg lisps.

You imagine fish as big as ships in the Underworld. It makes you feel a little uneasy with your brothers docked below, but you know they can take care of themselves if the need should arise.

The sound of heavy footsteps nearby catches your attention, but immediately you come to dread looking as you meet eyes with Loki. Even resting on Goldberg's shoulder, amongst the folds of his gray cape, you know he sees you. His tongue slips from his mouth, wetting his upper lip, and then, much to your dismay, he approaches.

Strands of the cook's dark orange hair brushes you as he, too, takes notice.

“Prince Loki.”

“That won't do,” Loki opines. He looms over you, staring into the water with a thoughtful look, then hums. “I know. The best way to catch a fish is bait.”

Bait. You gasp in shock as he suddenly lifts you, dangling you threateningly over the water. The fucker. He's getting off on how much power he has over you; it's annoying. Regardless, you bite back and insult, yanking aside the neckline of the shirt that Road had made for you.

“Put me down, please. This isn't fun for me.”

“That's a shame,” Loki teases. “I'm enjoying it.”

Of course, he is. You tighten your jaw.

“I'm sure you can satisfy your entertainment with something else aside from teasing me.”

“I'm sure I can, but right now, you're the only thing I want to play with,” Loki retorts.

For some reason, your mind goes straight to the gutter. It's his tone; the way his tongue peeks out from behind his teeth as though he might at any second taste you. Swallowing hard, you feel a tad bit warm under his playful gaze. It is not your intention to speak without thinking, but the words like vomit seem to pour out.

“Go play with yourself. You have two hands, don't you?”

The grin on his face falters a moment, then Loki guffaws. You feel like a ball hanging from a string, rocking unsteadily back and forth until his sudden bout of laughter stops. Not even Goldberg knows what to say, staring in confusion at the interaction in front of him. His gaze changes, becoming predatory. Like a lone wolf about to take a bite.

“You wouldn't match up to my size anyway. But it might be fun to see how far I can take you before you break.”

You aren't quite sure if he had said anything after that, but you are certain he left you with an unexpected size kink. By the time you had returned to the library - your temporary room - it felt like your body had been left out in the sun too long.

You are exhausted; this entire situation is exhausting. With a groan, you sit up and face Gerd. The same question has been plaguing you since the day you met the youngest prince.

“Why do you think Loki hasn't made up his mind yet?”

It's an honest question, one that Gerd does not seem to know. She hums with uncertainty.

“That's something you would have to ask him.”

Of course. You sigh. Maybe tomorrow, but certainly not today. You don't think you can ask him with a straight face so soon after the interaction, not while you are drunk on the memory of a spiteful quip.

Unfortunately for you, the question is left unanswered. You start to see less and less of Loki throughout the week until you are six days in. At breakfast, you see him briefly. He wanders by when you are seated between Gerd and Goldberg, telling the former to bring her pet Piper, a giant owl with light and dark alternating feathers, with her during the morning hunt. You consider asking him to come see you when he is done, but in the end, you decide against it. With one day left, despite wanting to know, you figure it does not matter as much as it had on day one.

The question, at the time, slips from your mind and so too does the Prince of the Giants. Until that night.

You are sitting on the sill of the library window, staring out at the vast landscape of Elbaph when the door creaks open. It's not unusual for someone in the castle to wander in during the night when sleep is far from their minds, but normally they knock first. You don't care to peek, expecting a thrall, but when the glass reflects the muscular, yet thin frame of the youngest prince, you quickly glance over your shoulder at him. What is he doing here?

Swallowing hard, you ignore his sudden presence, turning back toward the window. You watch him in anticipation as he rests, legs spread in a wooden stargazer chair. A tense awkward moment passes, and though you had expected him to speak, his question makes you tense up.

“You have a Devil Fruit, no?”

You take an uneasy breath.

“Yeah.”

It's not like it's a big secret. While considered rare, a great many notable people have eaten them. Though oddly, you have not seen anyone on Elbaph with a Devil Fruit power.

“Show me,” Loki demands.

“I can't,” you admit. “I made a promise to your father, the king, that I would not use my power while I'm here.”

Loki whistles, impressed.

“You must be something special then.”

An air of sadness washes over you. No, not really. The reality of the situation is a bit of a letdown.

“It's not impressive. I can increase and decrease the size of whomever or whatever I touch,” you explain. “Including myself.”

Which would come in handy on an island like Elbaph, but promises are promises, something Loki does not seem to care about.

“Show me.”

You tighten your jaw.

“I already told you, I–”

“Do you always do as you're told? Things would be so much easier if you lived how you wanted to,” Loki interrupts. You watch him tilt his head back, as though he is lost in a memory.

He has a point.

But you can't.

“Only those with power can live how they want,” you utter.

Loki snorts.

“So we can agree on something.”

How ironic. You stand with a grunt, turning toward him. He rests his head against the backboard of the chair, lazily watching you as you do so. It's hard to deny, but he looks tempting, so tempting, you feel a bit overwhelmed.

“Did you really come here to ask me about my Devil Fruit power?” You ask while tilting your head.

“Maybe,” Loki answers. His grin widens. “I'll tell you if you show me.”

He's persistent. You sigh in annoyance. Does it honestly matter though? Aside from your curiosity, it satisfies nothing.

“I'm not that interested.”

His humor fades and though his expression becomes aloof, he straightens in the chair.

“Oh. Then I guess you won't be interested to know I am in favor of the marriage proposal.”

What. Why? You knit your brows.

“You can't be serious.”

“You'll never know,” Loki states.

The nerve of him. With an irritated grunt, you climb down the sill, then use your power to increase your size. It's a known fact the Giants of Elbaph are around 20 meters tall, and though you can grow much taller than Big Mom, you still pale in comparison, which you soon learn, as Loki stands to gauge you.

“Is that all?” He asked tauntingly.

“I don't have awakened powers yet. 13.50 meters is as tall as I can get,” you admit.

Mid chest is as far as you can reach.

“We made a deal. Please answer the question,” you state.

“Did we?” Loki asks. He hums as if to say ‘I don't recall ever doing that’.

Closing the gap in a heated rush, you place the palm of your hand against his chest.

“I told you how my power works. Unless you want to be the one looking up at me, then I suggest you tell me why.”

Loki brings up his hands in defense. He seems more humored than scared, to your annoyance.

“Hey now. I was only joking.” His abs flex, and though you are flustered by this action, you keep your hand where it is as if to warn him. It gets worse when his tone changes, becoming lax. “As far as I can tell, you don't actually want to go through with the arrangement.”

“That's…not true,” you attempt to lie. “I do want to marry you.”

Snorting, Loki takes hold of your wrist, lifting it above your head.

“Is that right? Because the entire time, you've been here, you've done your best to avoid me, and I know better than to believe that you were just giving me space,” he explains. “As desperate as your mamma is, she would have you try a lot harder.”

He's right. She would. Wooing him is what she would want. Or to turn yourself out to him. You tighten your jaw.

“I didn't because it wouldn't matter. I'm…not Lola. You never would have said yes to me.”

At the mention of Lola's name, he frowns. You wonder if he still thinks about her from time to time, about how she rejected him. In a way, you are a bit envious of her. She wanted to live her life freely and marry who she wanted to. You aren't sure you could ever disobey Mama like that.

Why couldn't I?

The woman clearly did not care about you. She had the right idea, to unite the races of the world, but her dream had become more of an obsession. Her gluttony and greed knew no bounds.

“You're a bargaining chip,” Loki states.

Hearing it out loud from the mouth of someone else just feels…heart-rending. You tighten your jaw. Regardless, it's true.

“Don't you think I know that?”

Loki bends to your ear. You aren't sure why, but his tone sounds almost wicked.

“What if I said you don't have to be? Agree to marry me, and you can live as freely as you like.”

You don't understand. He should not want to marry you, a child of Big Mom.

“Why?”

Loki grins. His tongue mischievously slips from his mouth.

“Because I don't like to see that woman get her way, and something tells me you don't either.”

The entire kingdom will be at war if you flee the wedding, but perhaps that is what Loki wants. But why? Because of Shanks, the Yanko who protects the island. Or because Loki knows he can beat her. Either way, it's a terrible idea. The consequences are too great, but there is something about the promise of freedom that hangs over you.

Under Big Mom, it's not possible.

“I want to live my own life.”

As free as Lola.

As if your words of rebellion light a fire in him, Loki releases you and runs his fingers down the length of your spine. It tickles, prompting you to arch your back, but more so, it feels good, too gentle for someone like him. Your heart races as you come to realize maybe you like how warm and defiant you are around him.

“You have a silver tongue, you know.” And muscles I'd love to bite, you opt not to mention.

“Oh,” Loki coos. “Trying to flatter me, are you?”

“No. Just hung up on what you said at the riverside,” you breathe.

To be honest, you haven't been able to think of much else aside from just how he would break you.

“It might be fun,” you echo back at him.

Loki snorts.

“Is that the aspiration of your mamma?”

He is going to kill the mood if he keeps spouting off about Mama. It's her aspiration to bring the Giants into her country. You don't have to sleep with Loki to achieve this, but you have a feeling he already knows. It's as you told Gerd; he loves to torture you.

“You talk too much.”

Loki fakes a pout.

“Do you wish for me to shut my mouth that badly?”

At this point, it doesn't matter if he does or doesn't, but to tease him, you answer.

“I honestly don't think you can.”

Pulling you closer, to your shock, his lips touch yours for a brief moment. When he leans back, he pokes his tongue out between his lips as if to say ‘Be careful what you wish for’. As it happens, this is exactly what you want.

“That's a start,” you state.

It's at this point, you realize you had bit off more than you could chew. Everything after that progressed so fast. It had started with a rough kiss, then moved into a sloppy make-out that sent shivers down your spine.

In a warm haze, you remove your clothes, losing yourself to salacious thoughts the moment Loki slides his pants off, revealing his cock to you. Unfortunately, you do not get to take in the moment. He presses you against the nearest bookshelf; the musty, lightly sweet scent of old books fills your nostrils.

With another brief, wet kiss, Loki hooks your legs over his shoulders and stands. The shelf to your back erases the fear of falling, but still, you bury your fingers in his hair to keep yourself steady. You have a feeling, however, that your attempt will soon be in vain. A pregnant silence looms in the air as you wait, anxious and in need of his attention. The moment it comes, you sigh in relief.

Loki gently tastes your sensitive skin as though he's testing your limits. It's when your back arches and your thighs tighten around him that he devours you. In an instant, your worries fade; you can hardly concentrate on anything but him, the lewd wet noises coming from between your thighs, and the way that he makes you feel.

Desperately, you want this pleasure to never end, but you are a fool for hoping. His calloused fingers tease your hole, one easing inside, then another to prepare you. The way you stretch to take him drives you feral. The first coherent thought that comes to mind sends you spiraling over the edge. You tighten your jaw, trying not to make a noise but your attempt is in vain; your body feels electrified. If oral feels this good, how will he feel inside you? Will his cock ruin you?

With a whine, you push against his head, pleased when he parts from you. While it is not terrible, the overstimulation is a bit too much.

“You did well, my betrothed,” he coos.

“Stop talking,” you utter, narrowing your eyes.

Loki chuckles. He sets you back on your feet, wobbly at first, then leaves you by the bookcase to rest on the stargazer chair, knees wide apart, giving you a teasing glimpse at his cock. Even at a height that will make this easy, you can tell that it will still be intense. Your heart races as he motions with two fingers for you to join him, the two fingers you are certain were inside you moments ago.

Breathe. I can take him.

You stride in confidence toward the chair, straddling the Giant's waist. Comfortable, you lean against his chest, capturing his lips a third time as he readies you, an action you are thankful for, especially when the head of his cock catches at your entrance, threatening to penetrate you.

It happens slowly, to your relief. Your body tenses as Loki raises his hips, easing as much of himself into you as he can. It's a tight fit, but one that is not too unbearable. You take a deep breath, remaining as still as possible. To you, it feels like losing your virginity all over again; the careful steps, the nervous anticipation. It's comical.

Once you are ready, you set the pace, rocking your hips deliberately slow. The muscles beneath you tense, eager but at your mercy. You offer Loki some relief, bouncing your hips, but then spitefully like a selfish god, you take it away, returning to the same slow and torturous pace as before.

It isn't all fun for you either, to be honest. You want to be fucked hard, left numb and satisfied, but the desperate look on his face tempts you to continue. Another round of inconsistent teasing passes before all the power you have over Loki gets torn away. You should not have tempted the wolf.

Warm calloused hands seize your hips. Loki eases you down, filling you, then bounces you on his cock, raising his hips to intercept each thrust. You can hardly keep up with him. After a few seconds of trying, you give up, allowing him to use you however he wishes. The most you can do is stimulate your sex; the combined pleasure makes you melt. Wave after wave courses through your body, growing stronger. A thin sheen of sweat covers you as you desperately hang on. Whatever sanity you have left vanishes the moment you lose control of your ability.

Your size wanes, a head or two shorter than before. Honestly, you are not sure. All you can tell is that the cock inside you feels thicker. The lewd sounds of flesh on flesh filling the room and the image of your hole stretched to its limit are enough to push you over the edge. Arching your back, you come hard, lost in pleasure, body trembling. For a moment, you swear you lose all sense of where you are.

When reality sets in, your thighs and stomach are coated in release, from both you and Loki. The man beneath you grins, leaning your breathless form against him. Your walls feel bare and worn, throbbing in protest. You hum.

“That could have been bad,” you utter, referring to your slip-up.

“You'll have plenty of chances to get used to me,” Loki retorts.

If anything, he's humorous. Sitting up, you give him a serious look.

“I don't know what you’ll be getting out of this marriage, aside from the thrill of angering Mama, but I agreed only because you promised me freedom.”

Loki grins. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Have a little trust in me.”

If only you had known how much trouble in the future those words would get you. Perhaps you would have declined. Perhaps not.

[angelipple]

𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

syn; at bullworth academy, gary smith starts orbiting you with his usual sharp, manipulative charm, interrupting your conversations, stealing your book, and getting under your skin on purpose. what begins as irritation turns into a tense push-and-pull as you realize he notices everything about you, from your habits to your moods, and hides small acts of care inside his obnoxious behavior.

wc; 9k

characters used; gary smith from bully (2006) video game.

a/n; hellooooo.. first post & i hope it’s a good a impressionable post! i wanted to make something calm for the community, which i feel like has no fics or am i like insane? anyways, please leave any feedback, commentary, constructive criticism, or any suggestions what i should write next! enjoy & byeeee!

the first thing you learned about bullworth was that quiet did not mean peace.

the academy had a way of holding noise inside its walls even when the halls were empty. the old stone seemed to keep every insult, every threat, every laugh that went too far. doors slammed somewhere down the corridor, boys shouted across the courtyard, prefects barked rules nobody respected for longer than a minute, and through all of it the school carried on with the stiff, expensive dignity of a place convinced it was above its own ugliness. you had only been there three weeks when you realized that if you wanted a decent afternoon, you had to steal it from the school with both hands and hide it somewhere private.

the library was usually your best option.

it was warm in there, dust-lit and quiet in a way bullworth never quite managed anywhere else. not silence, exactly. pages turned, chairs shifted, the radiator hissed, and sometimes somebody coughed with theatrical misery behind a stack of atlases. still, it was close enough. you could spread your things across a table near the windows and pretend, for a little while, that you attended a normal school with normal students and not a crooked little kingdom where every boy seemed to be trying to prove something violent by lunch.

you sat with your books open and your loose papers arranged in thoughtful, hopeful piles that would not remain thoughtful or hopeful for long. a pencil was tucked behind your ear. your skirt brushed your knees when you crossed one leg over the other. outside, the late afternoon had gone pale and gold over the grounds, turning the hedges and stone paths almost pretty. from that distance, with the glass between you and the rest of the school, bullworth looked almost civilized.

“you organize your notes like somebody preparing an alibi.”

you looked up to find gary smith standing at the end of your table as though he had simply unfolded out of the air.

he had a talent for appearing without warning, and it was a talent made worse by the fact that he always looked deliberate. even when he slouched, there was intention in it. his shirt was crisp under the green sweater vest, tie straight, hair combed back into that careful, sharp little style that only made his face seem more fox-like. he was pale in the soft library light, his expression composed in that smug, unreadable way of his, like he found the entire world mildly amusing and almost never worth the effort of honesty.

you stared at him over the rim of your book. “and you speak like somebody who enjoys hearing himself think.”

“true.” he pulled out the chair across from you without asking and sat down. “but i’m not wrong.”

you should have told him to leave. that would have been the sensible thing. sensible, however, had very little influence over the way bullworth ran, and even less over gary. he had already made himself comfortable, one elbow resting on the table, pale eyes skimming over your notes with insulting ease.

“what do you want?” you asked.

“i haven’t decided yet.”

“then go decide somewhere else.”

instead of moving, he smiled. it was not a pleasant expression. it looked too neat for that, too small and precise, like something folded into shape with a knife.

“you’re not very friendly,” he said.

“i am, actually. just not with you.”

“smart girl.”

that should have sounded complimentary. coming from him, it sounded like he was cataloguing you.

you had noticed him before that day, of course. everybody noticed gary smith, even the students who preferred to pretend they did not. he was difficult to place in the school’s social order because he was never fully inside any of it and somehow always at the center. he drifted around the edges of every clique without belonging to one, whispering in ears, supplying rumors, nudging quarrels into fights and fights into small local wars. boys twice his size listened when he spoke. boys with richer families and louder mouths ended up doing exactly what he suggested while convincing themselves it had been their own idea all along.

the faculty treated him the way people treated a hairline crack in expensive glass. they knew it was there. they knew it might spread. they went on as though not looking at it would make the problem less real.

he had started noticing you at lunch first. then in the main hall. then out on the front steps when you took your tea in a paper cup before first period. never for long. just a passing comment, a glance that lingered too intelligently, a remark that suggested he had been paying attention longer than you liked. you were used to being looked at. bullworth was not subtle where girls were concerned, and you had become skilled at sorting attention into categories: stupid, harmless, tiresome, dangerous. gary’s did not fit neatly into any of them.

it was not hungry in the way some boys’ attention was. not clumsy either. it felt worse than that, somehow, because it was careful.

he rose from your table after five minutes of irritating you with observations about your handwriting and the suspicious optimism of your color-coded notes. he left without explanation, and you told yourself that would be the end of it.

it was not.

once gary smith began orbiting a thing, he did not do it halfway.

sometimes he would lean against the wall outside your classroom and watch the hallway empty, not speaking until you came out last with your books hugged to your chest. sometimes he would fall into step beside you and start talking about someone else entirely, as if you had both agreed to continue a conversation that did not exist. once, during lunch, you found him sitting in your usual seat with your apple in his hand, turning it slowly between his fingers as if he were considering it from a moral distance.

“that’s mine,” you said.

“so i assumed.”

“then why are you touching it?”

he glanced up. “to upset you.”

you had to bite back a smile at that, which irritated you almost as much as he did.

that was the worst part of him in the beginning, not the arrogance or the intrusion or the unnerving tendency to know things he had no business knowing. it was that he was occasionally, against all good judgment, funny. not in a bright or easy way. there was nothing easy about him. but he could say something so dry and exact that it caught you off guard and dragged a laugh out of you before you remembered who he was.

he always noticed when that happened.

his face never changed much, but there would be the faintest flicker around his eyes, a tiny cruel satisfaction, as if he had proved a point you had not realized he was trying to make.

you started avoiding certain routes because of him. that did not help. he merely changed his own.

one tuesday afternoon you cut behind the gym to avoid a group of shouting jocks and nearly ran straight into him where the path narrowed beside the hedges. he had one shoulder against the brick, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a boy who had just happened to stop there for air and not like somebody who knew enough about your schedule to predict where you would be within two minutes.

“do you mind?” you said, stopping short.

“usually,” he replied. “depends who’s asking.”

“move.”

“ask nicely.”

you looked at him. really looked at him. the narrow, composed face. the faint freckles across his nose that the autumn light made more visible. the pale lashes. the expression that was never quite mockery and never quite interest and therefore managed to be both at once. he held your gaze without blinking, perfectly calm under the weight of your annoyance.

“you are doing entirely too much,” you told him.

that made him smile in earnest, or as close to earnest as he got. “there you are.”

“there i am where?”

“being interesting.”

“gary.”

“yes?”

“move.”

he moved, still smiling, and you brushed past him with your jaw tight and your books held a little more firmly than necessary. you only made it halfway down the path before he called after you, in a voice mild enough to be almost gentle.

“you’ve got ink on your cheek.”

you stopped, swore under your breath, and heard him laugh softly behind you.

the fact that he noticed things like that was what ruined your attempts to write him off as just another nuisance.

he noticed when you switched from tea to coffee because you had stayed up too late studying. he noticed when you had a headache and kept your answers shorter than usual. he noticed that you folded the corners of pages you meant to come back to and that you tapped the spine of a book twice against your palm before opening it. he noticed when another student borrowed your notes and returned them bent. he noticed when you wore your hair pinned up instead of down, and though he never complimented it directly, he stared one beat longer on those days in a way that was impossible not to feel.

you told yourself it meant nothing. gary noticed everything. that was how he operated. a boy like him collected details the way other students collected enemies.

then came the afternoon that tipped your irritation into something less manageable.

you were in the common room after classes, enjoying a rare patch of peace. one of the younger preps had claimed the chess table by the window, two girls from your literature class were revising by the fireplace, and a fourth-year from town, a decent enough boy with serious eyebrows and a talent for rambling about history, had sat down across from you with all the confidence of someone who assumed a conversation was a mutual gift. he was not unbearable. merely long-winded. you had been polite for about five minutes, nodding at the right intervals while keeping one finger tucked between the pages of your novel so you could return to it the moment he ran out of steam.

he did not run out of steam.

he was midway through an opinion on military uniforms when a shadow fell across the table.

gary dropped into the chair opposite you with the kind of smooth timing that made interruption look choreographed. he did not ask whether anyone minded. he folded himself into the space as if he had always belonged there, one ankle over the opposite knee, chin tilted slightly, that poisonous little smile already in place.

“don’t stop on my account,” he said.

the other boy frowned. “we were talking.”

“were you?” gary’s gaze moved to him with lazy contempt. “i thought she was waiting for you to finish.”

you closed your book carefully. “gary.”

the warning in your voice did nothing.

“i’m helping,” he said, not looking at you. to the boy, he added, “you ought to let people leave a conversation before they die in it.”

the room had not gone silent, but you felt attention shift anyway. bullworth loved a spectacle. the other boy’s face tightened with embarrassment, then annoyance. he looked at you, perhaps expecting you to rescue him, perhaps realizing too late that remaining seated would make the whole scene worse.

“right,” he said, standing abruptly. “i’ll talk to you later.”

“i’m sure she’ll treasure that,” gary said.

the boy left with a muttered curse and a look sharp enough to cut. you watched him go, then turned back to the boy now occupying his chair like a victorious disease.

“what is wrong with you?” you snapped.

gary rested his chin on his hand, eyes on your face. “a long list, apparently.”

“that was rude.”

“yes.”

“you embarrassed him on purpose.”

“obviously.”

you stared at him, waiting for something remotely defensible. an excuse. a lie. even a performance of innocence. instead he just watched you, composed and almost serene, like your anger was not only expected but interesting to him.

“why?” you demanded.

his answer came light and immediate. “you were boring me.”

you blinked at him. “i beg your pardon?”

“painfully.” his eyes dropped to your closed book, then back to you. “you do that expression when you’re bored. right eyebrow lifts first. you were being polite, which is noble, but very dull to watch.”

“nobody asked you to watch.”

“no, but here we are.”

you should have left. instead you stayed planted in your chair, heat moving up your neck, half fury and half something else that felt too close to embarrassment. there was a beat of silence between you, crowded with everything he was not saying.

then he spoke again, softer this time.

“you pay attention to everyone else like that?”

the question sat strangely in the air.

his voice had changed. it was quieter, almost level, but his eyes had not. there was something in them that made your stomach shift, not because it was sweet and not because it was kind, but because it was intent. unsettling, unwavering intent. he looked at you as if he were trying to catch the truth before you had the chance to hide it behind a clever answer.

“like what?” you asked, more carefully than before.

“like they matter.”

you gave a short, incredulous laugh because the alternative was to take him seriously, and that felt unwise. “you interrupted me to ask that?”

“among other reasons.”

“you are unbelievable.”

“that has also been said.”

he reached out then, faster than you expected, and slid your book out from under your hand.

you caught air.

“gary.”

he stood in one smooth motion with your novel already tucked under his arm.

“give that back.”

“come get it.”

the look he gave you was infuriatingly pleased. then he turned and walked away, not even hurrying, which somehow made it worse. by the time you pushed your chair back and followed him, several students were openly staring. one of the girls by the fireplace covered her smile behind her hand. you ignored her and swept after him into the hall, your shoes striking smartly against stone.

“do not make me chase you through this building,” you said.

“then don’t chase me.”

“you stole my book.”

“borrowed.”

“without asking.”

“i know you’d have said no.”

you almost caught him near the stairwell, but he pivoted neatly out of reach and kept going with a maddening little glance over his shoulder. he was enjoying himself now, which made him more agile, more precise. you followed him down the corridor past a line of cracked portraits and a notice board littered with club announcements no one read. he never quite broke into a run. he did not need to. he kept just ahead of you with the casual confidence of somebody who knew exactly how long your patience would hold.

“gary, i mean it.”

“you’ve said my name a lot today.”

“because you are aggravating.”

“only today?”

you nearly laughed again, which only made you angrier.

he finally stopped in the alcove near the old science room where the windows threw thin bands of evening light across the floor. when you reached him, slightly out of breath and thoroughly irritated, he held the book out at last. you snatched it from his hand and opened your mouth to tell him precisely what he could do with his games.

then you looked down.

all your loose papers were tucked neatly inside, aligned by size, the bent corner smoothed, the half-fallen notes from your last lecture gathered and organized between the proper chapters. even the little scrap with your reading list, the one you had thought you lost at lunch, had been slipped in near the front. nothing was creased. nothing was missing. it was better arranged than when you had packed it yourself.

for a moment you just stared.

gary leaned one shoulder against the wall, watching your face with quiet satisfaction. “you’re welcome.”

you looked up slowly. “when did you do this?”

he shrugged. “while you were pretending to listen to captain monotone.”

you turned another page, incredulous. “you had my papers?”

“they were sticking out.”

“and instead of giving them back like a normal person, you stole the whole book and made me run after you.”

“yes.”

“why?”

that smile again, smaller now, less meant for show. “because you came.”

you should have hit him with the book. you thought about it with vivid sincerity. instead you clutched it to your chest and looked at the boy in front of you, this infuriating, elegant little menace with his neat uniform and his impossible face and his absurd, infuriating thoughtfulness hidden inside behavior so obnoxious it ought to have canceled the effort out.

“you are not right in the head,” you said.

“that’s old news.”

“and deeply rude.”

“also true.”

“and weird.”

he tipped his head. “you still followed me.”

you hated that he said it so softly.

you left him there before he could see what that did to you. or before he could say something worse and make it impossible to pretend your pulse had not changed.

after that, things got more difficult.

not because gary became more obvious. if anything, he became subtler. the open intrusions continued, certainly. he still sat beside you when he pleased and inserted himself into conversations he had not been invited to join. he still appeared at uncanny moments, as if he had a private map of your movements pinned up somewhere with notes in the margins. but beneath all of that there was now a pattern you could no longer ignore.

things around you began falling into place.

a first-year who had been pestering you for answers in chemistry abruptly decided to avoid your section of the hall. the loudmouth jock who had made a comment about your legs during lunch ended up shoved into a trash can before dinner by persons unknown. your missing fountain pen reappeared on your desk in the dormitory wrapped in a strip of notebook paper that said, in tidy handwriting, you ought to keep better track of your weapons.

you stared at the note for a long time before folding it once and tucking it into your drawer.

“you know that boy likes you,” your roommate said one evening while you were pinning your hair up in the mirror.

you met her reflection. “that boy likes causing structural damage.”

“same thing, sometimes.”

“not with him.”

your roommate raised a brow. “you keep saying that, and yet you look happier when he starts bothering you.”

you turned back to the mirror because there was no good answer to that.

you were not happier, exactly. you were more awake.

gary had a way of making a moment feel sharpened. brighter and more dangerous, yes, but also more specific. when he entered a room, your attention shifted whether you wanted it to or not. part of that was self-preservation. with a boy like him, it was wise to keep track of where the knife was, even if the knife happened to be wearing a tie and speaking in a bored voice. but part of it had become anticipation, and that was harder to forgive in yourself.

it did not help that he knew how to behave when nobody else was looking.

one rainy evening you found him in the library again, though this time he was not talking. he sat two tables away with a book open in front of him, one hand braced against his temple, the other turning a page with absent precision. the windows were dark. the lamps cast pools of amber light over the tables, leaving the corners dim. in that setting, stripped of an audience, he looked younger and stranger, less like a schoolyard tactician and more like a boy built too sharply for softness and trying very hard not to require any.

you would have passed him quietly if he had not spoken without looking up.

“you drag your left foot when you’re tired.”

you stopped. “do you ever choose peace?”

“rarely.”

“i can tell.”

only then did he glance up. his eyes moved over your face, your books, the damp hem of your skirt from the weather outside. “sit down.”

“that isn’t a request.”

“didn’t mean it to be.”

“and you wonder why people call you rude.”

“i don’t wonder at all.”

still, you sat. perhaps because you were tired enough not to argue. perhaps because the rain drummed softly at the windows and the library felt almost private. perhaps because you wanted to see what he would do if you gave him less resistance for once.

he closed his book, marking the page with one finger. “how did your exam go?”

you narrowed your eyes. “how do you know i had one?”

“you revised for three nights and stopped sleeping properly. plus you carry your bag differently after a test.”

“that is absurd.”

“is it wrong?”

you looked down at the table. “no.”

“there we are.”

you should not have smiled at that, but you did.

his gaze caught on your mouth for half a second and then lifted again, expression unreadable. “well?”

“it went fine,” you said. “i think.”

“that means well.”

“you are unbearable.”

“and yet.”

“and yet nothing.”

he leaned back slightly. “you sat down.”

you breathed out through your nose. “you really do think you win every conversation.”

“not every conversation.”

“which ones do you lose?”

the answer came almost immediately, but not with his usual glibness. “the ones where you stop talking.”

that held you still.

for a moment the rain sounded louder than it had before. somewhere behind the circulation desk, an old clock ticked with officious patience. gary’s face had not softened, not exactly, but the sharpness in it had shifted. there was no performance in his expression now, no visible joke. just the quiet fact of him watching you like your response mattered more than he wanted it to.

you looked away first.

that should have been warning enough.

instead you kept letting him closer.

not easily. not all at once. you argued with him every step of the way. you corrected him when he was cruel for sport and told him so when he crossed lines that other people were too intimidated to mention. sometimes he listened. sometimes he grinned and did it anyway. but he started seeking you out less like a hunter and more like a habit. breakfast, if your schedules aligned. the path to class. the library on fridays. the back steps after dinner when the air was cold and the grounds smelled faintly of wet leaves and chimney smoke.

he never asked permission in so many words. asking would have been unlike him. instead he made presence seem inevitable and waited to see if you drove him off. when you did not, he treated that as answer enough.

one saturday he found you trying to pin announcements for the literature society to the board outside the main hall while a draft from the front doors kept flipping the corners loose.

“this seems beneath you,” he remarked.

you did not turn. “your concern is touching.”

“need a hand?”

you almost laughed at the novelty of it. “from you?”

“don’t look so alarmed.”

“i am alarmed because generosity from you usually comes with an invoice.”

“not always.”

“most times.”

“fair.”

he took the pins from your mouth before you could protest and held the paper flat while you fixed the top corners properly. his fingers were cool where they brushed yours. he stood close enough that you could smell clean soap and paper on him, something crisp and faintly dry. not cologne. not anything flashy. just the ordinary scent of somebody who looked composed even when everyone else at bullworth resembled a bar fight with tuition.

when you finished, he stepped back and tipped his head at the notices. “there. now the three people who attend will know where to be.”

you looked at him. “why are you like this?”

“efficient parenting failure, probably.”

your laughter escaped before you could stop it.

he went still in that tiny way he had when something genuine slipped between you. then he smiled, smaller than before. “there you are again.”

“do not make a thing of it.”

“too late.”

you pushed his shoulder lightly with the back of your hand as you walked past, more to keep from lingering than out of actual irritation. but his eyes followed you down the hall with such obvious focus that the warmth in your face lasted all the way to dinner.

if it had remained just that, the schoolyard hovering and the dry conversation and the careful little gestures hidden inside obnoxious behavior, perhaps you could have kept pretending there was no danger in it.

bullworth, however, was not built for quiet developments. it fed on attention. and boys, especially boys, noticed when someone stopped being available in the ordinary way.

his name was daniel, and you liked him only in the way a person likes good weather and decent handwriting. he was a prefect on afternoons, a senior, broader in the shoulders than most boys at school, with a tidy manner and the sort of face adults trusted on sight. he had been polite to you for months without trying anything, which you appreciated. then one evening after study hall, he walked with you down the front corridor and asked whether you might like to come into town next weekend for coffee and a bookshop if permissions could be arranged.

it was a sensible invitation. very nearly sweet.

you were still considering how to answer when you noticed movement by the trophy cases.

gary was leaning in the alcove beside the display cabinets, half-shadowed by the poor light, as still as an accusation. you had no idea how long he had been there. with him, that meant nothing. he could have arrived two seconds ago or five minutes ago and you would not have known the difference. what mattered was that he had clearly heard enough.

daniel, oblivious, was saying something about the weather being better next week when you felt gary’s attention land on you with cold, surgical precision.

you did not answer immediately, which was mistake enough.

“that sounds nice,” you said at last.

daniel smiled, relieved. “shall i ask mrs. pease about the pass tomorrow?”

“all right.”

he seemed pleased, properly pleased, and after a few more courteous words he continued down the corridor toward the prefects’ office. you watched him go for a beat, then turned toward the trophy cases.

gary had not moved.

“how long have you been standing there?” you asked.

“long enough.”

“that is not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

you walked toward him slowly, your books held against your cardigan. “were you eavesdropping?”

“don’t flatter yourself. your prefect speaks like a public notice.”

“he is not my prefect.”

“no?” gary’s expression turned almost lazily curious. “sounds like he’d like to be.”

you stopped a few feet away. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“exactly what it sounds like.”

“you do know normal people simply say what they mean.”

“normal people are boring.”

“and you are impossible.”

“you just agreed to go out with a hall monitor.”

you blinked. “what?”

the bite in his voice had sharpened so suddenly it almost startled you.

“he’s not a hall monitor.”

“close enough.”

“and why exactly do you care?”

that did it.

his jaw tightened first, a subtle shift, but on gary even subtlety registered like weather change. then he laughed once, humorless and brief, and pushed away from the wall.

“care?” he repeated. “please.”

“then do not stand here looking like somebody stole your inheritance.”

he took one step closer. “you think he sees you?”

the question landed so strangely you forgot your irritation for a moment. “what does that have to do with anything?”

“everything.”

“gary.”

“he sees a pretty girl who says thank you at the right times and laughs politely when he wants her to.” his eyes were bright now, too bright. “he sees an outing. he sees a little performance where he gets to feel important because you agreed to be looked at on purpose.”

your mouth parted. “that is unfair.”

“is it?”

“yes, it is, and you know better than that.”

“i know men better than that.”

“he is a boy at school, not some villain in a trench coat.”

“same instincts, smaller vocabulary.”

despite the tension twisting through the conversation, you nearly smiled. nearly. then you caught the expression on his face and stopped yourself.

he looked furious. not loud, not wild. gary was rarely messy with anger. but his restraint made it more startling. it sat under his skin like heat under glass, concentrated and dangerous. for the first time since meeting him, you understood that the cruelty he showed other people so casually might one day turn sharp enough to cut you too if you stepped wrong.

the knowledge should have driven you back.

instead you asked, very quietly, “what are you actually mad about?”

he looked at you for a long moment. the corridor had emptied around you. dusk pressed blue against the high windows, and the trophy case glass reflected the two of you back in fragments, your skirt, his tie, the hard line of his shoulders.

when he spoke, his voice was lower than before.

“i’m mad because you said yes like it wouldn’t matter.”

your breath caught.

“to coffee?” you asked.

“to him.”

“gary.”

“what?” he bit the word off. “you want honesty, don’t you?”

“yes.”

“fine. i hate when people touch what they haven’t earned.”

silence opened between you.

you could hear distant laughter from the courtyard, the whistle of wind under an old door somewhere down the hall. gary’s eyes stayed on yours, unblinking, almost hostile in the force of their attention. he looked like he resented having said any of it and also like he could not bear to take it back.

“i am not a prize,” you said at last, steadying your voice.

“i know that.”

“and nobody earns the right to speak to me.”

“i know that too.”

“then what are you saying?”

he exhaled, short and sharp, and rubbed a hand once over the back of his neck. the gesture was so unguarded it startled you more than the jealousy had.

“i’m saying,” he said, slower now, “that watching you hand your attention to somebody dull and obvious makes me want to do something unhelpful.”

you ought not have enjoyed that. you did.

“unhelpful how?”

“don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

that, at least, was honest.

you looked at him, at the boy who had made a career of manipulation, at the architect of a hundred petty disasters, at the pale, precise troublemaker standing in the fading light and admitting jealousy like it offended him personally to feel it. you should have been alarmed. part of you was. the rest was trying very hard not to smile.

“you are deeply dramatic,” you said.

his stare turned flat. “i’m serious.”

“i can tell.”

“and that’s your response?”

“what would you prefer, a violin?”

that did it. against all logic, despite himself, he laughed. it escaped him abruptly, low and genuine, and the furious edge in him eased just enough for the air between you to shift.

“you’re impossible,” he said.

“coming from you, i will take that as a compliment.”

he stepped closer then, not enough to crowd you, just enough that the space felt altered. the kind of distance that noticed breathing.

“are you going?” he asked.

“with daniel?”

his mouth thinned.

you let him wait half a second longer than necessary, then shook your head. “no.”

something unreadable moved through his face. relief first, naked and fast, then composure snapping over it like a lid. “good.”

“do not say that like you had jurisdiction.”

“i didn’t say i had it. only that i prefer the outcome.”

“you really do need everything in your favor.”

“yes.”

“that sounds exhausting.”

“for other people, certainly.”

you looked down to hide the smile threatening your mouth. “you are awful.”

“you’ve mentioned that.”

“because it keeps being true.”

“and yet.” his gaze lowered briefly to your hands on your books, then back up. quieter now, he said, “you stayed.”

there it was again, that dangerous softness he only seemed to reveal by accident. not sweetness, exactly. something more brittle than that. like he had set honesty down between you and now refused to touch it in case it broke.

you went back to your dorm that night with your heartbeat doing unreasonable things and your roommate looking far too knowing for your comfort.

“you look like you won an argument and lost your senses,” she said.

“that is not helpful.”

“was it him?”

you sat on the edge of your bed and pulled off your shoes. “he is annoying.”

“that was not my question.”

you pressed your lips together.

after a beat, she laughed softly. “lord help you.”

the next few days at school felt different in a way that would have been difficult to explain to anyone else.

gary was still gary. he still needled people for sport. he still spread rumors when it amused him and spoke with that cool, surgical sarcasm that made idiots bleed without realizing they had been cut. he still carried himself like rules were made for slower minds. but with you, the tension had shifted. there was less pretense in it now. less of the game for the game’s sake.

he sat with you at breakfast one morning and stole a piece of toast from your plate only to push his untouched apple toward you in exchange because he had noticed you skipped fruit when you were busy. he met you outside literature and wordlessly took the heavier stack of books from your arms before you could protest, then spent the entire walk to the next hall insulting the assigned reading. he showed up after dinner with your scarf, which you had left in the common room, and when you asked how he knew it was yours, he gave you a look that said the question itself was stupid.

you should not have found any of this endearing. the problem was that endearing did not cancel out unsettling. with him the two traveled together.

one friday evening the power flickered during a storm, knocking half the lamps out in the academic building and plunging the upper floor corridor into a gloomy blue half-dark. prefects were stomping around downstairs trying to pretend they had control over the situation. students shouted from room to room, delighted by any disruption that broke routine. you were collecting your notes from an empty classroom when the door clicked shut behind you.

gary leaned against it, hands in his pockets.

“you’re going to get us written up,” you said.

“for what, standing near a door?”

“for cornering me in an empty classroom during a blackout.”

he considered that. “fair point. scandalous.”

“move.”

instead he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the desk nearest yours. lightning flashed beyond the windows, whitening the old glass and turning him briefly into a cutout of light and shadow.

“they’re all downstairs,” he said. “you can stop pretending you’re in a hurry.”

you set one notebook atop another, not looking at him. “and if i actually am in a hurry?”

“you’re not.”

“you do love deciding things for me.”

“i love being right.”

“same disease.”

a pause. then, “come here.”

you looked up. “absolutely not.”

his mouth twitched. “that sounded frightened.”

“it sounded sensible.”

“are you sensible?”

“more than you.”

“that’s a very low bar.”

you should have stayed where you were. instead you crossed the few feet between you because the storm had made the room feel enclosed and strange and because his voice had gone quiet in that way that always pulled at you before you could brace for it.

when you stopped in front of him, he tilted his face up to look at you. with him seated and you standing, the usual angles had reversed. for once you felt less caught off balance than he did, though the impression vanished when he reached out and touched the cuff of your sleeve with two fingers.

“this is new,” he said.

you glanced down. “the sweater?”

“yes.”

“and?”

“it suits you.”

the compliment was so direct that it hit you harder than a hundred of his cryptic remarks. you stared at him. he stared back, perfectly calm except for the tension in his fingers where they still held the fabric.

“well,” you said after a moment, because silence had become impossible, “you clean up decently yourself.”

that drew a softer expression from him than any smile so far.

“decently,” he repeated.

“do not fish for more.”

“i wasn’t.”

“good.”

“you’d give it anyway.”

“gary.”

“what?”

you shook your head, but you were smiling now and he knew it. he always knew.

his hand slid from your sleeve to your wrist, light enough that you could have pulled away without effort. he did not grip. he simply held that point of contact like a question neither of you had phrased properly yet. rain battered the windows. thunder rolled somewhere far off over old bullworth vale.

“you don’t have to keep looking at me like that,” you murmured.

“like what?”

“like you are trying to solve something.”

his thumb moved once against the inside of your wrist, tiny and absent. “maybe i am.”

“and what have you got so far?”

his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then rose again with unnerving steadiness. “that you say no like it means maybe. and maybe like it means ask better.”

your breath stalled.

“that sounds like a dangerous theory.”

“most good theories are.”

before you could answer, a voice barked in the hall outside and footsteps clattered past the door. the moment snapped cleanly in half. gary released your wrist at once, expression flattening back into composure so quickly you almost doubted what had just happened.

almost.

“go on,” he said lightly. “before your reputation suffers.”

you stared at him. “you are a menace.”

“and you like me anyway.”

you should have denied it. you could not manage a lie that flimsy.

the first time he kissed you, it happened behind the library after dusk where the stone wall kept out the worst of the wind and the windows glowed amber above your heads. you had been arguing, naturally. he had done something small and infuriating, intercepting a note meant for you from one of the literature girls because, in his words, “the handwriting offended him.” you told him he could not simply snatch messages addressed to other people. he replied that he had read it first and determined it was harmless. you told him that was not the point. he told you your points were usually inconvenient.

then you stepped closer to tell him so, and he looked at your face with that terrible, focused stillness and said, “you come nearer when you’re angry.”

you opened your mouth with every intention of correcting him. instead he kissed you.

gary did not kiss like a boy uncertain of himself. he kissed the way he did most things, precisely, as if he had studied the problem beforehand and disliked wasted motion. one hand came up to the side of your neck, not forceful, just cool and sure. his mouth was warm, controlled, and for one shattered second you were too startled to do anything but feel the fact of him.

then you kissed him back.

the noise he made was small, almost swallowed before it existed. his fingers tightened once at the nape of your neck, and when he drew back there was something frankly dazed in his face that made him look younger than you had ever seen him.

you stared at him. he stared at you.

“well,” you said, because one of you had to say something.

he laughed under his breath and touched his forehead lightly against yours for the briefest moment. “well.”

after that, jealousy became less theoretical and far more annoying.

you had not expected the particularity of it. most boys got loud when they were jealous. they puffed up. they picked fights. they became stupid in public. gary’s version was sharper and, in some ways, more inconvenient because it came wrapped in civility thin enough to be dangerous.

if a boy spoke to you too long at lunch, gary would arrive, sit down beside you, and steer the conversation so expertly that the other person left feeling outmatched and vaguely foolish without quite knowing how. if someone borrowed your books, he somehow knew and made sure they came back in better condition than before, accompanied by a look that suggested the borrower had been educated on respect. once, when a jock from the football field called out to ask whether you were “busy saturday,” gary, without breaking stride, answered for you with a cool, “she’s busy now,” and kept walking.

“you cannot keep doing that,” you told him later.

“doing what?”

“speaking as if i belong to you.”

his expression changed so quickly you nearly missed it. not offended, exactly. wounded, but only for an instant, before pride covered it.

“i didn’t say that,” he replied.

“you imply it.”

“i imply that they should keep their hands to themselves.”

“and what about you?”

he looked at you, then took your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist with infuriating calm. “i asked better.”

you had no good response to that, which annoyed you because he knew it.

still, for all his possessiveness, he listened when you drew lines. not perfectly, not gracefully, but he listened. when you told him he was not allowed to threaten people on your behalf, he said he had never threatened anybody in his life with such bland dishonesty that you had to sit down. when you told him he could not read your private letters, he returned the one he had pocketed that morning and said, “fine, but i reserve the right to judge whoever wrote it by the envelope.” when you told him jealousy did not entitle him to rudeness, he looked at you for a long beat and then, in a tone so quiet it almost vanished, said, “i know.”

it was difficult to stay angry with him when he did that.

the softness, when it came, arrived in fragments.

he waited for you outside late study sessions and walked you back to the girls’ dorm steps without making a show of it. he memorized the days you had extra coursework and appeared with tea before you asked. he learned the titles of the books you liked and pretended he had not. he tucked folded notes into the pages he borrowed from you, never sentimental, always just enough to tilt your mouth upward.

chapter three is smug. reminded me of you.

stop underlining everything as if the author can see it.

page 86, third paragraph. terrible sentence. i thought you’d enjoy hating it.

once, during a cold snap in november, you found a pair of gloves left on the library table beside your usual seat. inside one cuff was a strip of paper in his precise handwriting.

before you complain, yes, i noticed. your hands go red in this weather.

you carried that note in your pocket for three days before admitting to yourself that you were gone beyond recovery.

he, meanwhile, grew stranger in private and calmer in your presence, which was perhaps the same thing viewed from different angles. around everyone else he remained dry and sly and vaguely menacing. around you he still had those traits, but there were moments, small bright slippages, where he let himself be pleased. when you laughed at something he said. when you reached for his tie and straightened it because he had tugged it crooked. when you let your knee rest against his under the library table. when you took his face between your hands one evening after he had been especially difficult and kissed him until his sarcasm deserted him completely.

“that is deeply manipulative,” he murmured when you pulled away.

“learned from the best.”

“i should be offended.”

“you adore me.”

his eyes half-closed, lazy and warm for once. “unfortunately.”

bullworth noticed, of course.

there was no official announcement, but schools like that did not require one. they ran on glances and rumor and a thousand tiny acts of observation. within two weeks, girls in your literature class were giving you little looks over the tops of their books, and boys who used to try their luck with you had mostly stopped. even the prefects seemed reluctant to interfere if gary was leaning on the wall nearby with that unreadable smile.

“you have made me a public curiosity,” you told him one afternoon as you crossed the courtyard together.

“you were already one.”

“not like this.”

“and how is ‘this’?”

“like i am keeping a spider in my pocket.”

he laughed. “that’s almost romantic.”

“it is absolutely not.”

“pity.”

you glanced at him sidelong. the wind had put color into his cheeks. his hair, though still neat, had been disturbed slightly by the weather, one reddish strand fallen near his temple. there was a bruise fading yellow near his jaw from some conflict he had not told you about, and you had not pushed because with him that was often wiser. he walked with his usual deceptive ease, shoulders relaxed, hands in his pockets, but his gaze kept touching the space around you in that old habitual way, checking, tracking, collecting.

“gary.”

“yes?”

“come here.”

he looked amused, but he stepped closer. you rose on your toes and smoothed the fallen strand of hair back into place.

he went completely still.

there in the middle of the courtyard, with students crossing behind you and a prefect shouting in the distance, his whole sharp, clever, troublesome self seemed to narrow to the point where your fingers had touched his forehead.

“better,” you said.

he looked at you for a long second. then, very quietly, “you do know that makes me worse.”

“for who?”

“everyone.”

you smiled. “i can live with that.”

the winter formal was a stupid idea, and everybody knew it.

bullworth had never been a school capable of elegance for longer than half an hour, and asking its students to put on clean clothes and behave under string lights bordered on satire. still, crabblesnitch loved the illusion of refinement, so the assembly hall was decorated with tired greenery and paper lanterns, the punch was terrible, and some teacher had forced a gramophone arrangement that made everything sound one degree sadder than intended.

you attended because your roommate insisted and because a girl could only hide in the library so many evenings before people started treating her like a local ghost. your dress was simple and dark, borrowed from a cousin, fitted enough to feel grown and slightly dangerous. your hair was down. when you met your own reflection before leaving the dormitory, you looked like yourself and not quite yourself, which felt appropriate.

gary found you fifteen minutes after you entered the hall.

he was in uniform, but somehow even that looked sharper on him tonight. tie precise, shoes polished, sleeves sitting cleanly at his wrists. he moved through the room with effortless awareness, as if the dance were only another board on which everyone else had been arranged for his convenience. boys greeted him carefully. girls watched him and then looked away. he ignored most of it.

when he saw you, he stopped.

it was only a pause. most people would not have noticed. you did.

then he crossed the floor.

“well,” he said, coming to stand before you. “that’s unfortunate.”

you folded your arms. “for who?”

he looked at you from head to toe once, not leering, just arrested. “for my concentration.”

you tried not to smile and failed. “that might be the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

“don’t get used to it.”

“too late.”

he offered you his arm with exaggerated formality that looked absurd and somehow still elegant. you took it. his sleeve was warm under your hand. when he led you toward the side of the hall away from the loudest cluster of students, there were looks. plenty of them. you felt some of them land and slide away. gary, predictably, seemed to enjoy that.

“people are staring,” you murmured.

“let them.”

“you say that as if it costs nothing.”

“to me? very little.”

“terrible answer.”

“honest one.”

you stood together near the windows while the dance unfolded in all its awkward glory. boys stepped on hems, girls exchanged judgment with polite smiles, one drunk senior nearly took down a lantern and had to be steered toward a chair by a furious teacher. the whole thing was ridiculous enough that you ended up laughing more than once, and each time gary’s attention settled on you with that private intensity he never fully learned to disguise.

then a slow record came on, and without ceremony he held out his hand.

you looked at it. “you dance?”

“adequately.”

“that sounds ominous.”

“it means i won’t disgrace you.”

“confidence is exhausting in company.”

“good thing we’re above company.”

still, you put your hand in his.

to your surprise, he really did dance adequately. more than adequately, in fact. he guided rather than dragged, his hand steady at your waist, movements controlled and spare. he was not affectionate in public by nature, but with your bodies aligned under the low lights and the music soft around you, some of the edge came off him. just enough.

“who taught you?” you asked.

“nobody. i watch.”

“that explains too much.”

“i thought so.”

you looked up at him. “are you jealous right now?”

“probably.”

“of who?”

“everyone with functioning eyesight.”

you laughed, then shook your head. “that is absurd.”

“i know.”

“at least you admit it.”

“only because you make it difficult to lie convincingly.”

there was something almost tender in the annoyance of that statement, and you felt it all the way down.

when the song ended, he did not let go immediately. his hand remained at your waist for one extra beat, thumb resting lightly against the fabric of your dress. then he released you and stepped back with that faintly dangerous composure returned.

“come outside,” he said.

the air beyond the hall was cold enough to sting. the front steps were empty at that hour, the grounds silvered by moonlight and the weak yellow spill from the windows. music thudded dully behind the doors. somewhere far off, somebody shouted and was answered with laughter.

you stood beside him under the portico, arms folded against the chill.

“so dramatic,” you said. “pulling me out into the night.”

“you came.”

“you say that every time as if it means you discovered gravity.”

“it means i was right.”

“again, exhausting.”

he turned to look at you. the moon caught the side of his face, drawing the fine line of his nose, the pale shape of his mouth. without the noise of the hall around him, he seemed sharper and quieter both at once.

“you looked beautiful in there,” he said.

it was so direct you forgot to breathe for a second.

“gary.”

“don’t make me repeat it.”

“i was not going to.”

“good.”

you stepped closer, searching his face. “you know, for somebody who spends half his life acting untouchable, you are strangely easy to fluster once you say something real.”

his mouth curved. “that sounds like a threat.”

“maybe.”

“should i be nervous?”

“yes.”

you kissed him before he could answer.

the cold made his skin cooler than usual, but his mouth was warm, and when his hands came to your waist this time there was no hesitation at all. the kiss deepened slowly, not rushed, just increasingly certain, like the two of you had been building to this particular version of quiet all term without knowing it had a destination. when you finally drew back, his forehead fell lightly against yours.

for a moment neither of you spoke.

then he said, in a voice low enough that it almost blended with the wind, “you know i’m not nice.”

you smiled against his mouth. “i know.”

“i’m serious.”

“so am i.”

his hands tightened a fraction. “i get jealous.”

“i know that too.”

“i mean unreasonably.”

“yes, gary, i have eyes.”

a short laugh left him, but the seriousness stayed. “and i’m not good at simple things.”

“that is painfully obvious.”

“you could pretend to be gentler about it.”

“you would hate that.”

“true.”

you touched his face then, thumb brushing the line of his cheek where that old bruise had nearly faded. his eyes lowered briefly, not in submission, not anything so straightforward, but in a kind of brief, startled trust you had come to recognize as rare.

“listen to me,” you said softly. “i do not need simple. i need honest. i need you not to turn everything into a game when it matters.”

he held your gaze. “and if i try?”

“then i will know.”

“you usually do.”

“yes.”

there was a pause. then, with a sincerity so plain it nearly broke you, he said, “i do try. with you.”

that was the closest thing to a vow you were likely to get from him, and you knew it.

you kissed him again, gentler this time.

afterward, bullworth continued being bullworth.

students still fought. prefects still shouted. the food remained suspicious. the plumbing made noises in the night that sounded theological. gary still meddled where he should not and cultivated chaos with professional dedication. you still told him off when he deserved it, which was often. the difference was that now, when he drifted into your space with that poisonous little smile, it no longer felt like invasion.

it felt like home learning your name in a language only the two of you could stand.

This was a lot but I hope you all loved it! Pleaseee.. leave me any suggestions on who or what to write on next! I'm very active, so I'll be looking! Have a great day!

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Burning

Dunk (Ser Duncan the Tall) X Fem!TravelCompanion!Reader

Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, no y/n, mutual pining, accidental voyeurism, fingering, unprotected sex, size difference, praise kink ( i think?), one use of “good girl” (I had to guys), knight/lady dynamic, porn with little plot, not proofread

Word count: 5.7K (*does debby ryan hair tuck*)

You lay in bed, your body scarcely covered by the itchy sheets. You were exhausted. This was the first real bed you’d gotten to sleep in for a few days now. It wasn’t the best quality — you were at an inn, so you hadn’t expected fine sheets or anything of the sort — but it sure beat sleeping on the rough ground.

Unfortunately, exhaustion wasn’t the only thing you were feeling. Your hand traveled down your body, tracing over your stomach before slipping between your thighs. Your legs widened softly as you began to toy with yourself, your eyes closing slightly. 

You hadn’t had the luxury of privacy as of late — not with Dunk and Egg sleeping right beside you every night — but now, in a room all to yourself, you found yourself ready to scratch an itch you’d been harboring for what felt like ages.

Your eyelids fluttered as your movements grew more certain, your fingers slipping inside you with ease. Your breathing became labored, your eyes squeezing shut as you allowed images to fill your mind — his hands, his large thighs, the way his blue eyes gazed at you whenever you spoke.

Your free hand moved over the sheets, gripping the rough fabric as your mouth parted softly. The chill nipped at your bare nipples, but you paid it no mind, far too consumed by thoughts of him and the sensation of your own touch to care.

Maybe if you had been paying attention to your surroundings, you would have heard his feet thundering down the hall. He never tried to be loud, but his large size did not make stealth easy. Perhaps if you had been paying attention, you would’ve been able to tug your hand out from inside you before your door came crashing open.

But you hadn’t.

When you heard the door slam against the wall, followed by Dunk’s voice, you startled, your body jerking upright into a sitting position as you quickly yanked the sheets up over your bare frame.

“You hungry? Dinner’s—” Dunk paused, his eyes landing on you on the bed. They widened more than usual.

For a moment, you thought perhaps he could see the flushed state of your face, could notice the way your chest heaved behind the sheets you’d tried to hide yourself with. He stood there in the doorway, practically blocking it with his large frame, his mouth unmoving, his eyes fixed on you.

Then something clicked. He wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring… lower.

Your head snapped down before you could stop yourself, eyes widening as you realized your left breast was completely exposed. In your haste to pull the sheets up, you hadn’t done a very good job.

Your gaze shot back to his just as he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. If the embarrassment on your face wasn’t obvious, the deep red flushing Dunk’s certainly was. You tugged the sheets up quickly, covering yourself completely this time, your arms crossing tightly over your chest.

Dunk opened his mouth as if to say something — perhaps an apology for staring so long — but before he could get the words out, Egg slipped beneath his arm and into the room.

“Did the Ser tell you, my lady? The food’s ready, aren’t you—” The young boy paused, the excited tone he’d carried into the room fading as he looked at you. “Oh. Did we wake you?”

The innocent way he asked, as though he were genuinely sorry for disturbing you, made your heart ache. You forced yourself to give him as soft a smile as you could manage despite your embarrassment. But then your eyes flicked back to Dunk’s, and your expression shifted again into mortified horror.

“I’ll be right down,” you managed to squeak out.

Dunk grabbed Egg by the shoulder, guiding the boy back out ahead of him.

“Yes, of course, m’lady, we’ll see you—” His head smacked against the doorframe in his haste to leave, earning a soft ow from him and making you grimace. 

He shook his head as if to clear it, then muttered without looking back at you, “See you downstairs.”

You watched him close the door behind him, your eyes lingering on the spot where he had stood before finally turning back to the bed and burying your face in the pillow to muffle an exasperated groan.

Nothing had been said about that exchange — not at dinner, when you three sat together chewing your food in silence, nor in the morning when you mounted your horses and continued on your journey. 

You and Dunk didn’t avoid each other exactly, but the ease you’d always felt while interacting seemed to have vanished. You only exchanged words when necessary, and whenever your eyes met, you were both quick to look away, faces flushing as you searched for anything else to focus on.

Luckily for both of you, Egg never seemed to tire of talking. When he wasn’t telling you about his family and sharing facts about the kingdoms — according to him, there were nine, not seven — he was singing songs that were pleasant enough, though some carried meanings you weren’t sure he fully understood. 

The journey went well enough despite the lingering awkwardness, and by the time you stopped beneath a tree to make camp that night, you had almost forgotten the ordeal of the evening before. 

You nudged at the fire with a stick, trying to keep it alive. Dunk was off with Egg somewhere, presumably gathering more wood. Leaning back, you watched the flames dance while you waited for them to return.

The patter of feet against leaves sounded to your left, and you turned just as Egg came racing toward you.

“Look at what I found!” he exclaimed, finally reaching you. 

He opened the piece of fabric he’d been using as a sack so you could see the contents. Your eyes widened at the variety of berries he’d managed to gather.

“Well, look at that,” you said softly. “Well done, Egg.” 

You smiled at him, and he beamed in return.

“He wanted to eat them straight away,” Dunk’s voice rumbled from behind him.

You lifted your gaze through the dim light and found him easily in the darkness. Your eyes drifted down to his forearms, catching the way they flexed beneath his sleeves as he shifted the weight of the logs he was carrying. You quickly dragged your gaze back up before your thoughts could wander too far.

“But I thought it best to have you look at them first.” Dunk grunted softly as he dropped the logs beside the fire and dusted off his hands. “Don’t want him poisoning himself by accident.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“Or us, for that matter,” he added with a faint smile.

Your shoulders relaxed at the sight of it. Shaking yourself from your distraction, you turned your attention back to the berries in Egg’s lap.

“Yes, that was wise, Ser Duncan.” You examined the fruit carefully, searching for any telltale signs of danger. “It seems your squire has been paying attention to my lessons. All of these are safe to eat.” You grinned and gently ruffled Egg’s hair.

The boy settled beside you, legs crossed, the bundle of berries resting in his lap. You plucked one from the cloth and popped it into your mouth just as Dunk lowered himself onto your other side. His arm brushed yours as he reached past to grab one as well.

The brief contact made you glance at him. Your eyes met for a heartbeat, and though neither of you spoke, the shared awareness lingered in the air.

Gods, how were you meant to survive this?

After you’d eaten your fill, Egg let out a soft yawn, the day’s excitement finally catching up to him. He settled onto his bedroll with a quiet goodnight and was asleep moments later.

You remained by the fire, watching the flames. Your body was tired, but your mind felt far too awake. Sleep seemed distant.

Beside you, Dunk shifted and pushed himself to his feet. You looked up at him.

“Off to sleep as well?” you asked.

“Oh — uh, not yet,” Dunk muttered. “I’ve got to, uh… take care of something.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion for only a moment before you understood. He needed to go to the bathroom. Dunk always seemed oddly shy about such matters around you.

“Alright,” you said lightly. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turned and disappeared into the trees.

It was unusual for Dunk to take so long to relieve himself. Even on the rare occasions he lingered, it was never for this long. You were beginning to worry.

Then the rain started, sudden and heavy, dousing the fire you had been carefully tending so Dunk could find his way back with ease. Without the guiding light, you were certain he would struggle to locate the camp in the darkness.

You stood beneath the tree, trying to shield yourself from the downpour, your hands twisting together anxiously as you searched for Dunk’s large frame in the shadows. You couldn’t just stand there and wait. Dunk was a good knight and knew his way around the wilderness well enough, but your skills were sharper when it came to tracking and foraging.

What if he had gotten turned around? With the rain falling this hard, it would be nearly impossible for him to retrace his steps before daybreak — and dawn was still a long way off.

“That’s it,” you muttered to yourself.

You cast one last glance at Egg, making certain the boy was still fast asleep and sheltered from the rain, before stepping into the trees in search of Dunk.

It didn’t take you long to find him. He wasn’t far from camp at all. Your eyes caught his frame against a tree almost immediately. He was leaning against the trunk, no doubt trying to shield himself from the rain as he waited for it to pass.

You thought about calling out his name, but with the thunder rumbling overhead, you were sure he wouldn’t hear you. Squinting against the rain, you began moving toward him.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the world around you for a heartbeat. You froze, your heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you wondered if you had imagined it — if the light had played tricks on your eyes. But when another flash followed, you realized you had seen correctly.

Dunk wasn’t simply hiding from the rain. He wasn’t lost.

He was touching himself, his hand wrapped around his length as his head rested back against the tree. His mouth was slightly parted, his movements slow and deliberate despite the downpour soaking him through.

Your breathing quickened. You felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away.

Another crack of lightning struck, closer this time, jolting you back to your senses. You turned and ran, racing toward camp as fast as your feet could carry you.

You dropped down beneath the tree, casting a quick glance at Egg to ensure he was still asleep before squeezing your eyes shut, your head falling back against the trunk. The image of Dunk seemed burned into your mind.

“You’re wet.”

Your eyes flew open, a startled gasp leaving you as your hand flew to your chest. Dunk stood beside you, rainwater dripping from his hair and clothes, strands plastered to his forehead. You forced yourself not to let your gaze wander anywhere but his face. He was looking at you with mild confusion.

“Oh — yes,” you managed. “The rain caught me off guard.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “Wasn’t expecting it either. Sorry I took so long. I was waiting to see if it would ease up.”

The lie slipped from his lips so naturally that it made your stomach twist.

“No problem,” you replied quietly.

“Is Egg alright?”

Grateful for the change in subject, you looked toward the boy.

“Yes, he’s fine. The princeling’s tougher than he looks.”

Dunk grunted in agreement as he lowered himself to the ground beside you.

“We’ll sleep at an inn tomorrow,” he said. “It’ll be more comfortable.”

“Whatever you think is best,” you whispered.

He shifted, turning his back to you as he settled in. “Well… goodnight, m’lady.”

“Goodnight, Ser.”

Sleep would not be finding you anytime soon.

This inn was a bit better than the last one. The sheets were certainly softer. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, dressed in your sleeping gown. You’d learned from last time. A soft knock pulled your attention to the door. 

It seemed you weren’t the only one.

You pushed yourself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come in,” you called.

There was a brief silence. You wondered if you hadn’t been heard, but before you could repeat yourself, the door creaked open. Dunk’s head peeked inside, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. You caught the flicker of relief that crossed his face. He stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.

“Is everything alright?” you asked quickly. “Is something wrong with Egg?”

“Oh no,” Dunk replied at once. “Nothing’s wrong, m’lady. I just wanted to… well, I wanted to— uh— I…”

You rose from the bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you approached him.

“What is it, Ser?” You placed a hand gently against his chest. “You’re worrying me.”

“I don’t mean to,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing to worry about. I just— well— I wanted to—”

“Your heart’s pounding, Dunk,” you murmured, concern lacing your voice.

The sound of his name seemed to steady him. He exhaled and lifted his hand to cover yours where it rested against his chest.

“I apologize.”

Your brows knit together. “Whatever for?”

Now it was his turn to frown. “Well… for the other night. In the inn.”

“Oh. Right.” You blinked. “That.”

“I should not have entered without knocking. I know that now. And I apologize for staring. That was not the right thing to do. I should have left as soon as I—”

“I saw you last night.”

The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.

“I— you what?” Dunk asked, confusion clouding his face.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“I. Saw. You. Last. Night.” You spoke slowly, not to mock him, but to be absolutely clear.

From the way his eyes widened and his brows shot upward, you knew he understood exactly what you meant. The color drained from Dunk’s face before rushing back twice as fierce. His hand slackened slightly around yours.

“You—” he swallowed. “You did?”

You nodded once. There was no point pretending otherwise now. 

“I meant no dishonor,” he said finally, his voice low and rough. “I would never— I wasn’t thinking. I just—”

His jaw tightened. He looked away first this time, staring somewhere over your shoulder as if he could will himself out of the room.

“I didn’t know what else to do with it,” he admitted quietly. “With… the wanting.”

Your breath caught, startled by his confession — by how deeply he seemed to be affected by you.

“Dunk…” you whispered, your fingers twitching slightly beneath his hand.

Your heart was beating so loudly you were certain he could feel it beneath his palm.

“If I’ve offended you—”

“You haven’t.”

The answer came too quickly to be anything but true.

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up again, as though even that fleeting glance felt like too much.

“I am not a man practiced in this,” he said softly. “I don’t know what the right way is. I only know that when I think of you, it feels…” He hesitated.

Your lips parted, your body drifting closer to his without you even realizing it.

“Tell me,” you breathed.

His eyes locked onto yours.

“It feels as if I am burning from within.”

You gasped, your fingers tightening slightly against his chest.

“Dunk…” you whispered again.

He searched your face as though bracing himself for rejection. For command. For dismissal.

“I do not wish you to burn alone,” you said quietly.

His hand flexed around yours.

“You would not ask that of me if you knew what I think when I look at you,” he murmured.

Your pulse fluttered. “Then tell me.”

His jaw worked for a moment, restraint warring with honesty. Then honesty won.

“I think about touching you,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Not in passing. Not by accident. I think about it the way a starving man thinks of bread.”

You slid your hand slowly higher along his chest, feeling the tension there, the strength beneath your fingertips. His eyes darkened at that. At the way you stared at him, eyes full of something not at all innocent.

“Tell me to leave,” he said quietly, almost pleading. “If I stay, I do not know that I will remain a gentleman.”

“I do not want you to leave,” you answered.

His hand rose — slowly, giving you every chance to pull away — and hovered near your cheek before finally, gently, cupping it. The touch was careful, as though you were something precious rather than something he had confessed wanting.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He leaned down then, hesitating only a breath away from your lips — waiting. When you closed the distance yourself, pressing your mouth to his, the last of his restraint broke. His hand wound around your waist keeping you pressed to him.

He kissed you like a man who had held himself back for far too long. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as though you needed something solid to anchor yourself. He made a low sound in his throat when you did, the hand at your waist tightening just slightly. You parted only because you both needed to breathe.

“I thought wanting you from a distance was difficult.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, almost unconsciously. “This is far more dangerous.”

You felt it too — that edge. The way the air seemed charged. The way every small shift of his hand sent a ripple through you.

Your hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, feeling the strength there. Solid. Steady. Real. He shuddered faintly at the contact, as though your touch affected him more than he had expected.

“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said quietly. “If we go further—”

“You will not frighten me,” you interrupted softly.

You lifted one hand to the back of his neck, guiding him down into another kiss. It was rougher this time, filled with the quiet hunger you both seemed to harbor for one another.

Dunk’s hands slipped lower, his broad frame bending slightly as he grasped your thighs. You gave a small gasp at the sudden movement, but you didn’t resist. Instead, you let him lift you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

His boots thudded softly against the floor as he carried you toward the bed, your lips still fused together. He placed his knee against the mattress, lowering you slowly onto the bed, his large frame remaining above you. Your legs unwound from his hips, moving to rest your feet flat on the bed instead. Dunk's hands moved over your leg, pushing the fabric of your nightgown up as he went. His forehead rested against yours as his hands inched between your legs. You gasped as his fingers grazed your pussy.

“You’re wet,” he murmured.

A faint, breathless laugh escaped you. “Second time you’ve said that.”

His lips brushed yours as he exhaled. “It wasn’t what I meant last time.”

“I know,” you whispered, nipping gently at his lower lip. “But I was wet then too.”

He let out a groan at that, his head moving down to place kisses on your neck. Your body arched off the bed as his tongue lapped at your skin and his hand continued to move against you, not teasing exactly but not touching you entirely either. His head trailed down until he got to your chest. He raised himself enough so he could use his free hand to tug your nightgown down enough to reveal your breast. As soon as your skin was free from the cloth Dunk leaned down, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking. Your hand moved to his head, fingers tugging at his hair as you moaned. 

The hand that lay on your thigh tensed at the movement, squeezing your skin between his fingers without him even noticing. The action only heightened the sensation, your back arching softly against the bed. A low rumble escaped Dunk as your body pressed into his. He pulled off your breast with a soft pop.

“Gods…” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, your body still warm and responsive beneath him. You could feel the hesitation settling back into him—the part of Dunk that always tried to do the right thing, even now.

“Dunk,” you said softly.

His eyes flicked back to yours, and even though they were blown wide with desire, you could still see the restraint in his gaze. You could tell he was searching for a reason to stop this before it was too late.

Your hand moved from his curls to his face, a finger trailing over his lips for a moment before your eyes lifted back to his.

“Touch me,” you breathed.

“I am,” he whispered, his voice tinged with confusion.

You shook your head softly, your hair dragging against the sheets beneath you.

“No, I mean—” You grabbed the hand resting on your thigh, lifting it from your skin. Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you guided it slowly between your legs. “Here. Touch me here.”

A faint, almost disbelieving smile ghosted across his lips. 

“Here,” you repeated softly, your voice gentler now.

His breath caught, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to your face, searching—always searching—for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might stop him.

He didn’t find it.

Slowly, carefully, his hand moved where you had guided it, his movements tentative at first, as though he feared misreading you. The moment your breath hitched, his eyes snapped back to yours.

“Is that—” he started, unsure.

“Yes,” you whispered, your grip tightening slightly around his wrist. “Don’t stop.”

That was all it took.

Not for him to lose control—not entirely—but for something to settle. His touch steadied, growing more certain, though never careless. Every small reaction from you seemed to anchor him further, to teach him.

Your head tipped back against the bed, a soft breath escaping you before you could stop it. His name followed without thought, quieter this time, but it made his jaw tighten all the same.

“Gods,” he murmured again, almost under his breath.

Your free hand found his shoulder, then his neck, pulling him closer—not just for the contact, but for the closeness, the shared heat of it. He leaned in without resistance, his forehead brushing yours, his breathing uneven.

“You’ll tell me,” he said, voice low, almost strained. “If it’s too much.”

“I will,” you answered, though your body was already answering for you, leaning into him, urging him on.

 Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck as he slipped his finger deeper, your mouth opening in a silent moan. Your hot breath mingled with his as he continued his movements.

“More,” you groaned.

“You sure? I don’t want to—”

“Dunk. More.”

The way you said it—like a command rather than a question—made Dunk twitch against his breeches.

“As you wish, m’lady.”

As his second finger slipped inside you, you couldn’t help the groan that left your lips. You buried your head in his shoulder, teeth grazing the strong muscle there as he quickened his movements slightly. Your thighs trembled despite yourself, hands clawing at Dunk in desperation.

“Is it good?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “So good, Dunk. Please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, m’lady.”

You weren’t sure if he’d meant to say it so confidently, but it did things to you. You’d grown so used to seeing him shrink back—not in fear exactly, but in a way that showed he knew his place. But now, alone with you, his muscles flexing as he continued to pleasure you, that shyness you’d become accustomed to seemed to have disappeared.

He’d said he didn’t know how to do this, but the way he was working you with such ease told you that perhaps he was underselling himself.

And when he found that spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his skin as you came undone against his hand, you were certain he had lied about just how much he knew.

His breath stuttered when you cried out, your grip on him tightening as if you might come apart without something to hold onto.You sagged slightly against him, your forehead pressing into his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath. Your fingers loosened their hold, though they didn’t leave him entirely, as if you still needed the reassurance that he was there.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “I didn’t expect…”

Before he could finish whatever he was thinking, your lips were on his. He groaned against your mouth as you clung to him, your tongue brushing at his lips in search of entrance. He granted it, of course.

The kiss was messy. It was unclear whether it was due to inexperience or overwhelming desire, but you didn’t care.

Dunk shifted, his muscles flexing as he moved. A soft gasp left his lips as his hardness brushed against your thigh. You didn’t pull away, your mouth still pressed to his as your hand slipped between your bodies to caress him through his breeches.

Dunk let out a strained breath against your mouth, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and something deeper. His body reacted before his mind seemed to catch up, hips shifting slightly before he stilled himself again, as though fighting the instinct.

His hand found your wrist—not to pull it away, but to still it, just for a moment. His grip wasn’t firm, just enough to make you pause, to make you look at him.

“We should slow down,” he said again, quieter now, though his gaze hadn’t softened. If anything, it had deepened.

“Is that what you want?” you asked earnestly.

“Gods, no,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I’ll—”

“Then don’t,” you cut in.

Something flickered in his eyes at that—something close to surrender.

“I want you,” you stated simply, the words making Dunk swallow a groan of need. “And you want me. Well, I assume you do, unless I—”

“Of course I want you,” Dunk cut in, his voice more certain than you’d ever heard it.

You couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across your face. You placed your hand on his cheek.

“Then why should we not?”

Dunk closed his eyes, biting into his cheek for a moment before opening them again.

“I don’t—” He stopped himself, the red on his cheeks deepening before he forced himself to continue. “I don’t want to hurt you, m’lady.”

Your heart tugged at the words, and before you could even think about it, you placed a reassuring kiss on his lips.

“You won’t,” you whispered.

Perhaps you should have expected it. He was a big man—it was only natural to assume that all of him was big—but you were still taken by surprise.

When Dunk finally pulled down his breeches, your eyes widened immediately. But before he could see the expression on your face and call the whole thing off, you schooled your features into calm.

Still, the only thing running through your mind as he made his way back to you was: How in the seven hells is that going to fit?

It wasn’t a simple task, but with some patience, you managed. You tried to keep your eyes from rolling back with every one of his thrusts, but he wasn’t making it easy on you. Not only did he hit the right spot every time—how could he not, when it felt like he was reaching so deep—but he was also incredibly vocal.

His head barely left your shoulder as his hips continued to move against you, so every sound that escaped him was heard clearly in your ear. And the praise—gods, it was driving you insane.

“Feels so good, m’lady… taking me so well,” Dunk groaned, his hands gripping your hips tightly enough that you were sure they would leave bruises.

The sound of his voice sent a shiver through you, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you tried to steady your breathing. Every word he spoke seemed to go straight through you, leaving you more unsteady than before.

“Dunk…” you breathed, his name slipping out without thought.

He answered with a low, strained sound, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he needed the contact to ground himself. His hands were still firm at your hips, but there was something careful in the way he held you—like he was always just a breath away from pulling back if you needed him to.

“Fuck… could live inside you,” he groaned.

You moaned at that, surprised by the dirtiness of the words slipping from his mouth. Who would have known that beneath Ser Duncan the Tall there was this whole other man?

“Dunk, please,” you moaned.

“What is it, m’lady? What do you want?”

“More,” you whispered. “Give me more.”

“Greedy thing, eh?” Dunk murmured, amusement clear in his voice. “You sure, m’lady? I’m not going to hold back.”

“Ah—ugh—more, Dunk, please.”

“Alright… as you wish.”

You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. As soon as the words left his mouth, Dunk lifted himself off you. You looked at him as he straightened up, brows furrowing in confusion.

Dunk just gave you an easy smile, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs before dragging you closer to the edge of the bed without fully pulling away from you. Once he seemed satisfied with the position, he looked down at you.

“Ready?”

You nodded. Dunk raised a silent brow at you. You flushed immediately, understanding what he wanted.

“Yes, Ser.”

The smirk that graced his face dripped with sin, and before you even had time to process it, he moved again with sudden, overwhelming intensity.

The shift in him stole the breath from your lungs.

Your hands clutched at him instinctively, your head tipping back as the sudden change drew a sharp sound from you. Dunk’s jaw tightened at the reaction, his control visibly fraying at the edges.

“Careful,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a reminder to himself than to you.

You shook your head faintly, your grip on him tightening. “Don’t be.”

That did it.

Not recklessness—but permission.

His movements grew firmer, more certain, no longer testing but knowing. Each shift of him was met with your response, your body answering in ways that made his breath hitch, his composure slipping further with every passing moment.

“Gods…” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “You feel—”

He cut himself off, like even saying it might push him too far.

“Dunk, I’m—I—”

A moan tore through you before you could finish.

“You close?”

You nodded quickly, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto as the sensation became almost overwhelming.

“Yeah? You gonna come all over my cock, huh?” Dunk asked, his movements speeding up. “Gonna make a big ol’ mess, aren’t you?”

“Yes—gods, please, Dunk, don’t—”

“Not going to, m’lady,” Dunk muttered, a groan escaping him before he could stop it. “Go on… be a good girl and come for me.”

That was the tipping point. You cried out his name as you came, your body spasming as you clenched around him. Dunk wasn’t far behind, with one more rough thrust and a groan of your name, he came.

Dunk stilled, a rough breath leaving him as your body relaxed around him, your name still echoing in his ears. Your grip on him slowly loosened, though your hands didn’t fall away entirely, still clinging to him as you tried to steady your breathing.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Dunk finally pulled out of you, a soft hiss leaving your lips as he did. You were still trying to catch your breath when Dunk’s hands slipped beneath you, lifting you with ease before repositioning you in the bed. Once he had you settled, he lowered himself beside you with a soft grunt.

You waited only a second before inching closer, resting your head against his chest. Dunk’s arm wrapped around you in a way that felt natural, almost instinctive.

“Gods…” he murmured again, though this time it was quieter—almost awed.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the sound muffled slightly against him. “You say that a lot.”

A faint huff of amusement left him, though it was still threaded with something heavier. “I don’t think I’ve ever meant it more.”

That made something warm bloom in your chest, softer than what had come before, but no less intense.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice still rough, but steadier now.

You met his gaze, your lips curving faintly despite the lingering heat in your body. “I am.”

Relief flickered across his face so openly it almost made you smile wider.

“Good,” he said, quieter now.

For a moment, the world seemed to settle around you—no urgency, no rush. Just the quiet aftermath of something neither of you had quite expected, but neither of you seemed to regret.

Your hand found his cheek again, your thumb brushing lightly over his skin.

“We should probably be quiet,” you murmured, a hint of teasing returning. “Unless you want Egg knocking on the door next.”

Dunk let out a low groan at that, his head dipping briefly. “Don’t even joke about that.”

[scarletmika]

Fly Me To The Moon : ̗̀➛ Ryland Grace x Reader

Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader

Summary: The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.

Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 14,596 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.

11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

The Sun needed the Earth too.

[tw1sters]

Time Out

Although you and Clark disagree on all things Superman, you both find common ground in the copy room.

▸ PAIRING & WC: Clark Kent x Coworker F!Reader — 2.1K ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public fingering (copy room), Clark is a lil dirty ▸ A/N: thank you for the request baby @theworstwolvie i always love clark getting rage baited <33 made the smut softer because it's clark but god do i want him filthyyyy

↤ main masterlist

You and Clark Kent are not friends. You’re barely even colleagues with how much you bicker and disagree. The two of you get into enough arguments that Perry has to intervene from time to time. 

“This is the Daily Planet, not a playground. If you two don’t start playing nice with each other, I’m gonna have to start doling out time-outs.” 

“What they need to do is deal with their sexual tension,” Jimmy mutters under his breath. 

It’s easy to explain, really. The two of you are simply moral opposites. 

Clark thinks that Superman is doing the world a favor by saving every single living thing. 

You think that Superman is costing the city millions of dollars every time he pauses to think about how to save an alien terrorist’s life versus just taking it out. 

Clark thinks that it’s inhumane for him to do that, because an alien is still a living creature. 

You argue that those taxpayer dollars could go elsewhere, to actually support people on Earth rather than pay for the damages of superhero acts. 

“The time it takes him to save a squirrel or this extraterrestrial that is ruining the city is time he could be spending actually saving our city.” 

Clark nearly pulls out his hair, fingers tugging at his curls in frustration. “You can’t just kill something because you don’t understand it. Their lives — or even a squirrel’s — matter just as much as ours!”

“He’s just redirecting the train to run over five people instead of one,” you drawl out, twirling the pen in your hand. “He’s increasing the risk of someone else getting injured or killed while he’s trying to save lives that are detrimental to society as a whole.”

“No, he’s simply lifting the train so nobody gets run over,” Clark huffs. “It’s a silly thought to think that he can’t save everyone.” 

“No, it’s realistic. Just because he’s a superhero doesn’t mean he makes perfect decisions.”

“I never said he—”

“Oh my god, you guys are still on this?” Lois snaps. The two of you slam your mouths shut. “Clark, don’t you have that superhero policy piece due by tonight? And you, don’t you have to get Perry your ideas for next week’s economics column? Get back to work.”

A truce of sorts. For now. If not for the sake of the Planet, then it would be to avoid Lois Lane’s wrath. 

However, the glares you throw in each other’s direction are nothing short of lethal. Clark Kent is a naive, foolishly hopeful man. Living in a city like Metropolis makes you a cynic. Sometimes you think you might be better suited for Gotham, but you’re even more skeptical of a masked vigilante pretending to be some sort of hero. 

The two of you steer clear of each other until you need to print out your pitches for the team meeting later today (Perry is old-fashioned like that). That is when you spot Clark frowning over the copy machine, jabbing it with annoyance when it refuses to budge.

Seeing him irritated only strengthens your urge to push him one step further.

“Printing more puff pieces on Superman, Kent?” 

His eyes slide shut the moment your words land. You can’t help the satisfied smile that curls on your lips. Another score on the board for you.

“No, I need to get Perry my draft on the superhero policy, but this darned thing is jammed.”

“Maybe you should call your old pal, Superman, to help you.”

You can practically see the steam coming out of his nostrils as he looks up to the ceiling, begging for some form of patience from whatever higher power that exists. 

Unfortunately — or fortunately, as you’re observing him, you notice something rather peculiar. A noticeable… change in Clark’s clothes.

“You’re so—” he inhales deeply, “infuriating.”

“Well, you seem to enjoy being… infuriated,” you smirk, crossing your arms as your eyes fall to his slacks.

Sure enough, his pants are tented with the embarrassing evidence of his arousal. You don’t think he even realized it until then, surprise etched into the rise of his brows. His cheeks flush a pretty shade of red as he turns away from you. 

“Is that it, Clark? You start shit with me to get yourself off.” 

“That’s absolutely not true!” He sputters but his eyes shift to your lips — brief but distinct. “You’re just so vexing.” 

You smile as you take a step closer towards him, index finger landing on his very firm, very broad chest. “Want me to go on about how Superman could probably save the city millions in damages on that observatory if he simply took out that recent cyclops? Might get you to finish untouched.”

Clark’s eyes are a sharp blue as they whip towards you. For once, you feel a shiver snake up your spine at the sight. His gaze has always been soft, tainted only by the frustration you fuel within him. But this look — this one you’re unfamiliar with — and you’re not sure if you should stick around. 

Your throat dries when he takes a step towards you. Purposeful. Confident. “I should probably, um, g—”

“Why are you in such a rush? You were so adamant about pushing my buttons before. Go on. Tell me more.”

Although your lips part, you find your voice has disappeared. It’s cowering in the back of your throat somewhere as he backs you up against the table in the copy room. You glance at the exit, partially praying that someone would save you, partially hoping that nobody would ever see you worried about Clark Kent.

He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He wouldn’t do anything you wouldn’t want. 

But perhaps that’s what scares you the most — how much you actually want this.

There was never any doubt that Clark is an attractive man. Curls that effortlessly fall against his forehead. An endearing, persistent frown on his face. Big, broad shoulders that still drown in his oversized suit. Glasses that slide down his face, one that you’re itching to fog up with your mouth over his. 

All this time, seeing Clark flustered has been the highlight of your day. You love the shades of red that stain his pale cheeks. The annoyed click of his tongue. The tense clenching of his jaw. You’ve wondered before how he would look in bed — if he’d have the same expression in maintaining his self-control. 

“Come on,” he coaxes, voice dropping a pitch lower as he ducks his head. His lips brush the shell of your ear. “Say more, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your legs press together as a whimper slides out your throat. 

“Not such a smart mouth now, are you? You just needed someone to keep that mouth busy. I can think of a few other ways to do that.”

You swallow. Clark’s gaze latches onto your throat, then dips to your collarbone, where your chest rises and falls with your nervous breaths.

“Are you scared?”

You shake your head.

His smile tips an inch higher. “Excited?”

Slowly, you nod.

“You’re so cute when you’re sweet like this,” he murmurs, hands setting aside his papers as they run down your waist to your hips. He hoists you up onto the table as your hands fly up for purchase on his shoulders.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, it feels as if it’s about to burst through your skin. Clark tilts his head.

“Your heart is beating so loud.”

Can he really tell? Is it that obvious?

“Can you spread your legs for me?”

Your stomach flutters with something unknown. Something you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a weight to his voice that has your legs falling open almost automatically. He says it so charmingly, a request rather than a command. Clark’s hand circles your ankle first before they slowly smooth up your thigh, hiking up your skirt around your waist. 

“You’re wet,” he notes calmly. 

You’ve been leaking since you noticed his hard-on; you just didn’t think he’d see the evidence of your own arousal. Heat floods your cheeks as you grab onto his hand to stop him. Yet, you don’t budge an inch, you simply keep him there. 

“Someone’s going to see,” you hiss.

“No one comes around the copy room this time of day. Everyone’s taking their break in the pantry on the other side.”

“But what if someone does?”

Clark grins, “Then you better let me work on you fast.” His hand continues its journey north until it finds itself between your thighs. 

His fingertips are firm but gentle as they press against your clothed core, soaking your underwear further as he digs it into your slit. A moan bubbles up your throat, which Clark quickly drinks in with his lips over yours.

“Gonna need you to keep it down, honey. You don’t want anyone walking in on us.”

Honey. Only he could make such sweet pet names sound incredibly filthy. Fortunately, you don’t have time to second-guess this decision because then he’s working his magic. Awkward, nervous Clark doesn’t shed a single sweat as he rubs along your pussy. He watches your every twitch, every hitch of your breath to his touch. He pushes when you gasp, he moves his fingers when you moan. 

Before long, he’s pushing your panties to the side and easing his fingers inside you. Thick, long fingers that fill you up completely as he buries himself to his knuckles. 

“Gosh, you’re so tight,” Clark huffs against your neck, a breathless chuckle as he curls his fingers. “I can’t imagine how you’d feel wrapped around me.”

The thought of him fucking you — spreading your legs wider, sliding his cock inside you, or maybe bent over the copier with your tits against the glass as he fucks deep into you — has you arching your back with a whine. 

“You’ve always got such a mouth on you. Now, look at you, you’re so sweet for me. I never knew these lips of yours could make such cute little noises when you’re all filled up.”

“Clark,” you rasp, “fuck. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he fingers you faster, thumb finding your clit until you’re practically shaking under his touch. Your hips thrust forward in search of his hand, nearly begging for him to finger fuck you deeper, harder. 

“That’s a good girl. Just needed my fingers inside you, didn’t you? Are you going to be nicer to me now? Now that I know what you sound like when you want something from me.”

You release another desperate whimper as Clark works his fingers somehow deeper inside you. You can feel your juices dripping all over his fingers, seeping through the gaps and pooling under your thighs on the table. Clark inhales deeply, as if he can smell you from this distance and groans into your neck.

“You smell so good. Can’t wait to taste you once you finish.”

Your pussy pulses around him like a second heartbeat, one that he certainly hears and feels, judging by the way he tenses against you. He continues to mutter sweet phrases in your ears, praising you for doing such a good job, scolding you for always being so frustrating, telling you how beautiful you are for giving in to him. 

It doesn’t take you very long to fall apart in his hands, cunt squeezing around him as your teeth sink into his suit-covered shoulder. Clark himself moans into your hair as you do so, body shuddering. 

Then you realize what’s just happened—

“You came.”

He only hums.

“I didn’t even touch you,” you whisper quietly.

“Don’t need to. I like seeing you pleasuring yourself on my fingers.”

You didn’t think this brute could get any sexier, but you’ve been proven wrong. He seems intent on doing that a second time when he draws his fingers out of you, letting your panties slide back into place, before he brings his fingers to his mouth. 

With his eyes locked on yours, he sucks his fingers clean and pulls them out. 

You have to stop yourself from begging him to fuck you then and there.

His dimples deepen as he smiles at you. 

You have to bite down on your tongue to keep your mouth shut.

“Back to the bullpen?” You squeak out.

“Are you going to keep aggravating me?”

“Only if it gets you to get me off.”

Clark chuckles. “I’ll see you here tomorrow at three.”

+ sam: youre the absolute cutest i love u so very much, thank you for this request miss c!!!

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @hellooiosworld

+ add yourself to my taglists!

[gothamslittlejester]

Deadpool Dating HC’s

Wade Wilson/Deadpool x gn!reader | Fluff | A/N: Sorry for not posting in a while yall, I had a huge test this month and needed to lock in 😮‍💨 Writing this lil thing for my man tonight, cuz it's just atrocious out here... wrong tagging for fics w/ completely diff characters, almost no content to begin with... Baby deserves better

✧ Dating Deadpool is a once in a lifetime kind of experience. There’s no one else quite like him, and when you finally get past the brazen jokes and his terrifying collection of weapons, you find a man that’s sweet and funny and adores you to bits.

✧ It takes a little while for Wade to feel at ease with taking his mask off around you… charisma and loudness aside, there is a part of him that fears the moment you see his true face, you’ll never want to see him again. It wouldn’t be the first time someone ran for the hills, and the thought of you following suit is enough to keep the mask on. The day he shows you- the day you tell him he’s still handsome and you aren’t going anywhere- is the day he falls in love.

✧ Even when he’s away on missions he still makes time to check in with you, whether that’s through facetime or spamming you with texts. He’s not shy to let you know just how much he misses your company and how hard he’s gonna hug (ahem) you when he comes home. If he’s been gone for longer than a week, you’ll often wake up to 10+ sickly sweet couple memes sent to you, like the ones of two cats sleeping together and cuddling. He’s a man in love, what is he to do?

✧ The banter is on a whole other level. Flirty, witty, teasing and insanely funny; it’s nothing like you’ve ever known before, and nothing you would ever trade. If you can keep up with the infamous Merc with a Mouth and give it right back to him, he’ll be swooning over you like a cat in heat.

✧ He’s a big fan of petnames, and the cheesier they are the better. Poohbear, honeybuns, peanut, smooshiepoo; in your boyfriend’s eyes, there is no such thing as “too cringey”.

✧ Wade has serenaded you on a couple occasions, and yes there was a dance number involved. 

✧ Loves it when you take his clothes and wear them outside or around the house. There’s something incredibly intimate and domestic about seeing how his clothes fit on your body, and it just makes him feral. (He steals your underwear in return—it’s only fair after all).

✧ Speaking of clothes, Wade is enthusiastic about matching with you. You have plenty matching t-shirts and hoodies scattered in your wardrobe, some more appropriate than others. It’s like he makes it an objective to get the most tasteless and publicly unacceptable ones to add to your collection. For example, he got you a shirt that says ‘I beat my meat’ in big bold letters, and a matching one for him that says ‘Hi, I’m meat.’ He pouted until you finally relented and wore it (the stares you both got that day were uncountable).

✧ He even got you your very own Deadpool costume so you could match him. His cuteness aggression that day was something else, and you were lovingly dubbed his babypool. Some of those adoring kisses did turn to bites.

✧ He is constantly looking at you with so much adoration and love, his eyes might as well be big red hearts. He’ll cup your cheek and kiss your face like you’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

✧ His love language? All of them, all the time. He brings you little trinkets and snacks whenever he can, and he has your coffee/tea order memorized. He’s constantly curious about the things you enjoy and like to do, and so it’s easy for him to remember when it comes to giving you gifts.

✧ Will genuinely, actually squeal if you get him/do something for him in return. He’s feeling down and you bring him a chimichanga? He mentions wanting something sweet and you make him some cookies? Oh, there’s tears in his eyes.

✧ He’ll draw pictures of you two together and hang them up on the fridge for you to find in the morning. Some are… more explicit than others.

✧ Dating the Deadpool is never boring, and you get exactly what you see. He’s always dragging you on late night adventures that end up with you two in places you’ve never been before, completely lost. One time he told you to come to the roof and he was waiting for you inside a helicopter. Yes, it was stolen. Surprisingly though, his dates can be very thoughtful and sweet, and he makes it a point to plan them often to keep the spark alive.

✧ It’s so easy to forget that your carefree and silly man is a mercenary sometimes… until it isn’t. Anybody who makes you feel uncomfortable or scared is promptly taken care of, and a part of you is almost too nervous to ask for details. You’ll never forget the deranged look in his eyes when a lowlife creep hit on you that one time…

[annasmafroo]

interpret as x reader, fellas

[dyns33]

Pretty

(a little something I wrote after thinking that I would never let Matt touch my face. Or anyone touch my face, really. Or touch me. Ever.) 

           "May… May I touch your face ?“

Y/N didn’t know if one day Matt was going to ask to touch her face. They had been friends for over a year now, after she found him in dumpster, injured, in his Daredevil costume.

Unlike most people who knew Matt, she had met the Devil before Murdock, and so her relationship with him was different. It wasn’t really a secret she knew about his abilities, and therefore the fact that he was blind, but that somehow he was able to see. He never had to lie to her.

Foggy had told her about the face touching. When they were in college, then in Law school, and even now, Matt did it often, mostly with girls, for flirting.

But he also did it with his friends. Explaining that it helped him imagine what they looked like. It didn’t change their relationship, he didn’t really need it, but Matt was curious. He had the right to be curious.

And so Y/N didn’t see why she would refuse.

Except of course because she didn’t like herself and she didn’t really want Matt to realize that she wasn’t as beautiful as Karen, Claire or Elektra.

That was another thing Foggy had told her, Matt always knew when women were beautiful. He always attracted the most beautiful, the sexiest.

Y/N hadn’t asked if Nelson considered her to be in that category, or if she was an exception. She had been afraid of the answer. Besides, Foggy was a sweet man, he certainly wasn’t going to be honest if he knew he might hurt her.

And now Matt was asking if he could touch her face. It made her terribly nervous.

Of course, with his super senses, he realized it right away, telling her that she didn’t have to accept if it made her feel uncomfortable.

           "No. It’s okay. Go ahead.”

When his hand was inches from her face, Matt asked her again if she was sure. Her heart must have been beating really fast.

Y/N said again that it was fine, she even took his hand to put it on her cheek. Well, it was too late now, no turning back.

With great kindness, Matt examines her entire face, starting with her forehead. Slowly, his fingers touched her skin, moving down to her eyes, her nose, her mouth. It was very intimate. Very particular. I could have been nice.

But Y/N kept thinking he could feel absolutely anything, the slightest imperfection. She hated it, and at the same time, the contact was really pleasant. Matt’s hands were very soft.

Without realizing it, she had closed her eyes and opening them again when he was finished, she discovered Matt’s smile, who seemed delighted.

           "You’re pretty.“ he declared proudly, probably thinking that would reassure her.

Not at all.

Pretty.

Not “handsome”, or “beautiful”. Not even “very pretty”.

Just Pretty.

Trying to hide her disappointment, Y/N stammered that she had to go, because she had something important to do, but of course Matt heard that was a lie.

He was nice enough not to hold her back.

They didn’t talk about it again, acting like everything was perfectly normal. And after all, everything was perfectly normal. They were still friends, Y/N still had the same face as before, and Matt now considered her pretty. It wasn’t that bad. Could have been worst really.

Then while he was “daredeviling” as Foggy said, Matt was injured. Y/N didn’t have the details, but he had a broken leg, which was going to bed him for a while, and on top of that he seemed to have been touched by something magical that had disturbed him a lot.

Too busy with her work, she couldn’t visit him right away, but she called Foggy everyday to have news, Nelson being the official Devil babysitter, and she promised to come with coffee, beers and a cake as soon as possible.

Upon entering the apartment, she found Matt on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Obviously he was not happy with this situation. Matt hated not being able to do things on his own. He didn’t like pity.

On top of that, he must have heard of all the crime going on in the city right now, that he couldn’t stop, even though Spiderman, Deadpool, and the Defenders had promised to protect Hell’s Kitchen until he recovered.

When he turned his head towards her, Matt jumped.

It was weird.

He sat down quickly, holding on to the sofa, as if he was afraid, and without saying anything he continued to stare at her. But, really, Y/N had the impression that he was looking at her, as if he could see her, and he made a strange face. He seemed surprised, scared and fascinated at the same time.

Not knowing what to say, she smiled, waving her hand in greeting, before going to put down what she had brought into the kitchen.

Turning his head to follow her movements, Matt called Foggy with a desperate voice. Nelson immediately ran in the room to join his friend, thinking he was hurt.

He muttered something, and Foggy grimaced. He looked up at Y/N, and suddenly he smiled. A huge smile. He looked awfully happy and about to laugh. Which didn’t please Matt, who fidgeted and tapped him on the shoulder.

           "Relax, Matt. It’s okay.“

           "Bur…”

           "I’m going to talk to her.“

Foggy came over to Y/N in the kitchen, first thanking her for the coffee and the cake, before apologizing for Matthew’s attitude.

           "He’s a bit confused. I’m not sure what exactly this magic does, but I’m torn between truth spell and paranoia spell.”

           "Oh. Can I do something ?“

           "No. Or just go talk to him, so he knows it’s you.”

           "He doesn’t know it’s me ? He didn’t recognize the smell or heart ?“

           "He’s lost his super senses.”

           "What ?! He… He can’t hear anything anymore ?“

           "What ? Oh, sorry, he can. But like everyone else. And he got his sight back. That’s what disturbs him the most I think.”

From the couch, she could see half of Matt’s face, the one he normally covered with a mask. Hidden like a child, he continued to stare at her, as if she was a danger or something fascinating.

           "He asked me if you were an angel.“ Foggy explained with a smile.

           ”… An angel ?“

           "Yeah. He thought he was dying and you were there to take him to heaven. Or get tortured for his sins.”

           "…Are you kidding me ? Damn, he must have fallen on his knees when he saw Karen.“

           "Not really. He said he liked her eyes. He preferred my hair when it was longer. Claire seems nice, Danny needs to shave, Jess should change lipstick colour, Luke is less muscular than he had imagined, Peter is a real kid, Frank is not so bad… And for the others, my parents, Father Lantom, Maggie, Elektra, I showed him pictures. He didn’t have this reaction before, with no one. I don’t have a picture of you, you always refused.”

If Matt could hear her heart, her breathing, if he could feel her cheeks getting hot, he would have known that Y/N was panicking almost as much as he was at that moment.

But he could see her face now, frozen in shock, looking at Foggy like he was crazy, or telling her a bad joke.

           "Are you sure he said ‘angel’ ? Not ‘angel of death’, like a creepy zombie ?“

This made Nelson laugh, he gently touched her back, before declaring that he needed to take a shower, leaving them alone in the living room.

Timidly, Y/N approached Matt, sitting next to him on the couch.

           "Hi.”

           "…Y/N ?“ he wondered, recognizing her voice.

           "Yes, that’s me.”

As if hypnotized, without asking her permission like he always did, Matt put his hand to her face, his eyes shining with admiration.

           "You’re so pretty.“ he sighed.

Pretty, again. Y/N suppressed a sigh as she tried to not roll her eyes.

He noticed her annoyance all the same, realizing what he had just done, and as he stopped touching her, he seemed sorry.

           "I didn’t mean to offend you. I know you don’t like that.”

           "It’s nothing.“ she reassured him.

           "It’s not nothing. I don’t understand why you’re so embarrassed. You’re really pretty.”

           "Yeah. Not beautiful, just pretty.“

           ”… What ?“

They looked at each other for a long time. Obviously there was a communication problem here.

And then, without Matt needing to explain, simply thanks to the look he had on her, Y/N understood.

For him, 'pretty’ was superior to 'beautiful’.

Beautiful, handsome, sexy, those were words he used to flirt with people. When he didn’t want something serious.

Pretty, that was different. It was pure, ethereal, divine. A real compliment. To speak as much of her face as of her soul.

Y/N suddenly felt very stupid, biting her lip as she looked down in shame.

Still not sure that he had the right to, Matt took her hand anyway.

           "I’m glad I got to see you. Strange said I should be back to… 'normal’ soon.”

           "Are you going to miss it ? Seeing, I mean.“

           "I don’t know. I don’t think so. Sight is very overrated. But it was nice to know that I remembered the sky quite well. The city. My father. And now I will remember everyone’s faces.”

           "Even yours.“ Y/N sneered. "Please, tell me you looked at yourself.”

           "Hmm. I… I didn’t imagine myself like this. Foggy compliments me all the time, but… I’m pretty ordinary.“

What ? What, what, what ?! Ordinary ? Matt thought he was ordinary ? Was he serious ?

Y/N was going to reprimand him, when she realized that she considered herself banal, while he considered her an angel.

Well.  To each their own. But all the same, he was not ordinary. She couldn’t let him think that.

Matt flushed when she kissed him on the cheek.

           "You are pretty.” she said very seriously.

This made him smile, and she smiled with him. They both understood what that meant.

They remained seated on the sofa, holding hands, smiling like the two fools that they were, staring at each other. That was how Foggy found them when he came out of the bathroom. He sighed, sighing a little 'finally !’ before going to eat the cake.

[pookiesnatcher]

Fucking ADORABLE

[wetpussyju1ce]

hcs: reacher w a silly little girl as his partner (in crime & detective work)

1k words

-> Reacher initially doesn't need the help when he starts to investigate bodies washing up on the shore in a beach town. he can do it on his own. he's done it before; putting his nose where it doesn't belong. To solve a problem just because he's compelled to.

-> and now somehow he ended up attached to the hip with her. she doesn't understand boundaries or when Reacher tells her "no," cuz she won't take that for an answer and keeps following him everywhere when she realises he's also trying to figure out what's up with the bodies.

-> Reacher tries not to judge people. he's better than that. but she's the most unconventional detective he's ever seen. and she's not actually one. she just. decided to take matters into her own hands when the police hasn't figured out what the shit is going on. And Reacher has to admit that she was smart. because one time he trespassed into a factory that used a chemical that was found in one of the bodies and she runs into him, face first on his back, and she screams bloody murder and Reacher doesn't think when he slaps his massive palm to her face to keep her form getting them found out.

→ her eyes are wide and terrified but when she realises it's just him she physically sags and hugs him, thankful that it was just her new "friend," and not some killer. Reacher realises that night that she managed to figure out the same information as him just as quickly. so he doesn't mind when she tags along as they investigate the warehouse together.

-> anyway, she follows him everywhere and Reacher has a half mind to duct tape her to a street light and leave her there. but he's not heartless. she may not shut up for six seconds but she was smart on her own accords. and her way of thinking is so unique and all over the place that it actually manages to make them progress pretty quickly in their investigation.

-> See, "their" investigation. they're totally besties now!!

-> as much as she is smart and audacious. she's also a little clumsy and forgetful. one time she called Reacher to come to her house and he found her sitting on the pavement, head in her hands and whining because she locked herself out. including her phone. and wallet. and keys. and shoes. and only was able to call him because her neighbour lent her their phone.

"How did you-- Are you stupid?"

She immediately starts crying again, "Just a little bit!!"

Reacher doesn't even question why she didn't use that phone call to get a locksmith over, so instead, he just picks her locks for her. And she jumps on him, giving a big hug while he awkwardly pats her back as she cries in relief.

-> Reacher and his partner who interview suspicious people and when someone doesn't cooperate, she tells him, "Reacher, punch him in the jaw,"

and he stares at her without saying anything, then the man looks at them and when he's about to open his mouth again, Reacher's fist makes contact with his jaw with a crack.

-> "I made you a sandwich,"

"Thanks," Reacher doesn't even ask what it is before he takes a big bite, his head was throbbing and his sides hurt from jumping on a moving car. Their main suspect has escaped and they almost got ran over by a train too. but at least his partner made lunch for them this morning. the said sandwich was a little squished because of the mess that was in her bag, but it's delicious either way (cuz it's made w love!)

-> "we should get matching bracelets," His partner says while they're in a gas station after almost being hunted and killed in the woods. Reacher is drenched in sweat and she's covered in dirt and leaves. He's trying to get them back to town as safely as possible while she's thumbing at the random merchandise. At the end, they hitch a ride on a firetruck after his partner asks some firefighters if they could. She manages to talk the whole way through without giving out any sensitive information to the firemen about what they were really doing in a gas station in the middle of nowhere without a car. which Reacher is grateful for because now he can focus on figuring out their next step.

-> "I think we should kill him," comes out of her mouth when a random drug dealer/contract killer is being a nuisance and rude as hell (he's tied up to a chair that's hanging from the ceiling upside down by a chain)

Reacher doesn't kill him but he does beat the living shit out of him when he reveals he's had a hand in torturing and killing the families of people just to blackmail them into keeping quiet in a corruption plot. SHE kills him after. with a single gunshot. and then complain all the way home that the gun burned her (it just got hot quickly in her hand and she doesn't like the feeling).

-> If they get locked somewhere, let's say in a basement behind a steel reinforced door, she immediately turns to him, "Can you break it?"

"Break what?"

"The door? So we can get out?"

"With what? My fists? What do I look like to you? The Hulk?"

".... uhm yes actually, you kinda do,"

"... I don't even know what to say to that, and I can't punch the door and break it, it's at least 10 inches of steel,"

-> when they escape from a burning warehouse, they're exhausted and bloody and bruised up and stink of ash and oil. Reacher's partner is exhausted, breathing like she was running out of oxygen as they slowly make their way down the road on foot. Reacher realises she was shaking and looked like she was ready to fall face first on the floor, so he stops and turns around, bending his knees a little, "Get on, silly monkey,"

That immediately makes her crack a smile, she doesn't look so miserable anymore as she gets her hands on his shoulders and climbs on his back like an adorable backpack. She sniffles against the back of his neck, arms wrapped around him and Reacher hums and keeps going. Eventually she falls asleep and he makes sure not to walk too fast, as to not jostle her around.

[monicfever]

ben poindexter as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

dex does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[vigilantekisser]

dex vs. the emoji industrial complex

masterlist | ao3 mirror

summary: dex has zero social media literacy and doesn't know wtf you're talking about. (1.1k, gn reader, crack, fluff, office friendship, dirty joke, minions, dex tries to understand what memes are; honestly idk why this was so long i just want to have more of dex ig)

It’s just a stupid meme, so you don’t think much of it when you send it to Dex—a low quality, atrociously Photoshopped picture of a puppy with its brain getting poked with an injection, Ritalin pills and a 5G tower in the background: 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw [Sent 9:06 AM]

Dex doesn’t reply, not even with his usual stilted “Thanks”.

You’re fine with that, totally; you already know Dex is, well, himself—man of few words and composure and too-sharp jawline… So. You assume he’s just ignoring you as usual, which makes you a little bit pleased knowing you’ve probably stupefied your poor coworker into bewilderment once again.

What you don’t know is that you’re exactly right. Twenty feet away, in a sterile cubicle surrounded by discarded tactical gear and stacks of paperwork, Dex is staring at his screen like it personally offended him.

Dex blinks once, finally, slow like a cat watching a ceiling fan.

“…The fuck.”

 The badly edited puppy has a syringe full of mercury pointed into its brain and someone’s holding an orange bottle of ADHD pills behind it. He rereads the sentence, just in case it holds a secret meaning. 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw

He leans back in his chair like a man confronting the unknowable void.

“Is this funny?” he mutters. “Do I say something?”

He opens Google.

     “dog on ADHD medication??”

No luck. It sends him to some Instagram pages with dogs he doesn’t care about, and he closes the tab after seeing a bunch of drama on the PetMD forum. Symbolism perhaps? Puppy = you; mercury = brain damage; the cell tower = some kind of conspiracy… at work… the Bureau...? 

Oh fuck it. He gives up.

     Are you ok?      [Sent 10:40 AM]

Aha, so the man responds. You send back four emojis: 💻💀😭🙏

A few minutes later, your phone pings.

     I hope they don’t inject anything into your head.      [Sent 10:45 AM]

You snort, trying to stifle your snicker. You can hear this guy’s voice in your head. thank u king that’s so thoughtful, you send back.

By lunchtime Dex is three articles deep into “Millennial vs Gen Z Humor: A Brief History of Nihilistic Absurdism.” He doesn’t mean to care, really. You’ve probably forgotten about it entirely but he hasn’t. He’s finally gotten the point of the picture you sent, to his satisfaction, but why is the skull emoticon thing everywhere now? 

     skull emoji meaning      Result: “Used to express laughing so hard you’re dead.”

He shakes his head. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The next day, you wake up to multiple messages from Dex.

     Thank you for your dog Meme, it’s very funny.      Work is like that sometimes.      Haha      ☠️      [sent 5:10 AM]

You stare at the screen for a long time.

     ☠️

Actually, you think your hands are shaking now. You message back:

     wtf u know how to use emojis????????????

He replies immediately:

     Yes.      I think

Then:

     🔥

Why is there fire now. What does the fire mean. Is he okay. Your face’s gone hot and you screenshot it for maybe nothing in particular but, well, to look back at later on and laugh harder.

It’s Friday, which is a vacation enough in itself but unfortunately that still means you should be working and processing the latest field report Mockta dropped on your desk. But instead, you’re doing something far more dangerous. You’re messing with Dex again. You send him a photo of someone furiously petting a cat’s head.

     Me rubbing the workweek’s pussy so it finishes faster      [Sent 9:48 AM]

Dex is drinking his coffee—straight black, very sad—when he sees the notification. He reads your caption and almost spits into his sleeve.

What did you just send him.

He stares and reads it again.

“Me rubbing the workweek’s… Oh God…” He trails off, rubbing his brow in anguish. He lowers the phone slowly, looking around the bullpen, the hallway, the exit. Then he turns to his laptop and opens Google. God help him.

     pussy rubbing work week 

He hits Enter and immediately regrets it. A new tab opens. A very not-safe-for-work one accessed through the Bureau Wi-Fi. There’s moaning and a lot of exposed skin. One of the women is holding a calendar. He slams his laptop shut so hard the desk rattles, mind racing.

He didn’t read about this shit in any of the articles he read last Tuesday! Staring into the abyss of his screen, Dex messages back:

     ?

     omg dex it’s a joke      i hopeyou did NOT google that      are u okay

There’s a long pause, an eternity really. You sip your coffee, wipe at your eyes. Then, finally:

     Understood.      Thanks for the explanation     I did but i won’t Google anything ever again.      [Sent 10:21 AM]

The mental image of him in a mortified fugue state, recoiling from his screen, is almost too much—but you manage to swallow your laughter as Ray walks past your desk, shooting you a wary look.

The rest of the day is uneventful. You manage to make a small dent in the field reports. Dex doesn’t message you again and you assume you’ve broken him with the dirty joke, which—honestly—fair.

You don’t see him again until you're heading out, bag slung over your shoulder, keys jangling in your hand. You pass Dex’s desk, and he stands up so fast he almost collides with the corner of his desk. 

“Hey,” he says, voice weirdly formal. He wrings his hands. “Uh. Wait a second.”

You stop. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, squinting as he unlocks his phone, and silently holds it out to you. You blink down at the screen.

It’s a Minion. A fucking Minion. The image is so low-res you can count the pixels, jpeg artifacting all over. The Minion’s mid-stride, throwing up a peace sign. The text reads:

     BestfriEND      BoyfriEND      GirlfriEND      Food      Only Food has no END.

There’s a watermark in the corner that says something like “Susan's Recipe Shack,” straight from the Facebook feed of someone’s divorced aunt. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. And then you wheeze, laughing so violently your knees buckle a little. Two people from Cybercrimes glance up. You wave them away, tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “Dex. Dex.”

He’s standing stiffly, eyes flicking nervously around the room, like he didn’t expect you to react. His phone wavers in his hand. “You don’t have to laugh that hard,” he mutters, starting to pull it back.

“No, no—don’t you dare delete that,” you grab his wrist, still breathless. “You made this? Where did you find it?”

He blinks. “Facebook.”

“Christ almighty, you’re going deeper.”

He swallows, ears red and flexing his hands. “You seem to like them.”

You giggle again and this time somebody mutters something about needing to go home. You don’t care. Dex is still standing there like he’s not sure if he should run away, but a smile’s starting to tug at his mouth too.

“Keep going,” you say, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I want more tomorrow.”

“…Alright,” he nods. He’s serious but the blush’s absolutely radiating off his face. “I’ll look for more Minions.”

a/n: this is what i was talking about btw