"your midas touch on the chevy door..."

Alex (she/her, 23) pathological people pleaser / spn newbie / REQUESTS OPEN supernatural series rewrite / wattpad

[scarletqueenx]

WELCOME TO MY LITTLE WRITING BLOG!

(she/her, 23) My name is Alex, but you can call me Ale too, and I'm from Spain.

I have been writing for over 10 years and recently decided to try publishing here as well as start writing in English.

masterlist || tag list || BAD OMENS MASTERLIST

REQUESTS OPEN

here is a list of all the characters i write for, feel free to ask for any of them:

DEAN WINCHESTER (SUPERNATURAL)

CASTIEL (SUPERNATURAL)

NATHAN SCOTT (ONE TREE HILL)

SPENCER AGNEW (SMOSH)

STEVE HARRINGTON (STRANGER THINGS)

ROBIN BUCKLEY (STRANGER THINGS)

STILES STILINSKI (TEEN WOLF)

MALIA HALE/TATE (TEEN WOLF)

KLAUS MIKAELSON (TVDU)

FREYA MIKAELSON (TVDU)

REBEKAH MIKAELSON (TVDU)

ELIJAH MIKAELSON (TVDU)

KAI PARKER (TVDU)

LIZZIE SALTZMAN (TVDU)

BENEDICT BRIDGERTON (BRIDGERTON)

ANTHONY BRIDGERTON (BRIDGERTON)

ALEX KAREV (GREY’S ANATOMY)

JAY HALSTEAD (CHICAGO PD)

CONNOR RHODES (CHICAGO MED)

NICK MILLER (NEW GIRL)

BARRY ALLEN (ARROWVERSE)

SARA LANCE (ARROWVERSE)

JJ MAYBANK (OBX)

LEO FITZ (AGENTS OF SHIELD)

WANDA MAXIMOFF (MCU)

KATE BISHOP (MCU)

YELENA BELOVA (MCU)

PETER PARKER (MCU)

MATT MURDOCK (MCU)

EVAN BUCKLEY (911)

CLARK KENT (SUPERMAN ‘25)

[dirtylittlediary]

Hi, first I'd like to say that I love your writing, so I don't know if you're accepting requests, but if you are, I'd like to request one with Evan Buckley where the reader is shy and he loves to tease her, making her blush, and he ends up convincing her to go on a date with him. In the end, he takes her home and finishes with some smut, please. ❤️

oh my god of course !!! this my first request- i hope it fits what you had in mind !!

no fair- evan buckley

pairing : evan buckley x f!reader

summary : basically just buck teasing the shit out of you to get a reaction.

warning : smut, legit asshole buck, p in v, fingering, etc etc minors MDNI. please. i can't keep saying this freaky lil shits stay away

word count : 5.5 k

The afternoon lull at the 118 is quiet enough that the ticking wall clock feels louder than usual. You sit on the arm of the couch, carefully wrapping gauze around your wrist where you scraped it during the last call. It’s nothing serious — barely even a cut — but the sting still lingers under the antiseptic. Across the room, Buck is pretending to watch TV.

Pretending being the key word. Because every few seconds his eyes flick back to you. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

To him, it’s just habit.

You’ve been working together long enough that you’ve become part of the rhythm of his day — the quiet presence across the room, the soft laugh when Chimney says something ridiculous, the way you duck your head when someone compliments you. Buck thinks it’s adorable.You think it’s humiliating. Because every time he looks at you, your brain forgets how to function.

“Y’know,” Buck says casually from the couch, stretching his arms behind his head, “you could just let someone else do that.” You don’t look up.

“I’m capable of wrapping a bandage, Buck.”

“Never said you weren’t.” His boots drop to the floor as he leans forward. “But you’re doing it wrong.” Your eyes snap up.

“I am not.”

“You definitely are.”

“You haven’t even looked at it." Buck grins.

“I don’t need to.” Your stomach flips. You quickly drop your gaze back to your wrist. Across the kitchen counter, Hen leans toward Chim.

“Ten bucks says he ends up touching her hand in thirty seconds.” Chimney snorts.

“You’re on.” Buck stands and crosses the room before you can protest. You feel his presence before you see him — tall, broad shoulders blocking the light as he crouches down in front of you.

“Lemme see.” Your brain instantly goes fuzzy.

“It’s fine.”

“Uh huh.” His hand gently takes your wrist. Your entire body goes rigid. His touch is warm. Careful. Familiar in the way it only becomes after months of working side by side. But somehow it still sends a bolt of electricity straight up your arm.

God, get it together.

Buck unwraps the messy gauze with a small huff of amusement.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You were definitely doing it wrong.”

“I was not.”

“You wrapped it like you were trying to mummify your hand.” You huff softly, trying to ignore the way your face is heating. Buck notices immediately. He always does. His mouth curves slowly.

“Are you... blushing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” He tilts his head closer, studying you with exaggerated seriousness.

“Oh wow.” Your stomach drops. “You really are.” Your voice comes out smaller than intended.

“Buck…” Behind him, Chimney is vibrating with barely contained laughter. Hen elbows him. Buck finishes tying the gauze and taps your wrist lightly.

“There,” he says. Your hand lingers in his for half a second too long. You notice. He notices.Your brain immediately panics. You pull away.

“Thanks.” Buck leans back on his heels, still looking at you. There’s something about the way you avoid his eyes that makes him smile. You’re always like this with him. Soft. Quiet. A little flustered. He’s never quite figured out why.

“You’re cute when you get shy,” he says without thinking. Your soul leaves your body.

“I’m not shy.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Am not.”

“You literally won’t look at me right now.” Your eyes snap up in protest. Which is exactly what he wanted. Buck laughs.

God, that laugh. It should be illegal.

Before you can respond- The station alarm blares. Everyone moves instantly.

“118, respond to a vehicle collision on Western Avenue—” Buck is already jogging toward the trucks beside you. You shake the lingering warmth from your wrist and follow.

--

The crash scene is chaotic.

Two cars tangled at an intersection, smoke rising from a crushed hood while bystanders crowd the sidewalk. The familiar rush of adrenaline settles your nerves immediately. Work mode. Focus. Buck grabs the jaws of life while you and Hen move toward the passenger side of the sedan. Another engine company is already there — firefighters you don’t recognize. You kneel beside a shaken woman in the passenger seat, speaking calmly while checking her pulse.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” you reassure her. A firefighter from the other crew crouches beside you. Tall. Dark hair. Friendly smile.

“Need a hand?” he asks. You glance up.

“Oh— yeah, could you stabilize her shoulder?”

“Sure.” He does, working easily beside you. After a moment he glances at you again. “So do you always look this calm during a disaster?" Your brain stutters.

“Oh— uh—” You feel heat creeping into your cheeks again. Across the wreckage, Buck looks up. And freezes. The guy is smiling at you. Leaning a little too close. And you’re blushing. Buck doesn’t know why that bothers him. Except it really does.

Like a lot.

He grips the tool harder than necessary.

“Buck,” Chimney mutters beside him. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re bending steel.” Buck immediately loosens his grip. But his eyes stay locked on the scene. The firefighter says something else that makes you laugh quietly. Something sharp twists in Buck’s chest.

What the hell?

The call finishes quickly. Patients loaded. Scene cleared. But Buck’s mood stays weirdly sour the entire ride back. Back at the firehouse, the sun is setting through the bay doors. You’re wiping grease from your hands when Buck walks up beside you. He leans casually against the truck. Too casually.

“So,” he says. You glance up.

“Yeah?”

“Who was that guy?” You blink, staring up at him. He seems tense, his shoulder squared as if he's ready to pounce.

“What guy?” You breathe.

“The firefighter.” Realization dawns. You lean back against the truck, crossing your arms in a desperate attempt to look normal.

“Oh. I don’t know.” Buck frowns, his eyes trailing over you.

“You were talking a lot.”

“We were treating a patient.”

“Looked like flirting.” Your heart nearly stops.

“I wasn’t flirting.” Buck shrugs.

“He seemed like he was.” Something warm and nervous flutters in your chest.

Why does he care?

“He asked if I was calm under pressure,” you say defensively.

“And?”

“And I said yes.” Buck studies you for a moment. Then suddenly grins.

“Well, that’s good.”

“…Why?”

“Because if he asked you out you’d probably panic.” Your face goes red instantly. Buck laughs.

God, he loves that reaction.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Blushing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” You turn away, mortified. Buck watches you for a second. Then something clicks in his brain. A quiet little realization he’s been too oblivious to notice before. You only blush like that with him. Not the other firefighter. Not Chimney. Just him. Interesting. Buck pushes off the truck.

“Hey.” You look up nervously.

“Yeah?” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“You wanna grab dinner tonight?” Your brain goes completely blank.

“…What?”

“Dinner,” he repeats. “Like… food.”

“I know what dinner is, numbskull." Buck chuckles.

“Well?” Your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure the whole station can hear it.

“Why?”

“Because you’re terrible at wrapping bandages and I need to supervise your recovery.” You stare at him.

“You’re kidding.”

“Maybe.” He leans a little closer. “But mostly because I want to.” Across the room, Hen slowly lowers the mug she’s been pretending to wash. Chimney whispers,

“Oh my god.” Your voice comes out small.

“Like… a date?" Buck pauses. The word settles in the air. Date. He watches the way your eyes widen like you’ve just said something forbidden. And suddenly the idea doesn’t seem weird at all. Actually…It makes a lot of sense. Buck smiles slowly.

“Well,” he says. “If that’s what it takes to convince you…” His gaze softens. “Then yeah.” Your stomach flips violently. Buck tilts his head. “So what do you say?” You hesitate for half a second. Then nod.

“…Okay.” His grin widens.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buck pushes off the truck, suddenly energized.

“Great.” He pauses. Then adds with a teasing glint— “And don’t worry.” You swallow. “If that firefighter shows up,” Buck says casually, “I’ll scare him off.” You stare at him. Your face is burning again.And Buck thinks — not for the first time - that he really likes the way you blush. He grins.

"I'll pick you up at seven !" He calls out, before turning away from you.

----

Your room is a mess. Like, hiroshima after the atomic bomb mess. Clothes, jewlery, towels- everything you posess is scattered across the floor and your bed, as if a testament to your girlhood has been declared. If someone walked in right now, they’d think a department store had exploded. You stand in the middle of it all with your hands on your head.

“Oh my god.” This is a nightmare. A wonderful, terrifying nightmare. You glance at the clock.

6:14 PM.

You groan and flop backwards onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Buck asked you out.

Buck.

Not in the joking, flirty way he sometimes tosses things around the station. Not in the “we should hang out sometime” vague way. Dinner. At seven. Your brain replays the moment for the hundredth time. The way he leaned closer. The little smile. The casual confidence in his voice like this was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile you nearly passed out just hearing the word date. You roll over and bury your face in a pillow.

This is dangerous.

Because your crush on Buck isn’t small. It never has been. It started innocently — little things at first. The way he always checked if you were okay after calls. The way he’d casually sling an arm around your shoulders while explaining something. The way he looked at you when you laughed. Then somewhere along the way it became… something else. Something heavier. Something you buried deep down because having a crush on your best friend slash coworker slash walking golden retriever of a firefighter felt like a terrible idea.

And Buck— God.

Buck doesn’t even realize what he does to you. The teasing. The little touches. The way he calls you cute when you get flustered. He does it like breathing. Your face heats just thinking about it. You roll onto your back again and stare at the mountain of clothing around you.

“Okay,” you tell yourself. "Calm down. It’s just dinner." You worry your bottom lip, running your hands down your face. "Just dinner with the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with for months. Totally normal."

You sit up abruptly.

Clothes. You need clothes.

You grab the first shirt you see and hold it up. Too casual. You toss it aside.

Next dress. Too fancy.

Next outfit. Too obvious.

You collapse back onto the bed again with a frustrated groan.

Why is this so hard?!

You’ve been on dates before. You’ve handled burning buildings. You’ve crawled through collapsing structures. But somehow choosing an outfit for dinner with Buck feels like the most high-pressure situation of your life. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You grab it. A text from Chimney.

CHIM Hen says breathe.

Another message appears immediately.

CHIM Also Maddie said Buck has changed shirts three times already.

You sit up.

“…He has?” Your heart does something weird in your chest. Another text pops up.

HEN Just wear something that makes you feel confident.

You stare at the message for a long moment. Confident. Right. You look back at the mess of clothes scattered everywhere. Then slowly stand. Maybe… this doesn’t have to be perfect. Maybe Buck asked you out because he likes you. The thought makes your stomach flutter. You pick up a soft shirt you’d tossed aside earlier. Simple. Comfortable.

Something you’d actually wear around him. You hold it up to the mirror.

“…Okay,” you whisper. Not perfect. But you. You pull it on and smooth the fabric over your sides, studying your reflection, the way the material tightens around your waist and stretches over your breasts. You pull on your jeans and study yourself in the mirror. Your heart is still racing. Your hands are still a little shaky. But there’s also something warm blooming in your chest. Excitement. Outside, a car engine pulls up.Your stomach flips violently. A moment later— Your phone buzzes again.

BUCK i’m here.

You stare at the message. Then at yourself in the mirror. Then back at the phone.

“…Oh my god.” You grab your jacket and rush for the door before you can overthink it. Your heart is pounding the entire way down the hallway.

What if this isn’t a date? What if Buck just meant dinner the same way he means grabbing food after shifts sometimes? What if you read it wrong? What if— You open the front door. And every single thought disappears.

Evan Buckley is leaning against his jeep in the fading evening light. One shoulder against the door, arms loosely crossed, head tipped down as he scrolls through his phone. He’s wearing dark jeans and a navy henley that hugs his shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal. His hair is slightly damp like he showered right before coming here. Then he looks up.

And Buck forgets how breathing works. Because you’re standing in the doorway. Simple jeans. Soft shirt. Hair slightly messy like you ran your hands through it too many times.

You look nervous.

Adorably nervous.

And suddenly Buck understands something that hits him so hard it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

He doesn’t just like you.

He wants you.

Bad.

Not in the casual, flirty way he’s used to wanting things. Not in the easygoing Buck way where he smiles, dates someone for a few weeks, and moves on when it fades. No. This is different. This is the kind of want that makes his chest feel tight and warm all at once. The kind that makes him suddenly very aware that if he screws this up, he might actually lose something important. This is the kind of want where his pants are getting so uncomfortably tight he's afraid he might burst if he looks at you for too long.

And that thought alone makes him stand up straighter.

You step outside slowly, closing the door behind you. Buck pushes off the jeep, trying to look casual even though his brain is currently screaming do not mess this up.

“Hey,” he says. Your fingers tighten around your jacket.

“Hi." Your voice is soft. Shy.

God, it’s doing things to him.

Buck runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking you over for a second longer than necessary. Not in a creepy way. Just… appreciating.

“Wow,” he says. Your stomach drops.

“What?” He gestures vaguely at you.

“You clean up nice.” Your face immediately turns red. Buck grins.

There it is.

That blush.

He swears it might be his favorite thing in the world.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he says easily. “I noticed.” You groan quietly, covering part of your face with your hand. Buck laughs.

God, you’re cute.

He steps closer, opening the passenger door for you.

“C’mon,” he says. “Before you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Good,” Buck says. Then he leans a little closer, voice lowering slightly. “Because I’d be very disappointed.” Your brain short-circuits again. You quickly climb into the jeep before you combust. Buck shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. The moment he gets behind the wheel, he steals another glance at you. You’re sitting stiffly in the seat, hands folded nervously in your lap, eyes focused very intensely on the dashboard. Buck bites back a smile. He’s suddenly realizing something else. You’re nervous. Like… really nervous. About him. Which makes a warm, protective feeling bloom in his chest. He starts the car.

“Relax,” he says gently.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re sitting like someone’s about to interrogate you.” You glance down. Your posture is, in fact, extremely tense. You try to loosen your shoulders. Buck chuckles. “Hey.” You glance at him. His voice softens just a little. “It’s just me.” And somehow that makes your heart race even more. Buck notices. And something about that realization settles deeper into his chest. Because suddenly he knows something he hadn’t fully processed before tonight. You matter to him. More than he realized. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready for. But he also knows one very important thing. He wants this night to go well. He wants you smiling.He wants you relaxed.

And maybe— if he’s lucky— he wants to see that blush a few more times. And maybe watch it spread over your tits as they bounce- he snaps his eyes back to the road, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

“So,” he says casually as he pulls onto the road. You brace yourself.

“Yeah?” Buck smirks slightly.

“On a scale of one to ten…” You sigh.

“Buck.”

“…how nervous are you right now?” Your face immediately turns bright red again. Buck laughs softly to himself.

Yeah. He definitely wants this. And he’s suddenly very, very determined not to screw it up.

----

Dinner ends later than either of you expected.

Not because it was fancy. Not because the place was particularly special. But because neither of you seemed ready for it to end. At first you’d been nervous — painfully aware of every word coming out of your mouth, every time Buck looked at you, every brush of his arm across the table. But somewhere between sharing fries and Buck telling a ridiculous story about Chimney accidentally setting off the smoke alarm at the station, the tension had softened. You laughed. Really laughed. And Buck had gone quiet for a second just watching you, like the sound surprised him. Now the jeep rolls to a stop outside your place. The engine idles softly. You stare ahead for a moment, gathering your courage.

“…Thank you,” you say quietly. Buck glances over.

“For what?”

“For dinner.” His mouth tilts into that easy smile again.

“You say that like it was a big deal.”

“It was,” you say before you can stop yourself. Buck pauses. Something flickers across his face at the honesty in your voice. He clears his throat lightly.

“Well,” he says, trying for casual, “I had a pretty good time too.” Your heart does a little flip. You reach for the door. Buck’s already out of the jeep before you’ve fully stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, jogging around the front of the car.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Walking you to your door.” You blink.

“…You don’t have to.” Buck shrugs like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, I do.” You try not to read into the way your stomach flutters at that. The two of you walk up the short path to your front door. It’s quiet now. Not awkward. Just… charged. You can feel Buck beside you — his shoulder close, his presence warm in the cool night air. You stop at the door, fishing your keys out of your pocket. Your fingers fumble slightly.Buck notices.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs. You huff softly.

“Maybe.” Buck chuckles under his breath.

“Cute.” You shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Teasing me.” He leans one shoulder against the doorframe beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off him.

“Can’t help it,” he says quietly. You finally get the key into the lock, but you don’t turn it yet. Instead you look at him. The porch light catches the soft gold in his hair, the familiar curve of his mouth. Your heart is racing again. Buck notices the way you’re looking at him. And suddenly the teasing fades from his expression.

“Hey,” he says softly. Your breath catches.

“Yeah?” For a second he just studies your face. Then his hand lifts, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw.

“You had fun tonight, right?” he asks. You nod immediately.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. Because he did too. More than he expected. More than he’s probably ready to admit. Your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.Buck sees it. And something in his chest tightens. He steps a little closer.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Your heart jumps.

“Why?”

“You keep looking at me like that…” His voice lowers. “…I’m gonna think you want me to kiss you.” Your face flushes instantly.

“I—” Buck doesn’t let you finish. He closes the distance. The kiss starts soft. Careful. Just the gentle press of his mouth against yours. For half a second your brain stops working. Then your hands clutch at the front of his shirt. Buck makes a quiet sound against your lips. And suddenly the careful restraint disappears. The kiss deepens. Warmer. Hungrier. Your back bumps lightly against the door as Buck steps closer, one hand sliding to your waist. Your fingers tangle in his shirt as if you need something to hold onto. Buck exhales softly against your mouth, his forehead brushing yours for a second before he kisses you again. It’s messy now. Breathless. Like neither of you quite planned for this but neither of you wants it to stop. Your hand fumbles behind you, fingers blindly finding the doorknob. The door clicks open. Buck barely notices until you’re suddenly stepping backwards into the house. Still kissing him. He lets out a quiet laugh against your mouth as he follows you inside, one hand bracing against the door as it swings shut behind him. Neither of you breaks the kiss. Your hands press at his chest, his own hands drifting to the front of your pants to toy with the button of your jeans. You whimper into his mouth and he pulls away, breathless.

"Are you sure ?" He gasps, his chest heaving. You nod, your eyes locked on his, filled with trust and desire.

"Yes. I'm sure." With a low groan, he captures your lips in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands roaming your body, touching, teasing, and driving you wild with need. You melt into him, your body responding to his every movement, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press yourself against him. Buck's hands find the hem of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and over your head, his lips never leaving yours. He backs you up against the wall, his body pressing against yours, his hardness evident through the fabric of his pants. You can feel the heat of him, the strength of his body, and it makes you ache with need. His lips trail down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. His movements are hurried, pressing you against the counter of yout kitchen as our lips move against each other.

“Buck.” You mutter in between kisses, making him groan. His hands grasp at your breasts, easing them out of the bra and gently pulling away to cup your cheek.

“God, i love seeing you fucking blush. I wonder if you'll blush when I fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name.” He mutters, his eyes soft. You groan, fully unclasping your bra and throwing it away next to your discarded shirt. In a quick motion, he has you pinned to his body, guiding you somewhere else. You reach the couch and he smirks, taking a step back. You watch him, sitting on the edge of the couch slightly, as he unbuttons his shirt teasingly slow. You groan and he takes it into consideration - his shirt comes off quicker, revealing the toned and muscly chest that he hides. You bite your bottom lip and walk up to him.

"God, you're beautiful." He hums, kissing your neck as his hands wrap around the hem of your jeans, pushing them down yout legs along with your underwear. He grabs your waist and spins you around, bending you over the couch’s arm rest as you kick off the discarded pants pooling around your ankles. He leans over you, kissing your exposed back, making you shudder, before he pulls away, twisting your hair into his fist. You can hear his belt buckle clink on the floor, and then you feel his tip nestle between your ass cheeks. His chest presses to your back and you whimper as he reaches forward and grabs your nipple in his fingers, twisting it around. “This might hurt baby, so tell me if you want me t'stop.” You nod, eyes closed as you push your ass against him. “I want to hear you say it." He rasps. "I want to know if you understand. I don't want to hurt you.”

“I understand.” He smiles against your cheek, kissing the shell of your ear.

“Good.” Your body is completely bent over the couch armrest, your hands outstretched in front of you, grasping at a cushion. You look over your shoulder to see him slowly pumping himself in his hand, before his tip teases your entrance, barely grazing your insides. You suck in a breath.

Nothing is happening, so you start to move your hips, gently bouncing up and down on his cock, whimpering leaving your lips as you feel him slip in farther. He groans as he slips inside just a tiny bit, his hands secured around your waist. With a slight lick to your fingers, youreach over and under you to graze them over your folds, nails gently scraping his length as you rub them over your clit in a circular motion, still moving your hips. With a sudden thrust, your entire body shoots forward as he pushes in fully. You cry out in pain, hands darting back to plant against his hips, slightly pushing him out. Tears are pricking your eyes, your thighs already shaking.

“Buck !” You cry out, pushing your hands against his waist. He groans.

“Shit, I'm sorry baby.” You whimper as you feel him ease himself back in fully, slower this time. “Better ?” He asks, gently leaning forward to kiss your neck.

You nod, grabbing his hair from behind as his hips start to slam on youts repetitively. Your mouth falls open and your entire body falls forward, hands clenched around the pillows, loud moans leaving your lips. you can hear him groan in your ear as he slips his hands under you and lifts you up, pressing you flush against his chest, still thrusting himself in and out of you. Sweat is beading on your upper lip as you whimper, his hand moving down to rub in circles on your clit all while pounding into you. You reach over and grab the back of his thighs as he continues to thrust faster and harder, making you a whimpering mess.

“Fuck.” You hear him whimper in your ear, his breaths labored as he comes to a stop. You whimper in protest, body falling forward. He pulls out and you gasp, thighs clenching to protect your throbbing core. His hand settles around your forearm and he tugs you up, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Did I do something wrong ?” You ask, looking up at him. He shakes his head, kissing you jaw and sucking harshly. “No. I just realized I prefer to see your face when I make you come.” He mutters in your ear, gently grabbing your thighs and wrapping them around his waist, hoisting you up. His lips are on your within seconds as he marches off to your bedroom, his hands kneading your ass as you slip your hands into his hair. He lets you drop suddenly, your back colliding with the mattress.

“Evan !” You shriek as he lets you fall, making him chuckle. He creeps up towards you, settling between your legs.

“I have loved you..."He mutters, kissing your collar bone as he creeps down to your abdomen. "Since you first set foot in that firehouse." You suck in a breath, hands flying to wrap into his hair. He looks up at you, giving your core a quick suck before walking back up to meet your eyeline. He crouches in front of your, grabbing your thighs and spreading them apart, settling your legs on either side of him. He grabs the edge of your thighs, just under your waist, right where they fold slightly. He pulls you forward, and before you know it he’s filling you up again. His body retracts slowly, his chest caving as he pulls out, before he slams back in. You gasp, chuckling as you bite your bottom lip and look up at him. His eyes are closed as he pushes in again, before his hips start moving faster, doing quick and sharp thrusts. You gasp, hands fisting the sheets as he grips your thighs, pulling you more towards him, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

“Oh god.” You breathe out, whimpering as he leans forward, his hand wrapping around your throat and driving his cock deeper into you, pushing you down on the bed. You moan, gripping his wrist as his other hand lands right next to you head. You can hear the soft groans leaving his lips.

“ Fuck, you're so fucking tight baby.” He grunts, his entire body falling forward, his arms caging you head as he rests his forehead on your shoulder and continues his thrusts. Your thighs have wrapped fully around his waist, and your arms are intertwining around his neck. You can hear the soft whimpers leaving his lips as his arms start to shake.

“Ah, fuck. E-Evan, I'm gonna- Fuck i’m close. Don’t stop.” You whimper, feeling yourself getting closer. you throw your head back, lips tightly clamped together as you squirm under him, your entire body clenching. He kisses your cheek, gently and softly, grazing his lips against your sweaty skin. “You’r e being so fucking good for me. Such a good girl.” you whimper."You- ah, shit- you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight baby."

“ Fuck, fuck, Evan !” Your entire body jerks as the fiery pit of pleasure in your stomach erupts. He groans, kissing your neck.

"Shit, just like that. Come on my cock, baby." Your eyes roll backwards. “I love you, Evan Buckley.” He moans slightly, a loud groan erupting from his mouth. “Fuck, say that again.” “I love you.” “Again.” He orders in between kisses. “I love you.” “Again.” He says through gritted teeth. His hips buck against yours, and you whimper, clenching myself around him to stop him from moving anymore, your orgasm crashing over you in devastatingly high waves.

“Fuck, i love you, i love you, i love you.” You repeat over and over.

“Ah, shit.” He groans, and you feel him twitch inside you. You're filled with warmth and you feel it trickle down your folds. He looks down, and a sly smile creeps onto his face.

“Jesus." He says, before he kisses your forehead. Buck pulls out slowly, his movements gentle and deliberate. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering as he savors the moment. You can feel his breath on your skin, warm and comforting, as he pulls back slightly to look into your eyes.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice low and tender. "Are you okay?" You nod, a small smile playing on your lips as you reach up to cup his cheek.

"I'm more than okay. I'm perfect." He smiles back, his eyes shining with a mix of satisfaction and affection.

"Good. Because you are perfect. Absolutely perfect." Buck rolls off you, but keeps you close, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you into his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling content and safe in his embrace.

"You were amazing," he whispers, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "So beautiful and responsive. I loved every second of it." You blush at his words, your cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

"Buck…" He chuckles, a soft, warm sound that vibrates through his chest.

"What? It's true. You're incredible, and I'm lucky to have you." You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a mix of curiosity and tenderness.

"You're not so bad yourself, you know. I've never felt like this before. So… seen and cherished." Buck's expression softens, and he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I'm glad. I want you to feel that way. Always." He pulls you back down, cradling you in his arms, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. You sigh contentedly, your eyes fluttering closed as you drift into a state of blissful relaxation.

"Stay with me tonight," Buck murmurs, his voice a soft plea. "Let me hold you. Let me take care of you." You nod, your answer a soft murmur of agreement. Buck smiles, a look of pure happiness spreading across his face. He tightens his hold on you, his body molding to yours as if he never wants to let you go. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and it lulls you into a state of deep contentment.

"Sleep, my love," Buck whispers, his voice filled with tenderness. "I've got you. Always." And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the warmth and safety of his embrace, you know that you are exactly where you're meant to be.

a/n : okay i kind of rushed this so im so sorry if its not as good as my previous things ! also as usual this is not proofread oops

[emziess]

Oliver Stark as Evan “Buck” Buckley 9-1-1, S09E17 - I Got You, Babe

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

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[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

All dogs go to heaven

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary Dean's made it to heaven, and is waiting for Sam to show up. The days pass slow and on a lazy afternoon out with Miracle, he meets you. Can you make the time pass faster? Does Dean want you to? And is there such a thing as life after death? CWs Post-series fix-it. Fluff with a touch of angst. Heaven & peace. Rrrromance. Dean figuring it out. 9.5k words.

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

Dean’s days in heaven mostly look like this: 

He sleeps in, is woken up by sunshine on his face. He stretches, gets up, walks downstairs. Makes coffee, and the coffee is never burned, never too sweet, never too bitter. Some mornings he’s woken by Miracle jumping on the bed, pressing his wet snout against Dean’s face. He was shocked when he first saw the dog, looked around, wondering if this was the day he’d finally see Sam. But his little brother is taking his time. Good for him, Dean thinks. He deserves it.

The weather is always perfect here – warm, but not too hot. He sits on the porch in the late morning, drinking his second cup. People he’s known and loved and lost walk past, greet him. Some sit down with him, chat for a while.

His house is an enigma – it’s like someone took all the places that ever meant something to him, put them in a blender. Everything smells like his childhood home, or at least how he remembers it smelling. The entryway is that of the boys’ home he lived in for a while, something familiar and comforting about that area where he would kick off his shoes so as not to carry in any dirt. The porch is Bobby’s, in a way, or it feels like Bobby’s. The view’s nicer though.

Speaking of the old hunter, that’s where Dean usually goes in the early afternoons. There’s a lake close to where he lives and if he walks its perimeter, it’ll take him to his house. Bobby might pour him a whiskey, both feeling indulgent for having a drink early in the day. He doesn’t really get drunk here, only reaches that pleasant buzz that makes time flow easier around him. He doesn’t need to hide the discomforts and pains he feels with the liquor.

Most of the time, it’s dinner with his parents. Dean usually knows to leave when Bobby either dozes off, or Annie Hawkins comes knocking. She sometimes winks at Dean, but he knows to stay far enough away from that. He’s seen the look on Bobby’s face.

So he goes outside. Sometimes he walks along the lake with Miracle, but more often than not, his car waits outside. The distance is longer when he drives than when he walks, but he’s learned not to question that.

He parks the car in front of his parents’ house, kills the engine, and then sits there for a moment. It’s usually dark at this point, a breathtaking sunset having accompanied his drive. The lights in the house are all turned on, and it looks warm and safe from the outside. He sees his mother and father in the kitchen. Mary’s cutting something up or stirring something in a pan and John will walk up to her, kiss her cheek and she will laugh. Dean sits, just for a moment, watches them. Then he gets out and walks inside.

Mary is sweet and soft-spoken, the way he remembers her. She’s not haunted, like she was when he got her back. She cooks his favorite meals, ruffles his hair. Sometimes Dean wonders if there’s something wrong with him, with the absolute bliss he feels by how different, how much calmer she seems. That his happiness shouldn’t be dependent on it so much. But it is.

Things are different with John, too. After dinner, they often sit outside. Dean hears cicadas as loud as train whistles, but there’s never a single mosquito. John at some point brings out a bottle of what he calls the good stuff. Something his own father used to drink. Dean hasn’t seen Henry here yet, but maybe John’s just not ready for that. This heaven, while different from the way it used to be, has a way of bringing you the things you need when you need them. Dean doesn’t fully understand it. It’s fine. The need to understand isn’t that strong here.

Before Dean goes home to bed, he drives out to the lake. There’s a spot there where the mountains on the other side are perfectly reflected in the water. There’s nights where the sky is so clear, the water so still, that he’s sure he’s looking at an upside down photograph. He takes a deep breath of the clean air. He’s calm. He’s content.

He’s out walking one day with Miracle, throwing him his favorite ball, when he sees you. 

He’s in the woods near his house and usually, he doesn’t meet anyone there, especially not people he doesn’t know. He’s got everything he needs in his corner of heaven and he hasn’t felt the need to go exploring further. He sees you, looks away, then looks back.

An old Beagle is just running up and you lean down, scratch its ear, take the toy from its mouth. Suddenly, it runs off, and it takes only a moment before Dean understands it’s running towards him. Well, towards Miracle technically. 

When you straighten you must realize someone’s nearby, because you turn your head. Your eyes land on Dean, and stay on him for a second while you take him in.

“Cute dog,” you say, nodding a little. Dean smiles carefully.

“You too,” he says. You look away from him, down at the Beagle.

“Her name’s Suzy,” you reply, while Suzy looks up at Dean with big, wet eyes. “She’s a retired show dog.” You look up again, shrug.

Dean nods awkwardly, then looks down at Miracle, who is letting Suzy sniff him, while giving Dean a confused look.

“This is Miracle, the… the dog,” Dean says, feeling idiotic immediately. He used to be good at this, but heaven has made his defenses go down, his persona starting to feel like a distant memory. He looks back at you.

“What makes him a miracle?” you ask, smiling softly. Dean huffs.

“That’s a long story,” he replies. You nod again.

“So, what brings you here?” Dean asks, widening his arms to refer to the air around him, wondering if small talk is the way to go here. You follow his gesture, look unsure about what he means. “I mean, I… death, obviously, but I’m not sure what heaven etiquette is on asking someone how they died.”

You blink, and then your smile slowly falters. Dean feels a pit open up in his stomach.

“I’m dead?” you ask, sounding shocked. 

Dean opens his mouth, hoping he can somehow explain, but then he sees the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. A second later, you start laughing, and after another second of confusion, Dean has to laugh as well.

“That’s… that’s funny,” he says, scratching at his neck, a little embarrassed that he fell for it. You bring your hand up to your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was mean,” you say, and Dean looks up at you, checks your face to see if you’re really sorry. It gives him a chance to just look at you. You’re beautiful, he notices. He’s pretty sure you catch him checking you out, but you act cool about it.

“Car crash,” you reply at last, and Dean has to tear his eyes off you for a second to remember what he asked. “You?” He inclines his head.

“Big… nail,” he says. You pull down the corners of your mouth.

“That must have been one pissed off nail,” you reply and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say next.

“Well,” you say, “Suzy and I were gonna go over to that clearing with all the squirrels. She loves running after them and then giving up and whining.” Dean nods, smiles a little and you raise your eyebrows.

“Do you and Miracle wanna come as well?” you ask. Dean studies you for a moment. He’s not sure if having impure thoughts is gonna get him kicked straight out of this place, but he can feel some creeping up on him. At the curve of your neck, your hands. The intense way you look at him.

“Sure,” he says.

Dean doesn’t question why there are squirrels in heaven.

“Are they extras, do you think?” you ask while Miracle and Suzy are racing around, being made into absolute fools by the small, reddish creatures.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks.

“You know,” you say, “are they actual squirrel souls? Or are they just put here for set dressing?” Dean narrows his eyes.

“Do you think squirrels have souls?” he asks. You turn towards him. So far, you have been standing next to each other, looking off in the same direction, but now you’re looking at him.

“I didn’t even think humans had souls,” you say. “I thought it was all just chemistry and biology. I didn’t think there was a heaven, either.” Dean smiles, turns to you.

“Disappointed?” he asks. You narrow your eyes.

“Not sure yet,” you reply, then incline your head. “I do hate having been wrong, though.” He grins. He hates being wrong too.

“What about you?” you ask. “Did you believe in heaven? God and angels and the whole shebang?” Dean looks back at the dogs, who are currently barking up a tree at an unimpressed squirrel.

“I sorta knew heaven existed,” he says, watching. “And hell too.” He looks back at you just as you’re narrowing your eyes.

“Let me guess,” you say, “Methodist?” Dean shakes his head.

“No, I… I’ve died a couple of times already,” he says, checking your face to see how you react. “Went to both places.” Your expression is neutral, and he’s not sure if you believe him. To be honest, it does sound crazy, but you are also standing in heaven watching your dead dogs play with possibly dead squirrels.

“If we were on earth,” you say, slowly, while not taking your eyes off Dean, “and we were alive, I’d probably be paying and getting out right about now. But something tells me you can’t lie about that stuff up here.”

“I promise it’s the truth,” he insists and you nod, look towards the dogs again, a slight smile spreading over your lips before you look back at him.

“You want some ice cream?” you ask.

Dean closes his eyes, makes an effort not to sigh at the taste. He shakes his head and when he opens his eyes again, you’re watching him, fascinated.

“I had no clue apple pie ice cream existed,” he says before bringing the cone back to his mouth, tasting the delicious treat again. You chuckle when he lays his head back, groans at the taste.

“He’s got some unusual flavors,” you say, dipping your tiny spoon back into your own scoop. To distract himself from how pretty you just looked when you laughed and the not-at-all-suggestive-but-making-him-think-things way you lick the ice cream off the spoon, Dean turns, looks at the little cart you just came from - no payment necessary. There’s some kids running around, laughing, chasing each other. Parents sitting on the benches close by, watching them, smiling softly. Dean tries not to think about that part too much.

“So there’s some guy whose heaven it is to just sell ice cream?” he asks, trying to distract himself. You turn as well, look at the smiling man. He’s wearing one of those little paper hats. He looks content.

“I guess?” you say, shrugging. “There’s gotta have been someone somewhere at some point who thought the greatest joy in life was making people happy with something simple and sweet.” Dean looks back at you. He just saw a guy selling ice cream, but you saw what he’s really doing. He likes that. You’re damn smart. Just then, you look back at him, your eyes meeting and Dean holds your gaze just for a second. It’s you that changes the topic.

“So demons and vampires, huh?” you ask, referring to the things Dean told you while you walked over here. The walk was exactly the right length, the two dogs still running around you. You listened, asked the occasional clarifying question.

“And werewolves and ghosts,” Dean continues and you nod.

“Right,” you say. “Can’t forget about those.” Dean chuckles at your reply. He’s almost done with his ice cream so he lowers the cone, holds it out towards Miracle who munches it up, crunching the waffle between his teeth. Not like he can die again, Dean thinks. 

“Must have been scary,” you continue. Dean lets Miracle lick the rest of the ice cream off his fingers, then scrunches up his ear briefly before looking back at you. “Fighting them. Killing them. Tough job. What made you pick it?” Dean blinks at the sun shining into his eyes. It’s getting a little lower. He used to get anxious at each day’s end when he was alive. He never figured out what that was about, but he doesn’t feel it now.

“It was kind of a family business,” he replies. He sniffs. You nod slowly.

“So it’s what you wanted to do?” you ask. You could have left it there. Gleaned what you wanted from his half-answer. But you seem to really want to know.

“You do some stuff long enough,” he settles on after thinking for a second, “and it doesn’t really feel like there’s anything else you can do.” It sounds more pretentious than he means for it, so he carefully looks at you again. There’s a soft expression on your face.

“I know exactly what you mean,” you reply, and Dean raises his chin, motions for you to continue. 

“I sold ACs. Air condition units,” you say, deadpan, then slightly tilt your head. “Well, I worked in the accounting department of a company that sold ACs. So I know exactly what it feels like, that responsibility.” 

You look off into the distance, and once again, Dean’s not sure how to react.

“Keep it cool at home,” you finally say with a slow nod, voice serious. “That was their slogan.” You turn back to Dean. He sees it then, the twitch at the corners of your mouth. He presses his teeth together, but you break first, sputter, then chuckle. Dean does too.

“That is important,” he says.

“It really was,” you confirm. “I once had a woman tell us we made her entire week. Beat that, demon fighter man.” You give him a loose smile at that last bit. A smile that makes his stomach flip.

“My brother and I once had a guy beat us with a broom after we took care of a ghost that was haunting his apartment complex,” Dean says and you snort, the effect he was hoping for, except it’s even better. “Feels good to be appreciated.” You give another small chuckling sound, and then the two of you are quiet. Look at the park around you. Listen to the voices and laughter.

“I should get going,” Dean says, even though he really doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, but it doesn’t feel long enough to not go see John and Mary for dinner. He has half a mind to ask you to come, but that would be… weird, right? That would be weird.

“I’ll be at the park again tomorrow,” he says, and it’s out of him before he’s even thought about it. He wasn’t actually planning to go back to the park, but now he’s said it. You look at him, that unreadable expression on your face again. “In case Suzy and Miracle wanna hang out again.”

Your smile this time is smaller, a little less enthusiastic. 

“Sure,” you say. “I mean, maybe, yeah.” 

Dean feels awkward, suddenly. Did he read this completely wrong? Do you not want to see him again? Does he want to see you again, and he only just realized?

And then you get up, pat the side of your thigh, and yeah, Dean wouldn’t hate doing some of that himself, but it’s only to get Suzy to follow you. She waddles up, wet eyes blinking.

“See you around, super hero,” you say with a final look at him, and then you begin walking away. Dean opens his mouth before he realizes he has no idea what to say. So instead, he looks after you, hoping you’ll turn back.

You don’t.

You’re not at the park the next day, and not the next day after that either. You are, however, at the lake a few days after that.

Dean sees you from far away. He’s not sure at first if it’s really you, but then he gets closer. You stand only about a foot from where the water begins, look out at the mountains beyond. There’s a soft breeze that smells fresh, like something blooming.

“This is my lake, you know,” he says, coming up to you. He’s not sure if you noticed him approaching, but you only turn your head, don’t seem surprised to see him. He’s giving you a look that’s clearly supposed to imply he’s joking. “You’re gonna have to get your own.” You turn to him, cross your arms.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dead longer than you are,” you reply. “So I got dibs.” Dean walks up to you, stops a few feet away.

“You can’t call dibs on the heaven lake,” he says and you give him a challenging look. 

“And yet, I just did,” you reply, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips. Both of you turn towards the body of water, the beautiful display of nature, though Dean would prefer looking some more at the beautiful display of you.

“When did you die?” he asks, a strange question even for someone who’s lived his life.

“1920s,” you reply and when Dean throws you a questioning look, once again not sure how to react, you look down yourself, at the jeans and t-shirt you’re wearing. “Obviously, I’m a flapper.” He grins.

“Must have been some car crash,” he replies, not sure if it’s weird that he remembers what killed you, or if that’s normal. Is it like remembering someone’s birthday? Does it imply more or less closeness? You shrug.

“2010,” you answer, and Dean makes it a point to remember without consciously deciding to. “Right after the Repo Men remake. So it’s probably for the best.” Dean presses his lips together. 

“Could be worse,” he says and you widen your eyes at him. “Means you missed the RoboCop remake.” Your mouth drops open.

“Noo,” you say and Dean nods. You chuckle, then turn back to the lake. Both of you are quiet again.

“I’ve seen you around, you know,” you say, and when Dean turns back, you’re not looking at him. Your eyes are still on the water. “In that car of yours. It’s a nice car. Or walking with Miracle. “

“You have?” Dean asks. Did he see you too? He’s not sure. Surely, he would remember. He feels like he would.

“Yeah,” you say, clear your throat. “A few times. It always looks like you’re waiting for something. Looking for someone.” Dean blinks. 

You might be right. He can’t help himself. There’s nothing he needs to look out for up here - no cars driving the other way, no wildlife he needs to swerve for. But he can’t help himself. Squinting through the windshield, or into the thickness of the forest. His eyesight’s better now than it was when he was alive. Yeah, maybe he is looking for something. Someone. 

“My brother.” It’s out of him before he’s made the conscious decision. He suddenly thinks he knows what you’re asking him, or maybe trying to ask him without actually saying it. You want to know if he’s waiting for someone special, a wife or girlfriend or some long lost love. He’s always wondered at that - whether he’d see Cassie or Lisa or someone he’s not expecting up here, all of it suddenly clear. He always found loving difficult, so many other things to consider and sometimes he wasn’t sure what he really felt and what he’d made himself feel.

“Oh,” you say, and you seem surprised, and maybe just a little relieved. “I see.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s taking his time, though. Must be living a pretty good life down there.” You scrunch up your nose.

“That doesn’t really matter,” you say, voice careful. “The idea is that he shows up when you need him. It doesn’t cut his life short or anything.”

“Right,” Dean replies. “Well, guess I just need a break from him. He’s kind of a dork.” He grimaces at his own words. He misses Sam, is the truth. Bobby explained it to him, and he thought he’d see him the minute he got up here. But he hasn’t. And he has no idea why.

“Okay,” you say, turning to him, and Dean’s dragged from his thoughts, sure that you’re gonna bolt again. But you don’t. Instead you give him a slow smile. “You got any beer in that car of yours?”

And that is how it happens. 

Sometimes you meet at the park, sometimes at the lake. You walk or sit and drink and talk. Play with the dogs.

One day, Dean opens his front door to see you leaned against Baby with a backpack sitting on the hood behind you.

“I thought we could take a roadtrip,” you say, shifting around, seeming a little shy. Dean frowns.

“To where?” he asks, wondering about the technicalities. But like so often, you don’t answer the way he expects you to. You shrug.

“Wherever we want,” you say.

So the two of you just drive, the dogs in the backseat. Chat some more. Stop for coffee, the best he’s ever had. At some point you stop somewhere else, some place that’s not on any map, despite the big paper one Dean inexplicitly found in his glove compartment. It crinkles but you don’t need it to navigate. So you climb a few rocks. Dean takes off his flannel, ties it around his hips to chase around Miracle. When he turns to you, you’re watching him. He straightens, takes a deep breath. When you look away, he’s pretty sure you’re hiding a grin.

You invite him over for dinner, but Dean’s worried he’d miss the one with his parents, so you do lunch instead. You’re a horrible cook, which, weirdly, heaven does not fix. Maybe it’s because it allows Dean to show you how to make lasagna. It means you sit on the counter with a beer and watch him, commenting on everything he does. Maybe it’s a means to an end. 

He raises a spoon with some of the sauce to your mouth, lets you taste it. He almost leans in then. Chickens out at the last minute. He thinks he might see you looking disappointed at that.

It’s not long before he wakes up in the morning and you’re the first thing he thinks about. He lies there, comfortable between the sheets, and finds himself smiling at the memory of something you said. The way you gently pushed him when he made a dumb joke. Looked at him in that way you do. 

It’s not long before he wants to kiss you.

Once he starts thinking about it, he can’t stop. It’s like his eyes are glued to your lips. It’s not a sexual thought, not really. But they promise such comfort, such warmth. He’s pretty sure he’d be perfectly happy just holding you. It’s very strange.

After a long walk one day, he asks you to come to dinner with his parents. You initially say no, but Dean keeps pushing. You pull up your shoulders, bite your lip and it flusters him harder than if he’d opened up a nudie mag. 

“I don’t know,” you say, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I do know,” he says, and finally you say yes. 

John is quiet but weirdly charming with you, a side Dean’s never seen of him and watches with fascination. Mary is sweet and once the four of you are sitting down, she throws Dean a meaningful look over her glass of wine. He wants to shake his head but doesn’t. 

Dean and you do the dishes. There’s something peaceful about doing them here - it’s not stressful or a burden, it’s a way to wind down. All the glasses come away without streaks. No plate ever breaks.

“Your parents are nice,” you say, hands in warm, soapy water. Dean’s drying a fork. “Did you get along well before?” Dean puts down the fork, reaches for the bowl you pass him.

“It was complicated,” he answers. “They had their own stuff to deal with.” You nod.

“The part where they’re only human too can be kinda tough to accept,” you say and Dean huffs. He looks at your profile, the shape of your nose, the way you’re giving your entire attention to the dish you’re washing. He wants to reach out, brush your hair out of your face and pull you close, but his hands are wet and soapy.

“I think they think there’s something going on between us,” he says, tries to make it sound like a joke, like it’s hilarious, even though he’s not sure why. “I’ve never really brought anyone home. I mean, here or then.” You pass him what you were cleaning, and your gazes meet. The sun’s gone down and you’re only illuminated by the soft kitchen light. It’s a pretty mesmerizing sight, Dean thinks.

“I did,” you reply, and he has no idea what you’re referring to. “Bring someone home, I mean. I thought they would hate him and it would give me a reason to break up with him. But they didn’t, so I married him instead.”

Dean shifts around, his hands halting. You’re not wearing a wedding band, but maybe you just weren’t into that. This feels like something he should have known about you, but he didn’t. He can’t deny the stab of jealousy he feels. That someone got to marry you, even though he clearly messed it up. Dean thinks it takes a special kind of idiot to do that, to let someone like you go.

“Did he…” he says, then changes his approach. “Is he around? Up here, I mean?” You chuckle, and Dean swallows quickly.

“He’s not in hell, if that’s what you’re asking,” you reply, looking down at where you’re working again. “He wasn’t a bad guy. We just weren’t a good match. Nobody’s fault.” Dean nods slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. You pull the plug from the sink.

“Thanks,” you say, as both of you watch the water swirl. When it’s gone, you turn your head, look at Dean. Something wistful on your face.

“Do you wanna go grab a beer?” you ask.

Somehow, the lake is even more beautiful than it is normally. The beer is cool, the air just warm enough to be comfortable. And you’re there. Moonlight on your face.

“I know I’ve probably convinced you that my life was pretty exciting, what with the accounting and Suzy the show dog,” you say and Dean brings the mouth of the bottle to his own, takes a long sip. “But it wasn’t.” He swallows the drink.

“Believe me,” he says, shifting where he’s sitting on Baby’s hood. “Exciting doesn’t mean good. I would know.” He looks at you and you look back.

“True,” you say, “I just kinda wish I could have hit some sort of medium, you know? Not full apocalypse-averting levels, but a little more adventurous.” Dean chuckles. He’s told you more about his life in the past weeks, or months, or whatever it is. Could be minutes, or seconds. You’ve listened to him, fascination on your face. At the beginning he felt awkward talking about himself. But you’ve made it comfortable. Like he can’t say anything wrong.

“I didn’t want to have any regrets,” you continue and Dean keeps looking at you, unable to look away. “I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen. Took me too long to realize you could have regrets from not doing things, too.” He nods slowly.

“Not sure which one’s worse,” he replies. “The things you’ve done or the ones you didn’t.” You nod.

“I just always thought, one more day,” you explain, looking out at the water. “One more year of hard work, of grinning and bearing it and then that’ll be it. I’ll be ready to just enjoy life. To do all the things I always wanted to do.” You give a sad smile, take a sip from your beer, swallow. 

“And then suddenly I was living in a place I didn’t care about, with a job I didn’t want, a husband I didn’t particularly like,” you continue, then clear your throat. 

“I remember putting my keys in the front door one day, and thinking: if I have to do this one more time, I think I’m gonna kill myself.” You huff, like it’s funny, but Dean doesn’t miss the way you run the back of your hand over your nose. 

“So I tore it all down,” you say with a small nod. “Quit the job. Quit the husband. Sold almost everything I owned. And I just drove. I drove until the tank was empty and then I got gas and I drove some more.” You turn to him, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as you. 

“And I kept thinking, just after that next curve, there’s gonna be happiness. There’s gonna be peace. Or purpose.” You look down. 

“And did you find it?” Dean asks. You purse your lips. 

“No,” you reply with a soft, sad smile. “I rounded one of those curves and I lost control of the car and went over an embankment.” You scoff, and Dean does the same. 

“That sucks,” he says and you nod. 

“It does suck,” you say and you look at him again. “I just wanted so badly for it all to mean something, Dean. I just wanted… to belong. Somehow. To be me, but I didn’t even know who I was.”

“I know what you mean,” he answers. You raise your chin, listening. “I mean, I did all these things, but in the end, it felt like I was using a teacup to get the water out of a boat with a hole in it the size of an elephant.” You chuckle, and it’s the best sound in the world.

“Sisyphus,” you say. Dean frowns a little. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that word anymore,” he says and to his delight, you laugh. Slap his shoulder. Take another sip, and it gives him a chance to look at you some more. He feels something so deep and big inside him he wonders if he’s about to die all over again.

“Anyway,” you say, swinging your legs. You move just a little, your shoulder pressing against Dean’s. Then you look up at him. “None of it matters now. Not like we can go back and–”

Dean leans forward in the middle of your sentence and kisses you. It’s like a magnet leading right from your lips to his. And when they meet, it all makes sense. 

He’s pretty sure he’s not able to fool himself about the whole love thing up here the way he was able to down there. Any of his old flames could have crossed his path, found their way back to him, but none of them did. Instead he found you. And maybe Dean understands why. He breaks away, stays close enough that he can feel your breath on his face. 

“If I shouldn’t—” he says, interrupts himself. “If you don’t want me to—” But then you grab his face with your free hand, and you pull him back in. Your kiss is intense, passionate, and it makes Dean’s head spin. He blindly tries to put his beer bottle down, nearly pushes it over, but when he rights it he can bring his hand to your face, cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin and his middle finger just below your ear. 

You must have put your bottle down too, because your hands are on his arms, pulling on him. You taste like spring and lazy afternoons and Dean’s stomach feels the way it feels when he’s swimming - light and airy and like nothing can touch him. Except you. Only you.

One of your hands wanders lower, down his chest and then grabs at his jacket to pull him closer.

“Dean,” you mumble against his lips. But Dean has a hard time opening his eyes. When he does, he expects you to look regretful. But you don’t. You’re looking into his eyes, tugging at his jacket. When Dean understands, he feels like his heart tries to escape through his throat.

“Do you…” he asks, unable to finish the sentence, and you nod.

“Kinda been thinking about it a lot,” you say and Dean grins and then you do too.

“Are you allowed—” he starts, then stops himself, cause the wording makes him sound like an angsty teen. “Can you have sex in heaven, or will you get, I don’t know, evicted?” You giggle at that, shake your head. 

“I have no idea, I haven’t tried it,” you say and then something beautiful comes over your face as you raise your chin. “But I think we should risk it.” 

Dean grins, runs the tip of his nose over yours when a thought crosses his mind, probably the last coherent one for a little while, he assumes. Without letting go of you, he looks up at the wide, star-spattered sky. 

“Look away now, Jack,” he says. When he turns back to you, you’re frowning. 

“Who’s Jack?” you ask and Dean shakes his head, is already on the way to your lips again. 

“I’ll tell you later,” he says and then he kisses you again, and nothing else in the world matters.

“So you know God?” you ask, laughing, your naked back shaking against Dean’s chest. 

The two of you are squished into the backseat of the Impala. It’s almost too small for two adults, but the way it forces your bodies together is perfect. Dean has his arms wrapped around you, grinning at your amusement while he presses his lips to the back of your ear, then moves down and kisses your neck. You taste salty, sweat from your passionate love making already drying. 

“I do,” he says, “both the old one and the new one.” You give an unbelieving huff. 

“What are they like?” you ask. Dean pulls you closer against him, takes a deep breath, thinks for a second. 

“One’s a giant douche, and the current one’s a toddler.” 

You go quiet, and he moves his head to see that you’ve raised your eyebrows. 

“Well, that’s… reassuring,” you say and Dean kisses your cheek. 

“I think he’s doing alright so far,” he says and you lay your hands over where his arms are holding you, lean down and kiss the back of his hand.

“Can’t complain,” you reply. Dean rests his nose against the side of your head, closes his eyes. Just breathes you in, feels you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this content. Not that he’s felt a lot of contentment in his life. But this, right here, is pretty amazing.

“So who are you waiting for?” he asks. You let your head drop back, against his shoulder, look at the ceiling of the car.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You said you thought I looked like I was looking for someone,” he says. “So what about you? Your heaven isn’t taking walks with Suzy all day long, is it?”

He realizes he fucked up when he feels you stiffen.

“I didn’t mean…” he says as you sit up and turn to him.

It’s not easy with the small interior of the car. You need to scoot around, hands resting on the seat, nearly shove Dean in the groin but then you mostly manage, sitting on your left butt cheek, turned to him. Your expression is serious, but you don’t seem angry.

“Maybe it is,” you say. 

“Nothing wrong with it,” Dean quickly corrects himself. He’s very aware that he can see your breasts now, but he keeps his eyes on your face, stays focused. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like–”

“Like there has to be some guy coming?” you interrupt him, and Dean’s not sure how to interpret your tone. You’re not mad, not heated, but also not exactly soft and sweet the way you were a few minutes ago. “Louie McHale who frenched me on prom night?” 

Dean snorts, then clears his throat.

“Maybe not him,” he says with a shrug. You take a slow breath, then let it out.

“Maybe heaven is just me being on my own,” you say, and although your voice is calm, Dean can’t deny the way it stings. “Maybe it’s just about being free of everyone’s expectations, of their judgement.”

“I didn’t mean to judge you,” Dean says. You’re still looking at him, expression neutral.

“Maybe it’s being free,” you say, and it’s quick, but Dean thinks he sees a slight quiver in your bottom lip. “Maybe it’s being at peace.”

And yeah, that Dean gets. He carefully lays his hand on your shoulder, worried you’ll shrug him off, but you don’t.

“It sounds amazing, honestly,” he says. He sees you swallow.

“You don’t think it sounds lonely?” you ask. Dean’s thumb traces your skin.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you think it does?”

It’s like someone letting the air out of you. Your shoulders go lower, your expression falls a little. Your gaze goes down, somewhere into the middle distance.

“I’m good at being lonely, Dean,” you say, and he’s sure this time there’s tears in your voice. “That might not make sense to you, but…”

“Hey, it does,” he says, and you raise your gaze, blinking quickly a few times, and Dean gives you a soft smile. “It absolutely does. I’ve just never been good at it.” You nod slowly, and then, to Dean’s utmost relief, you lean in, press yourself against him. His arms go around you and he holds you close. Sways you, gently, just a little. Both of you are quiet for a while.

“Do you think we can sleep in here without waking up with our spines in our asses?” you ask, and Dean snorts. He nods against you.

“I’m sure we can,” he replies.

“Good,” you say, voice quiet. Dean closes his eyes.

When morning light wakes him to a completely pain-free neck, you’re gone.

He goes to your house. He goes to the woods. The lake. The park with the guy selling ice cream. But he can’t find you anywhere. 

That’s all his days consist of, for a while. Circling between these points, driving slowly, staring out the window. But no sign of you.

He finds your t-shirt in the backseat of the Impala. Wonders how you got home without it, then remembers you’re not home, but somewhere else. He lifts it to his nose, takes a deep breath. Remembers your laugh, the way you felt leaned against him. He holds the shirt out to Miracle, raises his eyebrows. Miracle just tilts his head to the side. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

He didn’t know you could grieve people in heaven. It seems redundant. Heaven’s supposed to be perfect, but he feels himself drift away to thoughts of you every chance he gets. Thinks of your voice, the feel of your skin. The sweet way your breath tasted in the back of the Impala. 

Mary asks him if he’s alright, and then asks about you, like the two things aren’t connected. Giving him an out in case he doesn’t want to talk about it. Later on, when he leaves, he hugs her extra hard. She tells him it’ll be okay. He really hopes it will.

It’s not long after that Sam shows up.

He’s not there one second, and the next one he is. Dean blinks, looking at him, but it’s Sammy alright. He walks forward, pulls his little brother into a rib-breaking hug. Something opens up inside him.

He drives the two of them to their parents’ home. The drive is long, the road open. They don’t talk. They don’t need to. 

Mary is standing outside the house when they pull up in front of it, watering some gardenias. She turns at the sound of the car, and when she sees not one but both of her sons getting out, she drops the hose, runs towards them. She and Sam hold each other close, tears on their faces. John, when he comes out of the house, doesn’t fare much better. Dean watches them, feels his heart run over with love for them. It’s almost painful. It is painful. But in the right way.

It’s when he blinks and looks past his family that he sees you.

You’re standing at the edge of the garden, hands clasped in front of you, watching. Dean blinks again. Sam, Mary and John haven’t noticed you, so he walks around them towards you, but he can’t help himself and by the time he reaches you, he’s jogging. 

“Hey, there you are!” he says when he stops in front of you. He’s too excited to see you to slow himself down. He puts his hands on your arms. He’s missed the feeling of your skin. You look up at him, and there is something unsure in your face. Some doubt. To play over it, Dean takes your hand in his. 

“Come on, I want you to meet Sam,” he says, starts walking towards his family but you stay where you are. He looks back at you. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, smiling softly. “Maybe you two should just spend some time on your own right now.” Dean frowns, takes a step closer to you again, not dropping your hand. 

“I want you to meet him,” he says, not understanding. “You’ll love him. He’s a big dork, but I think you two would really get along.” You blink and for a second Dean’s not sure if there’s tears in your eyes. 

“Just… enjoy this, okay?” you say, laying your other hand over his, squeezing. “There’s no rush. Enjoy your time together.” 

Dean steps even closer to you. He wants to hold you, wants to touch you, but something tells him this isn’t the right moment. 

“I don’t get it,” he says and you raise your shoulders, sigh. 

“You know how it works,” you say, “people show up here when we need them to show up. Maybe Sam finally coming here is a sign that you need him right now.” You swallow, but then force a smile on your face again. 

“Maybe you and I were moving a little fast, and he’s here to remind you of what’s really important.” Dean can only blink, so confused is he by what you’re saying. 

“I…” he starts, but doesn’t know where to go from there. You raise one hand and cup his cheek. 

“It’s okay,” you say, and by the slight tremor in your voice, Dean is pretty sure you’re putting on a brave act. 

He hopes you’ll kiss him then, but you don’t. You look at him for another second and Dean hopes, prays, it’s not so that you can remember his face. Then you drop his hand and walk away.

He looks after you, rooted in place. Sam calls his name behind him and he turns, raises his hand to signal he’ll be there in a second. When he turns back, you’re gone. 

The evening doesn’t end.

The sun goes down, but it stays warm. They sit at the table outside in the garden, empty plates and full bellies. Some lanterns lit, warm light on everyone’s faces. It’s when Mary asks John to help her carry the dessert outside, that Sam turns to his brother. Face serious.

“Who was that woman earlier?” he asks. Dean clears his throat, then reaches for his beer. For a second, he thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about. Maybe that’s what he would have done if he was still on earth. But what would be the point now?

“Someone special,” he opts for. Sam nods in that wise way he does, the way he used to even when they were kids. “Someone… real special.”

“Are you two…” Sam asks, letting the sentence taper out, accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows. Dean huffs, looks out into the dark of the garden. Fireflies dance in the air near an old apple tree.

“I don’t know,” he says, sighs. “Something happened. I think I said something that hurt her. About her heaven being kinda… empty.” He clears his throat again. Feels shame hot and stinging in his heart.

“Ouch,” Sam says, and Dean scoffs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Really put my foot in it.”

They’re quiet for a while, Dean looking at his beer, thumb peeling off the edge of the label. God, to have you here now. Have you meet Sam, listen to you talk to him. Watch you eat, take a drink. Maybe Dean would pull you into his lap when no one is looking, press his nose into the spot under your ear that he found when you were in the backseat of the Impala, the one that made you squeal and giggle. He feels himself smile at the memory. Maybe you’d run your fingers over the side of his face in that way that makes him feel so soft, outside and inside.

“You know,” Sam says and Dean blinks, looks over. “I’m kinda waiting for someone too.” Dean frowns, not understanding.

“You’ve been here for half a day,” he replies. “The three of us not enough action for you?” Sam huffs, looks down and when Dean follows his gaze, he sees the gold band on his little brother’s finger.

“Sammy,” he says, feeling suddenly horrified at the fact that he didn’t notice, or didn’t ask. Hasn’t been bombarding him with questions about everything that’s been going on with him. 

“I just think,” Sam says with a shrug, “I don’t know. We get the people we need when we need them, right? Isn’t that how it works?” 

Dean chews the inside of his cheek. He’s not totally sure what Sam means by that. Yes, that is how it works, but what is he trying to say?

“I thought heaven was supposed to be perfect,” Dean mumbles instead, taking another sip. “If that’s the case, where’s your girl? Why would me and mine get into some dumbass argument? Why would… I mean, it’s not supposed to be like this, right?”

“Dean,” Sam says, but he’s not listening.

“It should just be easy,” he rambles on. “No hurt feelings, no goddamn… just, wanting someone and not having them. How does that make sense? You just end up alone, the way you did down there?” His eyes shoot to Sam, and he clears his throat.

“Not that I was alone down there,” he quickly adds, and Sam raises his hand, telling him it’s okay. “I just… why would I meet her? A complete stranger? And then for it to just not work out, what’s the point?” He finally stops himself, looks at Sam again. His lips are pursed in thought and then he drops his head back, looks at the sky above. Dean follows his gaze, looks too.

More stars than he could count. Hundreds, thousands. He needs to swallow. He waits for it to make him feel small, the way it used to, but it doesn’t.

“It can’t all be perfect,” he hears Sam’s voice after a while. He looks to the side. Sam’s face is in deep concentration. “If everything was perfect, nothing would be. You need a little bit of conflict. Something to work on. To get through.” 

“That doesn’t sound like heaven,” Dean cuts in, and Sam rolls his eyes. It makes Dean feel such fierce love for him. 

“Problems on earth,” Sam continues, “they could be too big. Too painful. Some things that happened, you couldn’t be sure you’d make it through…” Sam stops, clenches his jaw, looks at Dean, and he knows exactly what he means. Damn it, sometimes it felt like his life was filled with more of those things than with anything else. Most of the time it felt like that.

“But here?” Sam continues, then shrugs. “Maybe they just exist so you can learn something about yourself. Or about someone else. Maybe they’re just there to give you that little extra push you need.” 

Dean nods, slowly, even though he’s not sure he totally understands it. He looks off to the side, trying to fit Sam’s words into the context of you. It’s only when he realizes Sam hasn’t looked away that he meets his brother’s gaze again.

“So…” Sam says, eyebrows raised again in that smartass way he does.

“So?” Dean replies, sounding annoyed.

“So, go,” Sam says, shaking his head at Dean’s pigheadedness. “Go, be with her. Tell her. Come on, dude.”

Dean opens his mouth, sure to fire something back, then closes it. Both brothers look to the side when the door that leads from the kitchen to the garden opens, Mary and John walking outside, laughing. 

And that’s when Dean gets it.

Not because of his parents, necessarily. Not because of his brother’s words. Not because whoever Sam had in his life hasn’t shown up either, because maybe Sam needed to spend some time on his big brother first, get his happiness taken care of before he could look to his own. 

He gets up so quickly he nearly sends the chair he’s on flying. Mary and John are just approaching the table, look up in surprise.

“I gotta go,” Dean says, looking between them, then looking at Sam. His parents seem almost worried, but Sam gives him a barely noticeable nod, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just… I gotta go.”

With that, he turns around. Presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek and then he’s off, speed-walking to his car.

It’s morning when he arrives at your place, and he does not question it. It’s just how it has to be. He gets that now.

He takes the steps up to your porch two at a time, then bangs his fist against the door, the mosquito screen clattering. He does it again when you don’t show up within two seconds. He’s terrified you won’t be there. 

He feels nervous and giddy. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt nervous. It was always just mortal fear and pain. This shouldn’t feel as significant as it does compared to the other things, but it does. 

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you appear in the living room, surprise on your face at the loud knocking before your features soften when you see it’s him. You make it to the door, push it open, and Dean needs to take a step back for you to do it, but he immediately steps closer to you again. 

“Dean?” you say, like you’re wondering if he’s taken a wrong turn somewhere. 

He hasn’t. He’s taken a lot in life, but this one is the right one. 

“I always kept hoping for something on the other end of the curve too,” he says and you blink at him, not understanding, but Dean can’t stop himself to explain, just barrels on. 

“I always thought, one more case. One more monster. Then I’m done. But the truth is, I wasn’t ever gonna be done. Living that life was a good way to stop myself from ever having to risk whatever came after.”

He feels breathless almost, but you are listening to him intently, and he needs to make himself understood, needs you to understand how similar you two are. How you’ve been looking for the same thing.

“And heaven… I don’t know, I think I was so terrified of what would come after, that heaven would have been just more of the same. Because allowing myself to want anything else, it just…”

And he’s not sure if you understand. He raises his hands, looks at them in a bid to make himself understood, and then yours go up, and you take his, hold them, almost as if to calm him. He looks back at your face. Your beautiful face. How could he have been so dumb and not seen it. 

“Sam was always a good excuse not to get out,” he continues, and he feels something tight in his throat. It’s a mix of overwhelming love for his brother, and maybe some regret. But mostly love. “He was the excuse. Sammy didn’t need me. He was good on his own, too good, sometimes. But I needed him. Cause with Sam there, I never had to do anything else.” 

He sees you trying to understand what he’s saying, trying to make sense of the mess of words he’s hauling at you. He loves you so much in that moment, so much that if he wasn’t dead already it would kill him all over. 

“That’s why Sam didn’t show up,” he explains to you, and you tilt your head a little, so maybe he is starting to make sense. “He didn’t show up because I wasn’t supposed to use him as an excuse anymore.” You shake your head a little. 

“Excuse for what, Dean?” you ask softly. But he can’t say it with words. Not really. 

He steps closer, wraps your hands that are still intertwined with his around himself and then takes your face in both of his. You look up at him, and he thinks maybe you’re nervous too, or a little scared, but so is he, and maybe that’s okay. 

“To avoid the things that scared me. But meeting you wasn’t scary,” he says, looking deep into your eyes, and it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of forever. “Falling in love with you wasn’t scary. It was the easiest thing in the world.” 

You blink, lashes fluttering, and Dean sees the tears in your eyes. You swallow, your lips move.

“Dean,” you say, voice cracking on those few letters. He waits, waits for you to say something. You press your lips together, still looking into his eyes. “I’m scared.”

He nods. Runs his thumb over your skin, encouraging you to continue.

“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you say, and he understands you perfectly. “I’m scared of…” You take a sharp breath. 

“I know,” Dean says. “Me too.”

You look at him, and then you nod too. Take another breath, slower this time. 

“Okay,” you say, blink, and it makes a single tear dislodge from your eye. “Okay.”

What can Dean do but kiss you?

He didn’t know that’s what it would feel like. It’s terrifying. It’s perfect.

You pull him close, so close that it hurts, and while there shouldn’t be pain in heaven, he understands why it’s there. Why he can feel the way you press your fingers against him, why he can feel the burn of his own tears in his eyes. 

Because it’s part of it. Because it makes the feeling complete.

It’s a week or a year or a second later. John and Mary’s garden again. 

The party is endless. No one gets tired, they never run out of food. No one gets too drunk. If you need a minute, you go inside or walk out to the road. Throw a ball for one of the dogs. You might see a deer in the woods. Freeze and look at it. Wonder if it’s a soul or set dressing.

Dean moves his hand, his fingers brushing over the back of yours before he interlocks his fingers with yours. The deer’s ear twitches, but it doesn’t bolt. Just stands there, in a beam of sunshine, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.

Dean turns his head, looks at you. There’s a soft smile on your face as you watch the beautiful animal, before you turn, look at him.

You’ll go back to the party soon. The dogs, the family, old and new. But for a moment, Dean just wanted to walk along the road with you, listen to the quiet all around. Not alone, not lonely. But a third thing that he hasn’t found the word for yet.

He pulls you close, and you lean your head against his shoulder. There’s a soft breeze. The deer’s ear twitches again, and then it starts walking away. After a while, Dean and you move.

Keep walking down the road, back towards all the sounds and laughter. Round the curve, and you do it holding hands.

Thank you for reading! ♡ Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth. ☕Support me by buying me a coffee!

[puppydogwhitaker]

PSA to fic readers, it is so hard to freak a fic writer out with your comments. we are just as crazy about the fic as you are.

tell me you love it. tell me it made you slam your laptop shut. tell me you brought it up at your college lecture about kink. key smash in all caps. quote the passage that made you think. i promise, we’ll love it.

we spend hours thinking about it, writing it, editing it. there is no such thing as over enthusiasm when you’re talking about our fics to us. we are sooooo weird about them, i assure you. you are just matching my freak. the freak bar is already set so high. feel no anxiety about enjoying something and letting the creator know.

[scarletqueenx]

couldn’t have said it better

[lila-lou]

✨ Masterlist - Loud✨

Loud

Loud - Pt. 2

Loud - Pt. 3

Loud - Pt. 4 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 5

Loud - Pt. 6

Loud - Pt. 7 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 8

Loud - Pt. 9 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 10 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 11 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 12 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 13 18+ only!

Loud - Pt. 14

Loud - Pt. 15

Loud - Pt. 16

Loud - Pt. 17

Loud - Pt. 18 18+ only! (The End)

Sneak peek 1

Sneak peek 2 18+ only!

[scarletqueenx]

the most sweet, hot, messy, beautiful and amazing soldier boy fic i’ve read. forever obsessed with them

[letterstotheflre]

FELL FROM THE PEDESTAL, RIGHT DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE || FRANK LANDON

summary: you trip in the shower and are forced to make the second visit of the week to the e.r. the only thing is, you didn’t tell frank about either accidents. [frank langdon x clumsy!reader]

cw: none really. possible concussion? first time writing langdon so i apologise if he’s ooc i’m still getting used to him. oh and medical inaccuracies (not a doctor nor from the us so i have no idea how the healthcare system works there)

word count: 2k

a/n: uhhh this turned out a little angstier than i imagined lol i wanted to do something cute but idk it turned into this so whatever. this was also supposed to be part of a much bigger fic w this dynamic but i was really struggling to write it so i think i’m gonna write all those moments separately instead of compiling everything into a huge fic.

The emergency department is loud. There’s lots of beeping, nurses and doctors yelling at each other, gurney wheels squeaking along the floor, painful screams and moans, a cacophony of different conversations and you can even hear an ambulance siren approaching. 

It makes the pain in your head throb as the nurse guides you to the examination room. She takes your vitals once more. While she slips off the cuff she used to check your blood pressure from around your arm, the doctor that will oversee your case steps into the room. 

It’s a young woman, her mousy brown hair up in a braid. She adjusts her glasses. “Hi.” The way  she speaks is soft, a stark contrast to the deafening sounds outside the room. She gives you a small smile. “Um, I’m Dr. King. What’s brought you here today?”

“I, uh, I fell and hit my head,” you point to the left side of your temple. “It’s been hurting a lot. 

“Okay,” she nods and slips on a pair of blue gloves, approaching the side of your bed. She feels along your temple, feeling the bump that has formed there. She sits down on a rolling stool. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Like nine hours? A little more, I think.”

Dr. King hums. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I was a bit dizzy at first, but then it went away.”

“Did you lose consciousness when you fell?”

You open your mouth to answer. Before you can even make a sound there’s a knock on the door that is more a formality than asking for permission and the curtain is drawn just so that a head and half of a torso can poke in and say, “Mel, our patient from North 4 is back from his MRI, he’s–”

Frank freezes when his eyes finally stray away from Mel and he realises that her patient is not a random person. The change is barely noticeable– his back straightens, shoulders rolling back and gaze sharp as he analyses every inch of your body in a matter of seconds. He checks you for any obvious life-threatening injuries from head to toe, stares a moment too long at the ugly bruise that peeks out from the waistband of your low-rise shorts, and then his eyes finally go up to your sheepish smile. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly. Frank’s jaw relaxes the tiniest bit.

Mel looks uncomfortably between the two of you, eyes going back and forth between her coworker and patient. “Oh, um, do you have the results?” she asks. Frank hands her the tablet he was holding without sparing her a glance. “Right…” she mumbles.

She taps and looks at the screen for a few seconds before looking between the two of you again. “Um, I’ll just…” she makes a weird gesture to the door and gives you an awkward smile. “I’ll be right back,” she tells you, though you both know she won’t be coming back now that Frank is here.

She cradles the tablet against her chest and fumbles with the curtain in her hasty getaway. She practically scampers away, closes the door behind her with a tight smile and then it’s silent. 

Frank stays rooted to where he’s standing for a long, tense minute. You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip and watch him near the hospital bed you’re sitting on. His fingers brush along your exposed thigh on his way to grab your hand. In a hushed voice, he asks, “What happened?”

“I…” You look everywhere but his face– the ceiling, the floor, the rolling stool Mel had been sitting on. You settle on the wall, but Frank moves his head so that you have no choice but to look at him. “I fell. In the shower,” you mumble, embarrassed.

His hold on your hand tightens. “Baby,” he sighs. “I told you to get a shower mat,” he scolds lightly. 

“I haven’t found one in the shade I want,” you explain for the fight time with a whine. The high-pitch of your own voice makes your head throb and you wince. 

Frank catches onto your grimace immediately. His hand cradles the right side of your head and you lean into his touch. “D’you hit your head?”

You nod. “It’s been hurting since I fell.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “You might have a concussion. I’m gonna do some tests, all right?”

He lets go of your hand and head and you already miss the warmth of his touch. He takes out a small flashlight from the pocket of his scrub and turns it on. He points the light tight at your left eye and then switches to the other side. “Okay,” he says and turns the flashlight off. “Follow my finger.” 

You follow it dutifully. He moves his finger up and down on one side, slides it along the other side and repeats the same motion. “Good, now stand up, honey.” You get up from the bed, but the small jump to the floor makes the bruise on your hip flare up and you grimace. Frank’s eyes are already on your side, calculating. “We’re gonna do an x-ray,” he concludes. 

He then moves to the other side of the room and stands against the wall. “Walk towards me in a straight line.” You do as he says. Every step makes you wince a little, but you’re 98% sure it’s only because of the bruising and not because a concussion has altered your facial nerves. 

Once you reach him, you smile at Frank. “How did I do?” 

“Too slow. We might have to open up your skull to fix it,” the corners of his mouth twitch. Knowing you’ll worry too much until he confesses he was only joking he assures you, “Everything looks normal. I’m still ordering an MRI to make sure there’s no damage inside, though.”

His hand gently goes to the back of your head and he uses his hold on you to bring you closer to him, his lips brushing against your forehead. You sigh. “Is it gonna take long?” Frank raises an eyebrow questioningly. “It’s just– I have my ceramics class in an hour,” you explain.

“It’ll be at least an hour, maybe two. We’re a little backed up today.” And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a pointed look, “If you had come in earlier you wouldn’t miss your class.”

You have the decency to look ashamed. 

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” you whisper with a small shrug. What you really mean is ‘I didn’t want to be a bother again’. You’ve been to the ER twice this week. Four times already this month, and you don’t even want to think about how many times you’ve ended up in the hospital the past year. 

It’s no secret you are a clumsy person. When you were younger, it was endearing. Now, it’s embarrassing. Annoying. You try your best to avoid potential accidents: you wear flip flops instead of slippers so you don’t slide along the floor and use oven mittens every time you bake to avoid burning your hands– just to name a few adjustments you’ve made to your everyday life. But no matter how hard you try, you still trip over your own shoes and cut yourself while cooking and bump into tables and doorways and hit your head when kneeling down to reach something under the dinner table. 

You hate it. But Frank, oh sweet caring Frank who understands and tries his best to help. He’s switched most of the glass bottles and tuppers and glasses for plastic or aluminium so that when you inevitably drop something while cooking or setting the table you don’t cut yourself. He’s added padding to the legs of the couch and bed to protect your toes. When you go out, he pays close attention to you and your surroundings: he steers you away from a light pole you would’ve hit and stops you from crossing the street with a red light on. 

He’s done all that and much more. Without you even asking. And he’s never once complained about your penchant for unfortunate mishaps. He never got mad at you. How could he, when it’s your own clumsiness that brought you to him in the first place? 

He knows you don’t do it on purpose, that it’s not something you do because you think it’s cute and fun, nor an elaborate plan to sneak into his workplace. He doesn’t enjoy the fact that you get hurt so often, of course he doesn’t, but he understands that it’s not something you can control. And what is he to do but take care of you when you need him?

Frank exhales sharply. “You’re not a bother.” You try to say something but he cuts you off before you can make a sound, “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Frank, it’s the second time this week I’ve come here,” you deadpan.

He blinks, baffled. “What do you mean second?” Shit. His face turns serious, really serious, and you know he’s angry now. “When the hell were you here?”

You scrunch your face at your accidental confession. “Tuesday,” you mutter.

“Tuesday,” Frank parrots. “And why am I finding out 3 days later, exactly?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother you!” you exclaim, but your loud voice makes your head throb once more. You clutch your temple and close your eyes, the fluorescent light suddenly too bright. 

Frank combs his fingers through his hair in frustration and pulls at the roots. His nostrils flare as he exhales. “Come here,” he mumbles. With a hand on the small of your back he leads you back to the bed and, once you’re sat, he turns the light off and sits down on the stool. “Better?” 

You nod. He stares at you, elbows on his knees, and licks his lips. “Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He’s talking about your Tuesday visit to the ER, but he also means why didn’t he know you were there today.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you,” you repeat. You play with your fingers as you speak. “You are so busy and I don’t want to annoy you with my silly stuff when you have patients that really need your help. Like, right now, you are here with me and there’s somebody out there probably dying that needs you.”

“You need help too, you might have a concussion.”

“Yeah, because I fell in the fucking shower like an idiot,” you scoff. “It’s always something stupid that happens to me and those people out there are actually sick and I take up your time because I’m too stupid to even shower by myself.”

Frank sighs and gets up, hands reaching for your face. He cradles your cheeks in his palms, heart twisting at the angry tears gathering in your waterline. “You are not stupid,” he says firmly. “You just have a… particular proclivity for accidents involving stationary objects.”

You snort. The corners of his mouth tick upwards, satisfied that his comment managed to cut through the tension. 

His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. Softly, he tilts your chin up and leans down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss that makes the pain in your head subside. When you part, you rest your forehead against his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, one of his hands gently massaging your scalp while the other rubs your back up and down. It’s the first time since your fall this morning that you feel any sort of relief. 

“I’m serious,” his voice rumbles beneath his sternum. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And I want to take care of you when you need me. You could never bother me when you’re in pain.”

He’s been your doctor for almost a year, even before you started dating. He’s not planning on stopping taking care of you, especially not when it’s one of the things he knows how to do best.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Next time you get hurt, come find me, okay?”

You wrap your arms around his middle and burrow your face into his chest, the top of his scrub scratching your skin a little. “Okay.”

[geminiwritten]

hangman's guide to getting the girl (one) ; robert 'bob' floyd

summary: everyone knows you and bob have a thing for each other—but neither of you will make the first move. so, with the whole squad in hawai‘i for maverick’s ceremonial honour, hangman decides it’s time to intervene.

notes: finally, i present to you... bob's version of the plan (but also kind of entirely different, lol). i honestly have so much to say about this fic, but i can't write an essay here so... firstly, i'm sorry for the word count, omg. secondly, i'm sorry of the smut is mid, it was so hard to write after thousands and thousands of words of yearning. and lastly... please, please let me know what you think! this fic took everything out of me and i need to know all of your thoughts and opinions! (i'm actually a little nervous about it, haha)

warnings: lots of yearning (and lots of internal pining), jealousy, tension, italics, horny thoughts, slight miscommunication, bob is adorably clueless, possibly incorrect hawai'i details and potentially incorrect pearl harbour details (this is based on a lot of googling and talking to a family-friend who visited pearl harbour while they were in the australian navy), swearing, alcohol, a little angst, and SMUT (making out, grinding, a bit of boob worship bob, unprotected p in v, and going panty-less in public) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 16500 (32476)

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

your callsign is blink

“No, because listen—” Mickey says, holding his phone up in front of Natasha’s face, “if we’d taken that one connecting flight in San Jose instead of direct? I’d be nine thousand points closer to elite status. Nine thousand, Nix. That’s almost… that’s like… half a lounge pass.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “And for the nine thousandth time—I don’t care.”

“Yeah, man, if I hear you say lounge pass one more time, I’m gonna stuff you into an overhead locker,” Reuben mutters.

Mickey huffs, shoving his phone into his back pocket. “Fine—whatever. You people have no sense of justice. I should’ve hit platinum this year but—”

“Mick,” Reuben cuts in, sharp.

Mickey holds his stare, defiant for half a second, then sighs hard and shuts his mouth. Natasha smiles to herself, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder as they shuffle toward the short line at the plane door.

Bob spots you right near the front—your head tilted toward Bradley as you talk. The two of you booked separately so your seats ended up further back, not with the rest of the group. And he’s not jealous. Not really. He doesn’t care that Bradley gets to sit next to you for six long hours in those narrow little plane seats. His arm pressed against yours. Maybe you’ll even fall asleep on his shoulder.

He doesn’t care. Not at all.

“Keep staring like that and Rooster's gonna catch fire.”

Bob whips around to find Jake watching him with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m not staring,” Bob mutters.

Natasha glances over her shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring all morning, Floyd.”

“Why don't you just ask Rooster to switch seats?” Reuben asks.

Bob’s cheeks flush with heat. “I don’t—I’m not—why would I—”

“Your boarding pass, please, sir,” the flight attendant cuts in.

Bob hands his ticket over with a tight-lipped smile, trying not to combust as the rest of his squad smother their giggles behind him. The flight attendant points him down the aisle, saying something about on the right, and he steps through after Natasha—the others trailing close behind.

And he can’t help it. The second he steps into the aisle, his eyes search for you—but they find Bradley first, his head sticking up above the rows of seats. He glances up and spots the group, a bright smile breaking across his face as he nudges the person beside him. You, obviously.

Then your head pops up over the seats and your smile knocks the air right out of Bob’s lungs. You wave frantically, eyes sparkling even under the bleak airplane lighting. He almost trips over his own feet as he shuffles down the aisle—and behind him, Jake doesn’t miss a beat.

“Watch your step, Floyd,” he says, voice smug. “I knew you were falling for her, but I didn’t think literally.”

Bob shoots him a flat look over his shoulder, biting back what he really wants to say when he spots a little kid within earshot. “Cut it out.”

Jake raises both hands in surrender—but the look on his face says he’s going to do anything but cut it out.

After an awkward shuffle past a family trying to wrestle their toddler into a seatbelt, Natasha announces that she’s found everyone’s seats. She quickly tosses her backpack into the overhead locker and claims the window seat. Mickey and Reuben stash their bags and slide into two of the four middle seats, Javy following suit. Then Bob drops into the seat beside Natasha—which means, to his dismay, Jake is directly across the aisle.

By the time everyone is settled—belts clipped and phones on airplane mode—the plane is almost full. There are people chatting excitedly, parents yelling at kids to sit still, and flight attendants walking the aisles in preparation for takeoff. Natasha already has her neck pillow wrapped around her shoulders, her head tilted against the window, eyes shut and looking perfectly content. Until—

Mickey leans forward, raising his voice above the chatter. “Did you guys know the last eruption of—”

“No,” Natasha snaps, eyes flying open.

Mickey hesitates, but continues anyway. “—Mauna Loa was in—”

“No!” she says again, leaning across Bob now. “I swear to all the Gods, Garcia. If you don’t shut the hell up for the next six hours, I’m going to find an active volcano to throw you in the second we land. Got it?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t dare laugh—not when Natasha’s in a mood like this.

“Okay, damn.” Mickey raises both hands. “Sue me for trying to get in the vacation spirit.”

Natasha rolls her eyes and flops back in her seat. “It’s not a vacation.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah—right. So why do I have my vacation sandals on, then?”

Bob’s almost positive Natasha would have leapt across the aisle and strangled Mickey if it weren’t for the captain’s announcement crackling through the overhead speakers. Her jaw ticks, dark eyes narrowed across the aisle at where Mickey is now sinking back in his seat. The others are giggling like idiots, holding their hands over their mouths as the captain talks about takeoff and then instructs the cabin crew to start the life jacket demonstration.

Bob tries to pay attention. He really does. But he can hear your quiet laughter, and he can hear your muttered voice telling Bradley to cut it out. Whatever it is. You’re only five rows back—yeah, he counted—and he knows the sound of your voice better than he knows his own.

And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he knows just a little too much about you and not nearly enough about himself. Not enough to understand why he feels like this. Not enough to convince himself you could possibly feel the same way. Not enough to ask you out instead of pining over youlike some pathetic loser.

Yeah. He’s doomed.

When Bob finally blinks and returns to his own body, takeoff is over. The plane is cutting through the clouds, still ascending, and Natasha is back to leaning against the window with her eyes closed.

And it’s at this very moment that Bob regrets not packing his headphones.

“So.” Jake leans toward the aisle, grinning. “You and Blink, huh?”

Bob rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, Hangman. Just drop it.”

“If it’s nothing, then why would I have to drop it?”

Bob gives him a look. “I said drop it.”

“And I’m just asking what it is I’m being told to drop,” Jake presses.

Bob sighs, tipping his head back against the headrest. “Why do you even care?”

Jake’s grin sharpens. “Care about what?”

“Oh my God,” Bob mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

Jake chuckles, shifting as much as he can in the narrow seat to face Bob. “Look, I swear I’m not just trying to be a dick. I see the way you look at her—we all do. And if you weren’t so stuck in your head about it, you’d see that she’s just as into you.”

Bob doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s not about to admit anything, and he sure as hell isn’t about to let Jake’s ridiculous idea get any traction.

Because you’re not into him. He knows that for a fact.

Jake rolls his eyes. “And since you refuse to believe me, and since you’re too chickenshit to ask her out, I figured this vacation might be a good chance to prove it.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mumbles, eyes still shut.

Bob ignores her. “Prove what?”

“That she’s into you,” Jake says, exasperated.

Bob frowns. “Prove it how?”

Jake settles back in his seat, smirking. “Oh, you know… a little proximity, a little orchestration, a few strategic interventions.”

“Strategic interventions?” Bob echoes.

Jake just grins.

“Like—” Bob’s brows pull tighter. “Like what?”

“Like this.”

Before Bob can get another word out, Jake is on his feet. Bob’s eyes snap up to the little seatbelt sign overhead—no longer lit, which means passengers are free to move around the cabin. He fumbles with his own belt and pushes halfway out of his chair, craning his neck over the back of the seat to see where Jake’s headed.

Bob’s stomach drops when Jake stops beside you and Bradley—but when he shifts a little higher, he sees you’ve got your headphones on and your eyes shut.

Jake leans over you, muttering something to Bradley.

Bradley frowns, his face twisting into something between disbelief and irritation. He shakes his head.

Jake’s eyes widen, and he murmurs something else, pointing a finger toward Bob.

Bradley glances at Bob—still frowning, but now with a hint of confusion.

“Bobby,” Jake calls, waving him over.

Bob sinks back into his seat, exhaling hard. What the fuck has he done to deserve this?

With a deep breath, he pushes the belt clip off his lap and stands, making his way down the narrow aisle toward where Jake is standing with a very convincing look of concern on his face.

“Come on, Rooster,” Jake says. “Do you really want to be the reason Bob goes into anaphylactic shock?”

Bob’s looks at Jake, eyes wide. “The reason I what?”

“I told you he’s not allergic to peaches,” Bradley says.

Bob frowns. “I’m not allergic to—”

“Oh, hey guys.” You slip your headphones off, blinking up at Jake and Bob. “What are you doing back here?”

“Bob’s severely allergic to peaches,” Jake says quickly, “and the guy in front of him just opened a peach cup.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Do you need to swap—”

“But the thing is,” Jake cuts in, leaning closer to you, “he gets super sick if he’s sitting in an aisle seat—which is why I was asking Rooster, here, to be a gentleman and swap seats.”

Silence.

Your brows pull together. Jake looks at Bradley. Bradley looks at Bob. Bob can’t stop looking at you.

Then Bradley looks at you and—it clicks.

“Okay, fine,” he says, unclipping his belt. “Only because Bob dying would be a really shit start to the holiday.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as Bradley slides out of his seat and into the aisle—and Jake looks like a kid on Christmas morning. Bob can feel his pulse thrumming under his skin as everyone makes the awkward shuffle to give him space to squeeze in beside you.

His heart stutters when you look up at him with that soft little smile. The one you give him every morning from behind your coffee mug. The one you wear with a nod on the tarmac right before you climb into your jet. The one that’s been showing up in his dreams more than he cares to admit.

With a steadying breath—laced with your intoxicating perfume—he drops into Bradley’s seat. His arm brushes yours, his knee bumps your thigh, and when he glances over and finds you right there… God. He’s lightheaded.

“Alright, you crazy kids,” Jake says with a grin. “Mommy and Daddy are just up ahead if you need anything. Don’t be too loud, and keep your hands to yourself.” He pauses, smile sharpening. “I’m looking at you, Bobby.”

Bob can feel his whole face burning as he stares back at Jake, lips pressed into a thin line. He can’t start cursing him out in the middle of the plane. And he definitely can’t say what he really wants to say with you sitting right between them, rolling your eyes and laughing.

Laughing like you don’t notice the way his heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.

Like you don’t see the smirk Bradley gives him now, finally in on Jake’s stupid scheme.

Like you don’t catch the little wink Jake shoots over his shoulder before he walks back to his seat with Bradley in tow—both already arguing about which one of them is mommy and which is daddy.

Bob shifts carefully in his seat, trying not to jostle you too much as he finds his belt and clips it—but your thigh stays pressed to his anyway. And when he finally settles, you turn toward him with that same warm smile, cheeks faintly pink.

“I didn’t know you were allergic to peaches,” you say, voice soft enough that it’s almost swallowed by the hum of the plane.

Bob feels his pulse trip over itself. “I’m—I, uh… only found out recently. Really recently.”

Your lips twitch like you’re trying not to laugh. “That’s rough. Peaches are delicious.”

“They’re dangerous,” he murmurs before he can stop himself, eyes flicking to the peachy colour of your lip balm.

You nudge him with your elbow—not hard, just enough to send a spark up his arm. “Good thing you’re sitting with me then.”

Bob can’t breathe for a second.

Then something shifts—so subtle he almost misses it. You adjust in your seat, turning your knees a little more toward him, your shoulder brushing his. You’re close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, warm and sweet, and it takes everything in him not to lean into it.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods—too fast. “Yep. Great. Perfectly fine.”

Your smile softens, brows pulling together just slightly. “Jake didn’t bully you into this, did he?”

Bob almost laughs. Almost. “A little. But I figured sitting with you was better than Fanboy and his Hawai’i facts.”

“And the peaches,” you add, eyes sparkling.

Bob chuckles. “And the peaches.”

The next hour slips by in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silence. At some point, the plane dips slightly through a pocket of turbulence, and your shoulder knocks gently into his. You mumble a quiet apology, but you don’t pull away.

If anything—you gravitate closer.

Bob swears he stops breathing when your head softly rests against his shoulder, your hair brushing his jaw when you shift to get comfortable. You let out a soft sigh, warm through the cotton of his shirt, and Bob has never been more aware of another human being in his life.

He tries to focus on the in-flight map glowing on the screen in front of him. He tries to remember how to sit normally, breathe normally, exist normally. But then his eyes drop to where your fingers rest, just barely brushing his armrest, and he wonders if you even notice how close you are. How close he is.

Then a shadow passes over him. Slowly. And his gaze flicks up to find Bradley.

He’s grinning like an idiot, pausing just long enough to catch Bob’s eye and wink—slow, smug, deeply unhelpful. Bob glares, as much as a man with a sleeping passenger on his shoulder can glare, but Bradley just suppresses a laugh and keeps walking toward the bathrooms.

Eventually—even with his racing heart—Bob starts to relax. The warmth of you curled against him, the quiet hum of the engines, the dimmed cabin lights... it all blurs together. His chin dips, his breathing evens, and without meaning to, he drifts off too.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps like that—your cheek tucked against his shoulder, his head resting lightly against yours—but it’s the soft chime of the speakers that yanks him back to consciousness.

“Cabin crew, please prepare the cabin for descent.”

Bob blinks awake, disoriented, momentarily unsure where he is. And then you shift against him, lifting your head with a groggy little noise that hits him square in the chest.

“Oh—sorry,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Bob sits up straighter, heat flooding his cheeks. “No, no—you’re fine. Totally fine.”

You smile, still sleepy, still warm. “You’re comfortable.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just smiles—face burning, heart racing—and glances down at his lap, wondering if you could possibly hear the pounding of his heart over the hum of the plane engines.

By the time the plane lands, Bob is almost sure he’s sweat through his shirt. He keeps his arms pinned to his sides as he shuffles out behind you, eyes fixed on the back of your head and definitely not on the way your butt looks in the soft, slinky lounge pants you’d worn for the flight.

After the chaos of disembarking and baggage claim—which ended in tears after Mickey accidentally knocked a little boy over while yanking his suitcase off the conveyor belt—the whole team heads out to the taxi rank. Bradley and Reuben are already complaining about how hungry they are, Jake is unbuttoning his shirt because he’s too hot, and Natasha is about five seconds away from getting her own Netflix special about how she went from naval aviator to homicidal murderer.

The team splits into two cabs, and for the first time all day, everything actually goes quiet. For the first time there are thirty minutes of blissful, air-conditioned silence—no trivia, no yelling, no crying children—just the low rumble of traffic and the faint rush of waves as the coast gets closer.

And when the resort finally comes into view, even Mickey stops trying to make small talk with the driver.

It’s huge and bright and tropical, with balconies stacked around every level and palm trees swaying over the massive pool that stretches right along the beachfront. There are clusters of lounge chairs tucked beneath striped umbrellas and shade sails, and two bars anchored at each end of the sprawling pool deck.

It’s paradise.

“Goddamn,” Javy mutters. “This place is nice.”

“Yeah,” Natasha says as she marches toward the lobby doors, “and it’s going to be a whole lot nicer when I’m lying on a lounge chair with a drink in my hand at least twenty feet away from you idiots.”

The sliding doors whoosh open, and the rush of cool air feels like a blessing. The lobby is enormous—open ceilings, carved wooden beams, tropical flowers arranged in towering vases, and the steady trickle of a waterfall somewhere off to the right. There are people everywhere. Families wrangling kids and suitcases, couples in matching outfits, honeymooners draped over each other like they’re allergic to personal space.

And somehow the Dagger Squad still manages to be the loudest thing in the room.

Jake stops dead in the doorway, sunglasses still perched low on his nose. “Now this,” he says, beaming, “is what I call a vacation.”

“It’s not a vacation,” Natasha mutters—for what must be the tenth time today.

“Does this place have a lounge?” Mickey asks, stepping in front of Jake. “Like, a member’s lounge or VIP lounge? I feel like this place should have a lounge. Someone ask about a lounge.”

Reuben elbows him. “Mick, enough about the lounge or I’m shoving your head in that fountain.”

Bob hangs back a step, letting you move ahead of him in the line for the check-in desk. Your bag bumps against your hip when you shift, and Bob has to pretend he’s studying a carved tiki statue so he doesn’t keep staring at you like some sex-starved lunatic.

But then Jake leans around him and whispers, “Is this your plan? Just stand really close and stare at her all vacation?”

Bob’s entire spine locks up.

“Seresin,” he warns under his breath.

Jake smirks. “Just saying, I don’t think it’s gonna work.”

Before Bob can snap back, the front desk clerk waves everyone forward with a too-wide smile—her eyes flicking up and down the group like she can’t decide which one she wants to eat first.

“Welcome! Are we all checking in this afternoon?”

Natasha steps forward with the confirmation email pulled up. “Yep. Five rooms under Mitchell, but one checked in yesterday.”

The clerk taps a few keys and scans her computer screen. “That’s right. Captain Mitchell arrived yesterday evening. Is this the rest of the party?”

Natasha nods.

“You’re all Navy, right?” the clerk asks, brows lifting. “Like... pilots?”

Mickey groans. “Here we go.”

Jake steps forward, flashing his most charming smile. “Yes ma’am. And as the most decorated pilot in the group—”

Natasha actually barks out a laugh.

You snort behind your hand.

Bob rolls his eyes.

But the clerk doesn’t notice the chaos—she’s too busy tapping away on her computer. “Alright, I’ve got your room assignments right here…”

Bob’s pulse jumps.

Jake leans forward, elbow on the counter, eyes sparkling.

Natasha crosses her arms like she’s preparing for war.

Mickey mutters something about hoping for ocean views.

And you glance back at Bob with a soft little smile—completely unaware that he’s seconds away from cardiac arrest.

“Alright.” The clerk lays four sets of keycards on the counter. “You’ve got three twin rooms and one king.”

Jake’s eyes go wide.

Bob’s stomach drops.

“Room 301, Seresin and Machado. Room 302, Bradshaw and Fitch.”

Jake looks at Bob, then at you, then back at the clerk.

“Room 303, Garcia and...”

The clerk squints at her screen. Bob’s heart skips. Jake looks like he’s about to explode.

“...and Floyd,” she says finally.

Bob lets out a soft exhale—part relief, part disappointment—and he can almost swear he sees your shoulders sag, just a little.

“What?” Jake snaps. “That’s ridiculous! We’re wasting a king bed on the two girls?”

The clerk’s eyes widen as she slowly pushes the keycards across the counter.

Natasha turns to Jake, lips curling into a smirk. “Who says it’s wasted?”

Jake sputters. “That’s—no. Hold on. You can’t just—what does that mean?”

Natasha grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then she shoots you a cheeky wink and snatches two of the keycards off the counter.

The clerk clears her throat, gesturing toward the elevators. “Your rooms are all on the third floor. Elevators just to the left.”

The rest of the group grab their keycards as Natasha starts tugging you toward the elevators. Jake trudges close behind, muttering something about injustice, and Bradley, Javy, and Reuben crowd in last. Bob lingers for a second, tucking his keycard into his pocket and watching the elevator doors ease shut.

Mickey nudges him. “You good, buddy?”

Bob flinches slightly. “Yeah. Yep. Totally.”

“Cool,” Mickey says, stepping forward to aggressively mash the elevator button. “Because I’m showering first. And if this ocean view isn’t pristine, I’m writing an email.”

Bob huffs half a laugh through his nose. “Sure.”

The second elevator dings and they both file in. Mickey keeps rambling—something about how he expects to see dolphins every morning and can’t wait to drink out of a coconut—but Bob’s not listening.

He’s thinking about you. Again. As usual.

But for some reason, right now, right here, he can’t make himself stop. Normally he can shove it down, tell himself it’s an unrealistic fantasy, remind himself you’re just his friend, his squadmate. Someone he cares about, sure, but not someone he gets to have.

Except… every time he tries to tell himself that, he sees your smile. Soft, pink-cheeked, eyes sparkling like there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right there beside him.

And God. It hits him in the chest. Every damn time.

Could Jake be right? Could you really feel the same way about him?

Surely not. Right? You’ve never asked him out. And sure, you flirt sometimes, but the whole squad does. It’s practically part of the job description at this point. And maybe you try to sit next to him whenever you’re at The Hard Deck, but that’s only because you get along so well. Right?

Jake’s not right. He can’t be.

The ding of the elevator yanks Bob out of his thoughts, and the doors slide open onto the third floor. The hallway is warm and bright, lined with framed watercolour paintings of hibiscus flowers, plush little sofas tucked between every second door, and the faint smell of sunscreen drifting from someone’s open door.

“Look, Mick,” Reuben calls, already one foot in his room, “here’s your lounge.”

He points at one of the small sofas, and Bradley snorts before they both disappear inside. Mickey just rolls his eyes and continues down the hall until he stops at room 303.

He swipes the key and shoves the door open with a grin. “Home sweet home.”

Across the hall, behind room 304’s door, Bob hears your voice. Your laughter—light, familiar, stupidly gorgeous.

And with a soft exhale that feels more dramatic than it should, he turns and steps into his room.

Not your room.

Not this time.

But the ache in his chest says he’s already imagining the next time Jake meddles.

And—God help him—he might just be on board with it.

After settling in, showering, spending twenty minutes doom-scrolling and another ten on the balcony looking for dolphins, Bob and Mickey finally make their way down to the hotel restaurant. It’s almost seven p.m., and Mav has organised for the whole group to meet for dinner to go over work-related requirements before the Dagger Squad are unleashed on Oʻahu.

Almost everyone is already there by the time they walk in—everyone but you and Natasha.

“Ooh, shrimp,” Mickey says immediately, rushing up to the table with zero hesitation and snatching the biggest prawn off the platter sitting in the centre.

Maverick stands, brows raised. “Nice to see you too, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mav,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of shrimp.

Bob gives a short nod. “Captain.”

“Bob,” Maverick says, amused, before taking his seat again.

Mickey pulls out the chair beside Reuben, and Bob grabs the next one along—leaving two empty seats between him and Bradley. Jake catches Bob’s eye from across the table with a knowing smirk, wiggling his eyebrows like he orchestrated this exact seating plan. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll sit when you get here.

And as if the universe is working off Jake’s script, Maverick stands again.

“Ladies. Nice of you to finally join us.”

Bob twists in his seat to look—and that’s when he forgets how to breathe entirely.

He didn't expect you to change—and even if he had, he would’ve pictured shorts or something soft and easy like your flight pants—but you… you’re wearing a sundress. Light, floaty, soft in a way that belongs to somewhere warm and ocean-bright like Oʻahu. Not that you don’t look gorgeous in your service khakis or your flight suit—you do, painfully so—but this is different. There’s something about the way the fabric moves when you walk, catching the light each time you step closer, that knocks every coherent thought straight out of Bob’s head.

He tries to school his expression into something normal, something friendly and casual, but his pulse is thundering and his palms are suddenly warm. All he can think about is the press of your head against his shoulder on the plane and how he can still feel it, like a phantom touch.

Natasha takes the seat beside Bradley without hesitation, and you slide into the last empty chair beside Bob. So close he can smell your sunscreen. So close that the air shifts when you sit—warm and sweet and dizzying in a way he’s not prepared for.

Bob swallows, mouth dry.

He is so, so screwed.

“Yum, shrimp,” Natasha says, leaning across the table to stab one with her fork while Mickey glares.

You glance at Bob as you pull your chair in, sliding your napkin onto your lap with a small smile that makes his heart knock dangerously against his ribs. He’s just about to open his mouth to ask how your room is when a waiter appears beside him, carrying another elaborate food platter.

“The fruit platter,” he announces, angling it toward the table.

You gasp. “Oh! No, I’m so sorry—could you actually put that down the other end? He’s allergic to peaches.”

The waiter freezes, eyes wide. “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

Bob’s cheeks heat as every pair of eyes at the table snap toward him. “No worries,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

The waiter circles around and sets the platter down in front of Jake and Bradley, who are trying—very unsuccessfully—to hold back their laughter, hands clamped over their mouths, faces turning red, shoulders shaking.

As soon as he leaves, Maverick turns to Bob. “You’re not—”

“It’s new,” Bob blurts. “I—uh—just found out.”

Maverick frowns. Jake wheezes. Mickey eats another prawn.

“Right,” Mav says slowly. “Well—you should really update your medical records.”

Bob nods, once, tight. “Yeah. Will do.”

There’s a brief moment of quiet while Jake and Bradley finally manage to choke down their laughter—then Maverick clears his throat and launches into logistics. He talks through the week ahead—tomorrow free, Pearl Harbor the day after, two more free days, then the gala on Friday night after an early-morning rehearsal. Simple enough. Easy to follow.

But Bob hears almost none of it.

He nods when everyone else nods, laughs when the table laughs, eats when food is served without really tasting a thing. Because you’re beside him—close enough that your knee brushes his under the table every now and then, close enough that he can smell the floral hotel soap still clinging to your skin, close enough that he keeps catching your hand almost resting over his on the table. Like gravity itself is pulling you toward him.

Mickey keeps reaching for shrimp. Natasha keeps stealing them. Jake keeps watching Bob like a man waiting for fireworks. And every time you lean in to speak to Javy or Maverick across from you, the sleeve of your sundress slides a little down your shoulder and Bob forgets what language is.

By the time dessert comes out, he’s ruined.

Fully, hopelessly gone.

And when Mav finally calls it a night, the sky outside is dark, the pool lights glow turquoise, and the night air feels thick and lazy, like everyone is finally ready to crash.

Chairs scrape, napkins drop, and everyone slowly stands and starts filing out of the restaurant. Maverick peels off first, heading for the block of lifts at the far end of the building that go all the way up to the top floor—to his fancy executive suite.

The rest of the squad drifts toward the main elevators—laughing, yawning, nudging shoulders. And you end up next to Bob, because of course you do. Close enough that your arm brushes his when the hallway narrows, close enough that he can feel the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

He tries to focus on Mickey’s running monologue about whether the pool bar has frozen margaritas or only blended ones, but all he can think about is the faint smell of coconut shampoo every time you turn your head.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and everyone squeezes in. You step in beside him, shoulder pressed to his as the doors slide closed. Jake catches Bob’s eye over your head and winks, like an absolute menace.

Bob pointedly looks at the ceiling.

Three floors pass in seconds—but it feels like hours, with the back of your hand brushing his, his fingers itching to lace with yours, every inch of air between you charged and too warm for such a small space.

When the doors finally open on the third floor, everyone spills out, still chatting lazily as they wander down the hallway toward their rooms—301, 302, 303, 304 all in one neat cluster.

You stop at your door with Natasha, turning to Bob with that gentle smile again.

“Night, Bob.”

He swallows. “Night.”

Mickey claps him on the back. “Come on, roomie. I’m exhausted.”

Bob follows him into room 303, but not before glancing once more at you disappearing behind your door across the hall—heart pounding like he’s eighteen and in love for the first damn time.

He exhales, long and helpless.

Maybe he should do something about it.

About you.

Maybe he should talk to Jake.

-

Jake is already sprawled across a sun lounge when Bob finally walks out onto the pool deck late morning. Clustered around him are five more lounges, each reserved with a single item on them as if that’s legally binding. One has a pair of sunglasses—even though Jake already has aviators perched low on his nose—the next has a hat, then a shirt, and the last two each have a single flip-flop.

“Morning, Bobby,” Jake grins, all lazy confidence and oiled skin.

Bob sighs. “Don’t call me that.”

He drops onto the lounge with the hat, picks it up, and tosses it at Jake. Then he scrubs both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, and stares at the ground—jaw tight, chest aching.

“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his head. “I’m in.”

Jake arches a brow. “In?”

Bob swallows. “Help me. With… her.”

Jake’s grin spreads slow and wolfish—like the sun rising just to witness chaos.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He sits up, pushing his sunglasses into his hair and swinging his legs off the side of the lounge to face Bob properly.

“Alright, Phase One: Plane Buddy. Complete success. Shoulder contact achieved. Mutual napping? Unplanned bonus.”

Bob pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “Please don’t call it phases—”

“Phase Two,” Jake continues, ignoring him completely. “Proximity. Sun, water, bare shoulders. Classic vacation bonding. She sits there—” he points to the empty lounge on Bob’s other side, “—you offer sunscreen for her back, she does yours, feelings ignite, boom.”

“This isn’t a mission brief, this is—”

“Everything is a mission brief if you do it right.”

Bob just stares at him—horrified, defeated, wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake.

Then footsteps thump against the deck boards behind them, and Bradley appears wearing swim trunks and a hideous Hawaiian shirt hanging wide open like he owns the entire island.

“What mission brief?” he asks, dropping his towel onto one of the flip-flop lounges.

“Operation Hawaiian Heat,” Jake says.

Bob almost chokes. “We are not calling it that.”

Jake turns back to him. “Okay. Fine. The other option is Operation Unblue Bob’s Balls.”

Bradley snorts. “I like that one better.”

Jake gestures at him triumphantly. “See? Rooster gets it.”

Bob lays back onto his lounge and throws an arm dramatically over his face. “What have I done?”

“You’ve come to the right man, that’s what,” Jake says, far too proud.

Bradley drops onto his sun lounge, kicks his slides off, and sprawls out with a contented sigh.

“Now.” Jake leans in. “Phase Two—”

Bradley turns his head. “There are phases?”

“Obviously,” Jake says, like Bradley just asked whether water was wet. “Bob’s going to make a move today.”

Bradley sits up, suddenly invested. “Finally. I was this close to drafting you a script.”

Bob’s ears burn. “I’m not making a move. I just—I asked for help.”

“Which implies intent,” Bradley says.

“And opportunity,” Jake adds.

Bob sinks lower in his lounge, face in his hands. This was a mistake. A huge, life-altering mistake.

Jake claps his hands once, decisive. “Now we just need Blink down here. We keep her close. Swim together, flirty eye contact, sunscreen situation if we can engineer it—”

Bradley nods. “Water proximity works. Pools lower personal-space boundaries by at least forty percent.”

“That’s not real data,” Bob mutters.

“It is now,” Bradley replies.

Jake gasps suddenly, like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “Oh! And when Phoenix eventually emerges from the underworld, we—”

“Morning!”

Bob freezes at the sound of your voice.

“Hey, Blink,” Bradley greets, too quick and too casual to be anything but suspicious. “How’s Nix?”

You drop your towel onto the lounge beside Bob, and Jake’s grin sharpens.

“Miserable, but alive,” you reply. “Housekeeping dropped off, like, a litre of Pedialyte, but she won’t drink it until she’s sure she can at least keep water down.”

Bradley winces. “Damn. Is she alright on her own?”

“Insisted on it, actually,” you say. “Said she doesn’t want anyone to see her this weak.”

Then you rest a hand on Bob’s shoulder, and his entire body goes rigid.

“How’s Fanboy?”

Bob clears his throat. “He’s good—I mean, not good—alive. He’s alive. But still really sick.”

His cheeks burn—and Bradley snorts. Loudly. But before anyone can question it, he pushes off the lounge, takes four long strides across the deck, and dives straight into the pool.

You blink after him. “That was weird.”

“When has Rooster ever been normal?” Jake says quickly. “Anyway—what were you saying about Phoenix?”

You eye him suspiciously. “Nothing. Bob was saying Mick is still really unwell.”

Jake raises both brows. “And Natasha?”

You frown. “Like I said two minutes ago—still sick.”

Jake hums, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smirk. “Do you think it was something they ate?”

“Nat reckons the shrimp,” you reply. “They were the only ones who ate it.”

Bob sits up straighter, as if suddenly unsure how to hold himself with you around. “So, it shouldn’t last too long—they'll be better by tomorrow, right?” he asks.

You shrug—and then you do something that has Jake biting his knuckles and Bob ready to explode. Figuratively. Literally. All of the above.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts and tug them off in one smooth motion, then pull your shirt over your head and drop it on the lounge beside you. Sunlight catches on your swimsuit—soft and pale blue—and whatever words Bob had left in his brain evaporate instantly.

His breath stops. Full system shutdown.

He tries to look away, he really does, but his eyes drag back helplessly, like gravity has been recalibrated to you. His pulse kicks up hard enough he’s convinced Bradley can hear it underwater. And Jake definitely notices—he chokes on a laugh, clamps a hand over his mouth, and shoots Bob the smuggest look a human has ever produced.

Bob’s fingers curl around the edge of his sun lounge, knuckles white. Every rational thought he’s ever had abandons ship. The only thing left is the shape of your smile, the sun on your skin, the faint scent of sunscreen drifting with the breeze as you shake out your hair.

You don’t seem to notice the devastation you’ve just caused. You just drop your flip flops on top of your towel and push your sunglasses up your nose—casual, effortless, lethal.

Bob’s mouth is dry. His heartbeat is loud. And if he wasn’t already in over his head, he is now—irrevocably.

“Anyway,” you say, stretching your arms above your head. “I’m gonna go for a swim.” Then you tilt your head toward Bob, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You should come, Floyd. You look hot.”

You don’t wait for an answer. You just flash him a smile—warm, easy, devastating—and walk toward the pool, the sun catching on the sheen of sunscreen coating your skin until it makes him dizzy. You slip into the water with a clean, graceful dive that sends a ripple across the surface and a full emotional crisis through Bob’s nervous system.

“Go!” Jake hisses, slapping Bob’s leg.

Bob startles. “What—now?”

Jake’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “She literally just asked you. Invited you. By name. While wearing that swimsuit. And I’m sitting right here—do you hear the words coming out of my mouth? Go!”

Bob hesitates, palms flattening uselessly against his thighs. “I—uh, I don’t know. I should probably—”

Jake grabs the sides of Bob’s lounge and shakes it once. “Robert. Floyd. Get. In. The Pool.”

Bob exhales in a rush, defeated. “Fine.”

He sits up—reluctantly, slowly, like a man walking to his own execution.

“Take your shirt off!” Jake hisses.

Bob frowns. “No. Absolutely not. I’m pale. I’ll burn in, like, five minutes.”

Jake’s eyes widen. “Do you want to be sun-safe or get laid, Bob?!”

“That’s not—those aren’t the only options—”

“Right now they are!”

Bob glares at him, then at the pool, then at you—floating on your back, sun in your hair, laughing as Bradley splashes you.

Jake gives him one last shove. “Shirt. Off. Go.”

And Bob, red-faced and mortified and completely hopeless, reaches for the hem of his shirt.

He inhales once—deep, resigned—then tugs it over his head in one quick, graceless movement before he can chicken out. His glasses get a little crooked in the process, his hair sticks up, and his entire torso goes pink the second sunlight hits it.

“Dear God, he’s adorable,” Jake mutters, like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

Bob pointedly ignores him. He folds his shirt—mostly to have something to do with his hands—and sets it on the lounge beside him. His ears are burning. His chest is burning. His soul is burning. He’s already regretting every life choice that has led him to this exact moment.

And then—he feels it.

A flicker of attention. The weight of someone’s stare. Like heat crawling up the back of his neck.

He glances toward the pool, and—

You’re watching him.

Not accidentally. Not confused. Not casually.

You’re watching him—with your elbows resting on the edge of the pool, water beading on your shoulders, chin tilted just slightly as your eyes track down his chest and back up again.

Your lips part—not much, just enough—and Bob’s heart slams against his ribs so hard it hurts.

The second your gaze snaps up to meet his, you blink fast and pretend you weren’t staring, pushing off the wall and turning onto your back like you’re suddenly very invested in the wispy white clouds floating through the sky.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. “She was eating you alive.”

“Shut up,” Bob hisses—but his voice comes out thin, breathless, like all the air has left his lungs.

He swallows hard, palms slick, pulse pounding, eyes drifting back to where you’re pretending not to look at him—except you absolutely are. Out of the corner of your eye, subtle and warm and curious. Your lips even quirk a little when his gaze catches yours, and then you turn away with pink cheeks like nothing even happened.

Jake nudges Bob hard with his foot. “Get. In. The. Pool.”

Bob exhales like a man marching toward certain doom and pushes himself to his feet. The sun feels too hot, the water too bright, and every instinct in his body is screaming at him to sit back down—but he forces himself forward anyway.

He steps in slowly, careful, lowering himself until the water settles warm around his chest. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s amazed it doesn’t disturb the surface.

You turn at the sound of movement, brushing wet hair from your cheek.

And then you smile at him.

Not the casual, breezy smile you give everyone. Not the professional squadmate smile. Something softer. Something that hits him sharp behind the ribs, like you’re seeing a part of him he doesn’t know how to hide.

“Hey,” you say, drifting closer.

Bob clears his throat. “Hi.”

Your eyes slide from his face down to his chest, not even trying to be subtle this time. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this—”

“Wet?” he offers—quick, nervous.

You snort softly. “I was going to say undressed.”

Then you turn your head, suddenly very interested in something across the deck—but Bob catches the colour rising in your cheeks, and he knows the sun has nothing to do with it.

A quiet beat stretches between you. Nothing but the gentle lap of water against tile, the distant crash of waves, the low murmur of O’ahu slowly waking up around you.

“Sleep well?” he asks suddenly—because he has no idea what else to say, only that he has to say something.

You turn back to him. “Not really. Nat was up most of the night. You?”

He shrugs. “Same. Fanboy wouldn’t stop groaning.”

You laugh—soft, breathless—and Bob feels the sound settle somewhere beneath his skin, warm and dangerous. “Maybe we should swap—”

A dramatic splash cuts you off, both of you flinching as water sprays everywhere.

When Bob opens his eyes again, he can’t see—his glasses are spattered with droplets, the world reduced to blur and colour—but he can feel you. Warm. Close. Too close. You laugh softly, and he feels the exhale of your breath brush his lips.

“Oh no,” you say. “You’re blind.”

Before he can even think to move, he feels the ghost of your fingertips at his temples, gently as you slide his glasses off. His whole body goes still, every muscle locking as it registers just how close you are. And when he blinks, uselessly trying to coax focus from his lousy vision, all he can really see is—

You.

Everything beyond you dissolves into colour and light—the blue of the pool, the pale stretch of sky, movement without detail—but you stay sharp. Close. So close he can see every tiny detail he’s never let himself linger on—the dark line of your lashes, the curve of your lip. You’re right there, within reach, water slicking over your shoulders as you float nearer without even meaning to.

Bob’s breath stutters.

Without his glasses, there’s nothing to hide behind. No distance. No buffer. Just you and the water nudging him forward, your bodies close enough that he can feel the heat of you through the pool, the faint brush of your knee against his thigh sending a spark straight through him.

You tilt your head, studying him, lips parted like you’re about to say something—and the way your eyes trace over his face, down his chest, back up again makes something low and dangerous coil in his gut. The water laps between you, slow and lazy, but Bob feels wound tight, every nerve lit up, every thought stripped down to how close you are and how impossible it is to pretend he isn’t thinking about it.

About you.

Your skin. How it would feel against his. How your lips would taste if he just leaned in.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And then—

Jake surfaces. “Whew! That’s refreshing!”

Bob startles and steps back.

You shoot Jake an unimpressed look. “Really, Seresin?”

“Oh.” His brows lift, lips curling into a smirk. “Did I interrupt something?”

You don’t answer—you just shake your head and start wading toward the edge of the pool, Bob's glasses still in your hand.

Jake watches you go for exactly half a second before turning back to Bob. “Easy there, Casanova. This is a family resort.”

Bob squints at him, mostly just trying to see him clearly. “What do you mean? Wasn’t getting close the—”

“Close, yes,” Jake cuts in under his breath. “But you don’t give it away. You keep the tension high. You let it build.” He pauses, his smirk sharpening, and drops his voice lower. “You have to make her want it. Make her beg for it.”

And God—that absolutely does it.

Because Bob’s brain, traitorous and unhelpful, fills in the blank immediately. You—closer than you should be. Looking at him like you were a second ago. But this time? You’re lower. Even closer. That softness in your eyes sharpening into something else entirely. And his body reacts before he can shut the thought down—fast, unmistakable, and deeply inconvenient.

Bob sucks in a sharp breath.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He needs space. Distance. A wall. A lifeguard whistle—something—because if he stays here another second, Jake’s going to notice, and that will be a whole new level of humiliation.

Without another word, he turns and wades toward the shallow end, heart hammering, every nerve lit up for reasons that have nothing to do with swimming.

“Are you guys hungry?” you call from the deck.

Bob glances over his shoulder and squints to see you using your shirt to clean his glasses—and he has no idea why, but somehow that makes his situation even worse.

“Yes!” Bradley replies, way too eager. “I’m starving.”

“Can you get a fruit platter?” Jake asks, voice smug.

Bob refuses to turn around.

“But no peaches!” Bradley calls.

“Of course—no peaches,” you say.

Bradley and Jake both do a terrible job of suppressing their laughter, but Bob still doesn’t turn around. He just takes a deep breath and keeps wading through the water, willing his body to cooperate, until—

“Bobby!” you shout. “C’mere!”

And just like a moth to a flame, he turns and starts toward the edge of the pool.

He puts his hands out to keep from running straight into the wall, palms finding the warm tile as he leans in. For a second, it’s all blurred shapes and colour—and then you’re there, crouched beside the pool, skin still glistening with tiny droplets of water, that damn swimsuit wet now and clinging sinfully to your body.

“Here,” you says softly, holding his glasses out.

He takes them and slides them on, blinking a few times as the world sharpens again.

“You hungry?” you ask, smiling now.

He clears his throat. “A little.”

“Good.” You straighten, and Bob’s thoughts immediately pivot back into deeply unhelpful territory as he looks up at you from this angle. “I’m going to order some breakfast.”

He nods. “I’ll—uh, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You tilt your head, still smiling but curious now, brows furrowing just slightly—but you don’t press. After a beat, you simply nod and turn away, heading toward the bar where one of the resort’s waitstaff greets you enthusiastically.

Bob continues wading toward the shallow end of the pool, deliberately keeping his distance from Jake and Bradley while trying to think of anything—anything at all—that isn’t you. He watches a gecko scale the trunk of a palm tree, tipping his head back until it disappears into the fronds above. Then he shifts his gaze skyward and starts counting birds as they fly over the surfboard hut on the beach.

By the time he hears you call out that the food has arrived, his situation is finally under control and he can climb out of the pool with most of his dignity intact.

Reuben and Javy have joined the group now, everyone clustered around the lounge chairs with two huge platters of food set out on the low tables between them. Bradley and Reuben have dragged a couple of loungers closer to make a loose circle, and in the middle of it all, there’s you—smiling and waving Bob over as he pads across the deck.

“I made sure there are no peaches,” you say as he steps closer.

Jake drops his chin to his chest and snorts, like he just can’t get enough of this ridiculous joke.

Bob nods, pressing his lips into a tight smile. “Thanks.”

There’re a few minutes of blissful quiet while everyone stuffs their faces with fruit and pastries. Bradley and Reuben fight over the last pain au chocolat, Jake whinges about the lack of protein, and Bob does everything he can not to watch you like the total creep he’s become since landing in Hawai’i.

The moment stretches—comfortable, lazy—until Javy finally breaks it.

“So,” he says, glancing around the group, “we’re going out tonight, right?”

Reuben looks up, chocolate smeared across his top lip. “What about Phoenix and Fanboy?”

Jake scoffs. “Just because they decided to eat bad prawns and get sick doesn’t mean they get to ruin my vacation.”

“I feel obliged to say it since Nat isn’t here,” you mutter, “it’s technically not a vacation.”

“Yeah, we’ve got that visit to Pearl Harbor tomorrow,” Bob adds. “Mav won’t be happy if we’re all hungover.”

Jake smirks. “So we invite Mav. He can’t be mad if he’s hungover too.”

Reuben snorts. “Mav is a highly decorated captain who’s about to receive a very serious, very formal Navy commendation. He’s not going to—” He stops, tilting his head. “Actually, no. You’re right. He’ll definitely come out.”

Bradley chuckles. “Yeah, he will.”

“So—what?” you ask. We just ditch Mickey and Nat?”

Jake’s smirk sharpens. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Oh, God,” Javy mutters. “He’s been thinking.”

Bradley snorts, but Jake ignores him completely.

“We’re only assuming it was the prawns, right?” he says, voice light and full of faux innocence. “But it could be a virus. Or something contagious.”

You shrug. “I guess.”

Bob’s pulse kicks harder.

“So,” Jake says slowly, his eyes sliding toward Bob, “I think it’d make sense to quarantine the sick.”

Bob’s stomach twists.

You frown, still oblivious. “How?”

“I don’t think—” Bob starts.

But Bradley cuts in. “I agree. We don’t want anyone else getting sick.”

“I don’t know if the resort will have any free rooms,” Javy adds, equally oblivious.

Jake rolls his eyes. “We don’t need another room.”

There’s a beat of silence.

All Bob can hear is his pulse pounding in his ears.

And then—you laugh.

“Oh my God,” you snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “There is no way you’re getting Nat to share a bed with Fanboy. She barely tolerates being in the same state as him.”

Jake grins. “I never said anything about Phoenix and Fanboy sharing a bed.”

You tilt your head, frowning. “Then who—”

Your eyes land on Bob, and the question dies on your tongue.

There’s a split second of nothing—nothing but static. Bob’s heart slams so hard he’s pretty sure everyone can hear it. His spine locks, breath catching in his chest as heat rushes up his neck so fast it makes his ears burn.

You go still beside him. Not panicked. Not nervous. Just quiet. Processing.

Jake’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Get it now?”

Bradley makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Reuben abruptly becomes very interested in the breakfast platter, and Javy presses his lips together so hard his cheeks puff out.

Bob stares straight ahead, brain completely blank except for the deafening thud of his pulse. Share a bed. With you. Overnight. Multiple nights—maybe. The thought hits him low and heavy and immediate, and he has to brace his hands against his knees just to stay upright.

“That’s—” you start, then stop, glancing at Bob. “I mean… yeah. I guess it makes sense?”

Bob doesn’t dare meet your eyes. If he does, he might combust—or worse—so instead he watches Reuben pick a handful of grapes off the fruit platter like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, softly.

Bob’s breath catches.

“Great.” Jake claps his hands together. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Bob opens his mouth. Then closes it. His brows knit as he tries to remember how words work. His heart is still racing, his face is definitely on fire, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of how close you’re sitting—close enough that if he shifted even an inch, your knees would touch.

You lean forward just slightly, like you’re trying to catch his attention.

He doesn’t look. Not directly, at least.

“Unless you’re not okay with it?” you ask.

Bob shakes his head way too fast. “No. I—yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He is absolutely not fine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. Bob makes a valiant attempt to remember how breathing works as he tries to relax on his sun lounge beneath the shade sail—but every time you catch his eye, his lungs promptly forget their job. He feels hot. Too hot. In a way that has nothing to do with the balmy weather and everything to do with the way sunlight glints off your skin when you climb out of the pool, water tracing slow paths down your arms and back.

And so, relaxing proves impossible.

After lunch, Jake announces that it’s time to check on the casualties—and break the news of the new room allocations—dragging both Bradley and Javy inside with him. They’re gone for almost an hour. Long enough for Reuben to glance nervously toward the hotel lobby and seriously suggest alerting security.

But eventually, they reappear. All three of them looking a little… shaken.

Apparently, Natasha had put up a fight—an impressive one—before eventually, finally, surrendering. But not before making one thing abundantly clear. This arrangement is for you. Only you. Not the boys. Not Jake’s logic. Just you.

And when Javy relays that information with a glint of fear in his eyes, you laugh—bright and sweet and completely unaware of the effect it has—and Bob’s head spins so hard he has to shut his eyes.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive the night—let alone the rest of the trip.

After a few more hours of lying in the shade, pretending not to watch you, and doing everything in his power to ignore Jake’s running commentary, Bob finally decides to head back up to his room to get ready for the night. For whatever circus he’s signed up for by giving Jake even the smallest amount of control over his love life.

Bradley calls after him to be back in the lobby no later than six, and Jake adds something smug about making sure the room situation is handled—as if Bob has ever once been in charge of what Natasha Trace does.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his skin is still warm from the sun—burnt, probably, thanks to Jake—and his head is so full of your laughter he feels like he might faint. He drags his keycard through the reader for room 303, pushes the door open—

And freezes.

Natasha’s suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, and both twin beds are occupied.

Mickey is curled up on his side, scrolling through his phone with a washcloth pressed to his forehead, and Natasha is sitting on the other bed, hugging the—hopefully—empty wastebin to her chest.

“Hey,” Bob says, taking a hesitant step inside. “How are you feeling?”

Natasha glares at him. “Great.”

Mickey doesn’t reply—he just groans and curls up tighter.

Bob winces. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters. “You can get out before I throw up again.”

“We got housekeeping to move your stuff already,” Mickey mumbles.

“Oh.” Bob glances at the small entryway table, at the keycard for room 304 waiting there. For him. “Thanks.”

He picks it up and sets his card for room 303 in its place.

“And for the record,” Natasha says, eyes still narrowed. “I know what this is about. Bagman isn’t subtle. But I’m too sick to argue, and like I said—I’m doing this for her.” She lifts a hand and points a finger at him. “So don’t screw it up.”

Bob’s heart slams against his ribs. Screw what up?

“Okay,” he says quickly—obediently, because Natasha Trace is terrifying at the best of times.

She nods once, slowly, before her eyes slip shut and her chin dips to her chest. Bob watches for a few seconds as she breathes through another wave of nausea, feeling totally useless and hating it. But he knows Nat. And he knows better than anyone that all she wants right now is to be left alone.

“Hey, Bobby,” Mickey says, his voice theatrically weak. “If I don’t make it, don’t let Rooster hit on the girl at the coffee shop back home, okay? I know he thinks she’s cute, but I called dibs and that counts even if I’m dead.”

Natasha sighs into the wastebin. “The only way you’re dying on this trip is when I kill you for being so fucking annoying.”

Mickey frowns. “Hey. You didn’t hear me complaining when you were hogging the toilet. You don’t think that was annoying?”

“I was throwing up!” Natasha snaps.

Mickey’s eyes widen. “So was I!”

“Well,” Bob cuts in, already retreating a step toward the door. “I’m gonna just—you know. I have to get ready, so… I’m gonna go.” He opens the door. “Let me know if you need anything, and—uh—don’t kill each other.”

Then he slips out and lets the door click shut behind him before either of them can protest.

His pulse pounds in his ears as he turns slowly and walks across the hall to room 304. He tries to act normal. Tries to stop his hands from shaking as he swipes the keycard through the reader. Tries not to let his knees buckle as he takes that first step over the threshold.

But it’s hard. Harder than it should be. Literally and figuratively.

The smell hits him immediately—sunscreen, fresh linen, and you. That warm, sweet scent that haunts his dreams and makes him dizzy every time you pass by too close.

With unsteady steps, he moves further inside and lets the door fall shut behind him. His suitcase is parked neatly in the entryway, the bed is perfectly made, and fresh soaps sit on a little tray beside the bathroom sink.

Bob’s heart lurches into his throat as his gaze snaps between the bathroom and the bed.

Oh, God.

There’s no door.

No door separating the bathroom from the rest of the suite.

Just two frosted glass partitions—one in front of the toilet, the other shielding the showerhead. But at the right angle? God. At the right angle, you could see everything.

Bob drags in a slow, shaky breath, willing his nervous system to stand down. He’s not in the middle of a dogfight—he’s in a hotel room. In Hawaiʻi. On what could be considered a vacation. This is not the time for fight-or-flight to kick in.

With trembling hands, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and wheels it farther into the room. Your suitcase is laying open on the floor beside the bed, clothes half-spilled like you’d only just started unpacking, so he steers himself to the opposite side before dropping his own case down flat.

He has to shower before you get here. He has to.

Because the thought of you walking into this room while he’s naked—with no real barrier, no real privacy—doesn’t make Bob nervous.

It makes him unreasonably horny. Dangerously so.

And he has absolutely no desire to find out just how hard—literally—it would be for him to control himself.

He rummages through his case until he finds an acceptable shirt and pair of shorts, then jumps up, grabs a towel from the heated rack beside the bathtub, and tosses it over the shower partition.

The water heats in no time, and Bob’s hands are still trembling as he pulls his shirt over his head and kicks off his swim trunks. He takes his glasses off last, setting them carefully on the edge of the sink before stepping under the spray and trying—with every ounce of focus he has—to think of anything but you.

He scrubs himself quickly, movements brisk and efficient, ignoring the almost painful state of his arousal as the imaginary clock in his head counts down to your arrival.

But his imagination, unhelpful as ever, drifts anyway.

What if you walked in right now?

What if you saw him—saw everything?

What if, instead of shock or embarrassment, you just laughed softly and stripped out of that damn blue swimsuit and—

Bob’s eyes snap open at the sound of the door.

His heart slams, and he looks down—at his hand curled tight around the base of his cock.

Jesus Christ.

“It’s just me!” you call out quickly. “I’m not looking, I swear! I just went to check on Fanboy and saw Nat had already swapped rooms.”

Bob squeezes his eyes shut again, every muscle in his body locking as he stands frozen beneath the spray. He wants to answer—he really does—but he’s not sure anything there’s anything he could say right now that would come out sounding even remotely normal.

“I’m just going to watch some TV,” you add, your footsteps echoing softly through the room. “Take your time.”

And Bob has no choice—because it takes an embarrassingly long time for his situation to go down when he can still hear your soft laughter from the bedroom.

Eventually, though, his blood reroutes and his muscles finally relax. He turns the water off, half-dries himself behind the partition, and wraps the fluffy white towel around his hips—heart thumping wickedly as he steps out of the bathroom.

He clears his throat. “I’m—uh. I’m done. Shower’s all yours.”

Your head snaps toward him—and your eyes go wide.

You swallow hard, making no effort to hide it as your gaze drifts down—over his bare chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and lower still—until it catches on the towel sitting low on his hips and stays there.

Bob flushes instantly, his whole body going hot under your gaze. But he doesn’t get it. You saw him in the pool earlier—more of him, technically. He’s exactly as naked now as he was then, maybe even less so. The towel is at least a little longer than his swim trunks are.

And yet—

Here you are. Silent and staring at him like you can’t decide how to feel.

He clears his throat again.

You blink, eyes jumping back up to his face. “Sorry,” you murmur, cheeks pink. “I just—uh. You know. I’ve never really…” Your words trail off, and as if you can’t help yourself, your eyes dip again—quick, guilty, unmistakable.

Then you shake your head and scramble off the bed.

“Sorry. I’m gonna—um—yeah. Shower.”

You brush past him in a rush, close enough that he can feel the heat of you on his skin. Close enough that he can feel the way you shiver when your arm brushes his.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there—listening to your soft footsteps against the tiled floor, the rustle of clothes, the sound of the shower turning on. Out of the very corner of his eye, he can see your silhouette behind the frosted glass. If he turned his head, he could probably see more. Your shoulder, your arm, your hip—right at the edge of the partition.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t look.

Instead, he drops his gaze to where he left his clothes on the bed and curls his shaking fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

As soon as Bob is dressed, he banishes himself to the balcony—and stays there. He grips the railing and stares out at the ocean like it might save him. He counts every bird that lands on the same palm frond blocking half his view, tracks a couple walking barefoot along the shoreline, listens to the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the resort. He tells himself to breathe. To stand normally. To not look back.

And he doesn’t turn around until he hears a soft knock, followed by the slide of the glass door.

“Okay, Captain Chivalry—it’s safe now.”

When he finally sees you, standing just inside the door, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re wearing another flowy sundress, but this one has a structured bodice—almost like a corset. It hugs you perfectly, all clean lines and soft fabric, and somehow still looks like absolute sin despite the ivory colour and lace detailing that should suggest the exact opposite.

“You look—” he chokes, his voice already hoarse. “I mean, you—you…”

Nothing. Absolutely no thoughts. Just a catastrophic loop of wildly inappropriate ones.

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m going to assume you’re trying for a compliment, so—thanks, Floyd.” Your cheeks go a little redder beneath your blush. “Now come on. It’s almost six.”

Bob nearly trips over his own feet as he follows you inside, his eyes shamelessly glued to where the hem of your dress brushes the backs of your thighs. He watches you slip on your shoes, grab your purse, fix a stray lock of hair in the mirror—and it’s only when you turn to him with a small, curious frown that he tears his gaze away and starts searching for his shoes.

The walk to the elevator is completely silent, aside from the thunder of Bob’s pulse in his own ears. Only when the doors slide shut do you finally turn to him again.

“Is it too weird?” you ask, so quickly he almost misses it.

He blinks, turning slowly toward you. “Is what weird?”

“Sharing a room,” you reply. “Specifically that room.”

Yes. But only because he can’t seem to keep his own thoughts under control.

“No,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “I—I mean, I don’t think so. It’s a little… intimate—” he tries not to cringe at the word “—but I don’t think it’s weird.”

Your expression relaxes, your gaze softening.

“Okay, good.” You turn back to face the elevator doors. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Bob shrugs. “It could be worse.”

Your head whips back toward him, eyes wide—indignant.

“Oh my God,” he rushes. “No, not you. I meant—Phoenix and Fanboy. I meant—”

Your brows rise slowly as you wait for him to find the right words—but his brain is fuzzy, his face is hot, and standing this close to you is doing him no favours, giving him an unfair vantage of your cleavage.

Then a soft ding cuts through the silence and the doors slide open.

You huff a short, quiet laugh through your nose, shake your head, and step out without another word.

Bob hesitates. Maybe it would be better if he didn’t go out tonight. Maybe he, his foot, and his mouth—which it keeps getting stuck in—should just go back up to the room and hide in shame while the rest of the squad goes out. Maybe he could pass this embarrassment off as concern for his sick friends and avoid the night entirely.

Maybe—

“Floyd!” Reuben calls. “You waiting for an invitation?”

Bob blinks, waiting only one more undecided second before taking a deep breath and stepping out of the elevator.

The next half hour passes in a blur of streetlights and excited chatter. Thanks to the dwindling squad numbers, it only takes one maxi cab to get everyone from the resort to the first location of the night—scouted by Bradley, of course. It’s a bar on the beach, literally called The Beach Bar, with alfresco seating and a list of signature cocktails long enough to rival Jake’s dating history.

According to Bradley, Maverick and Penny have already arrived. Penny flew in this morning with Amelia after making the devastating decision to close The Hard Deck for the week—something the Dagger Squad would undoubtedly be complaining about if they weren’t in Waikiki with the bar owner herself.

“There they are!” Penny calls, a bright smile on her face as she pushes out of her seat.

Everyone crowds around to give her a hug while Maverick stays firmly seated, beer lifted to his lips.

Jake is the first to find a seat at the table—right beside Maverick—and before Bob can beeline for the opposite end, Jake grabs his arm and pulls him into the chair next to his.

“It’s part of the plan,” he hisses as Bradley takes the seat on Bob’s other side.

Bradley shoots Bob a knowing smile before picking up the drinks menu and flipping it open.

“How are Fanboy and Phoenix?” Maverick asks once everyone’s seated.

Bob glances across the table—at where you’re sitting, between Penny and Javy. The furthest spot from him.

“Not great,” Reuben replies. “Nix was green the last time I saw her.”

Penny sighs. “Poor thing.”

Maverick’s brows pull together, concerned. “Do you think they’ll make tomorrow’s visit to base?”

“Doubt it,” Bradley mutters.

The conversation blurs into background noise—voices overlapping, topics changing—but Bob barely hears it. He hums and nods when he has to, but he’s not listening. Not really. Not at all. He’s too busy watching you.

As always.

He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t realise Jake has ordered him a drink until a tall glass of something brown, with a wedge of lemon, is set on the table in front of him.

“On the hard stuff tonight, hey, Floyd?” Javy says with a smirk, nodding toward the drink.

Bob blinks, then glances down. “I—uh—yeah, I guess.”

He doesn’t drink often—and very rarely drinks to get drunk—but he’s pretty sure Jake ordered him a Long Island Iced Tea.

Great.

Maverick chuckles. “Didn’t think you’d be the one I’d have to warn about being hungover tomorrow, Bob.”

Bob’s lips press into a forced, fake smile while the rest of the table shares a laugh. Even you. But he doesn’t get to enjoy your smile right now—he’s too busy shooting daggers at the smug man sitting beside him.

“Alright,” Jake says, lifting his own drink. “A toast—to our fearless leader, our formidable captain, and the generosity of the U.S. Navy for this all-expenses-paid vacation to Hawai’i.”

“Hear, hear!” Reuben cheers, raising his beer.

Maverick rolls his eyes as the whole table stands and lifts their drinks, laughing. And even Bob can’t help but crack a small smile when the rim of your glass clinks against his.

The night wears on in surprisingly calm fashion. Everyone drinks. Everyone eats. Everyone laughs. There’s easy conversation and a warm atmosphere that settles in around the table. Bob makes it through two terrible drinks before he beats Jake to ordering and finally gets a glass of something non-alcoholic that doesn’t make his throat burn.

But even then—even with a glass of orange juice in front of him—something about the way your eyes darken whenever they meet his makes him feel just a little drunk.

A little reckless, maybe.

By nine p.m., Maverick is on his third embarrassing story about baby Bradley, Penny is crying with laughter, and Reuben is recording it because he knows Mickey would be devastated to miss out.

“And that is why Rooster is banned from every Chuck E. Cheese in the state of California,” Maverick snorts, lifting his drink.

Javy leans halfway across the table, grinning. “Every Chuck E. Cheese in California? Still?”

Maverick nods. “Still.”

“I was eleven!” Bradley exclaims. “It was an accident.”

“Oh, buddy,” you giggle. “That definitely doesn’t sound like an accident. You were an evil little kid.”

Bradley rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother arguing—he just lifts his beer to his lips and drains it.

After a few more minutes of laughter—and Bradley sulking—Jake claps his hands together and sits up straighter.

“Alright, team,” he says. “I think it’s time we move on.”

Maverick’s brows lift. “Move on?”

Jake nods. “I found this great little bar with live music—it’s only about a block away.”

“What about tomorrow?” Penny asks, arching a brow.

Bradley shrugs. “What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t want six hungover pilots showing up to Pearl Harbor,” Maverick says, his brows drawing together.

Reuben scoffs. “Come on, Mav. At best you’ll get five—Bob never gets drunk!”

Maverick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thank you, Payback. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Penny stifles a laugh behind a sip of her drink.

“Well,” Jake says, smirking, “if you come with us, you can make sure we don’t drink too much.”

At that, Penny snorts, nearly spraying a mouthful of beer across the table.

“Sorry,” she mutters, still smiling. “I just—sorry, but did you really just ask Maverick to come out with you and be the responsible one?”

“Hey.” Maverick shoots her an indignant look. “I can be responsible. I’m their captain.”

Penny doesn’t respond—she just keeps giggling like this is the best joke she’s heard in years.

“You know what,” Maverick says, pushing out of his chair. “I’ll rise to the challenge. I’ll be the babysitter. Let’s do this.”

There’s a chorus of cheers and laughter as chairs scrape back and everyone stands. Penny is still laughing as people pay their bills and wander out to the front of the bar—and that’s where she bids Maverick goodnight, says her farewells to the rest, and climbs into a cab to get back to Amelia at the hotel.

Jake then tells Bradley the name of the next bar and motions for him to lead the way—with a wink he’s not even trying to hide. Bradley nods, grinning like the unsubtle fool he is, and links his arm with yours, dragging you to the front of the group and striking up a conversation about something Bob can’t quite make out.

“Okay,” Jake whispers, falling into step beside Bob. “Phase Three.”

Bob sighs. “Great.”

“This is where it gets a little counterintuitive,” Jake says. “But stay with me. You’ve done great so far—well. Mostly. You’re lucky you’ve got me.”

Bob grimaces.

“But now,” Jake continues, “you need to pull back.”

Bob looks at him. “What?”

“Just a little,” Jake adds quickly. “Enough that she notices. Up until now, you’ve been attentive. Safe. Available.” He glances ahead, toward you. “Now you introduce a little… mystery.”

He emphasises the last word with a flourish of his hand, like he’s unveiling a magic trick.

“What have I done?” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Jake ignores him. “You’ve got to become temporarily unavailable.”

Bob’s eyes go wide.

“Not emotionally—don’t freak out,” Jake adds. “Just... visually.”

“Visually?” Bob echoes.

“Nothing dramatic. Five minutes. Smile. Eye contact. A compliment.” Jake shrugs. “You don’t even have to mean it.”

Bob frowns. “I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Flirt, Bob. I’m telling you to flirt with another woman.”

“What?” Bob’s eyes go wide again. “No way. I—I can’t. I mean, I just—”

“I know, I know—this makes you uncomfortable.” Jake claps a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “But that’s where the growth happens.”

Bob shrugs him off.

“How is flirting with someone else supposed to help?”

“It’s scarcity, Floyd. Very basic economics.” Jake lowers his voice. “Right now she thinks she’s got you figured out. We just need to… shake the snow globe. You know?”

Bob stares at him. “No. Actually, I have no idea what you’re—”

“We’re here!” Bradley calls from the front of the group. “Get your IDs out, sexy people. You especially, Floyd—those glasses do nothing for your baby face.”

Bob lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Jesus Christ.”

“Buck up, Bobby!” Jake grins. “Your night is about to get a whole lot more interesting.”

Everyone funnels into the bar without too much fuss—the security guard checking IDs even though he can clearly tell no one is underage. The place is already humming, with live music booming above the chatter and a heavy air thick with salt and sweat and something citrusy from the bar. It’s darker than the last place, lit mostly by strings of lights and the low glow of neon along the back wall.

Bob hangs back out of instinct, letting everyone else surge ahead, but Jake’s hand at his elbow steers him forward before he can fully commit to disappearing.

The bar stretches along the back wall, polished wood crowded with elbows and condensation rings. People shout their orders over the music—beer, cocktails, something pink with fruit floating in it—and Bob finds himself wedged between Bradley and Jake, staring at the chalkboard menu like it might offer him spiritual guidance.

He doesn’t look at you first—even though he wants to.

He can feel where you are, though. Somewhere just to his right. Close enough that when he finally turns his head, he catches the tail end of your glance. Your eyes flick away immediately—nothing dramatic, nothing obvious—but it still sends a small, unsteady jolt through him. Like being caught mid-thought.

But before he can linger on it for too long, Jake nudges his side. Hard.

“Six o’clock. Blonde. She’s looking this way,” he says, eyes trained across the bar. “Not sure if she wants me or you—” he smirks. “I know which I’d put my money on—but I’ll give you this one.”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Gee, thanks.”

“You ready?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Bob stumbles through the crowd, half-dragged by Jake, until he finds himself at the other end of the bar, right beside the blonde—he’s assuming—Jake had been referring to. And then Jake is gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen. But Bob can still feel his gaze from wherever he’s hiding.

Bob clears his throat, turning stiffly toward the blonde.

“Uh—hey,” he says, immediately hating how unsure it sounds.

She turns to face him, smile widening. “Hi.”

Now he’s supposed to say something else. Something smooth. Something intentional. Something Jake would say that’d have any woman scribbling her number on a napkin.

He clears his throat. Again. “I—I’m Bob.”

“Marci,” she says, holding out her hand.

Bob shakes it. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

Okay. Now what?

Bob knows he shouldn’t—he knows it’s too soon, that it could very well blow up Jake’s stupid plan—but he does it anyway. He looks for you.

And you’re still there.

Standing between Bradley and Reuben. Your eyes catch his, just for a second, before drifting away—as if they never really meant to land on him at all. Your posture is relaxed, your expression unreadable, but there’s something uneasy in the set of your mouth. Something he can’t quite figure out.

“So,” Marci says, patient, expectant.

Bob’s eyes snap back to her, and he tries to focus.

What would Hangman do?

God. He never thought he’d be seriously asking himself that question.

“I like your—uh—shoes,” he offers, and immediately regrets it. They’re just shoes. Normal shoes. Why would he compliment her shoes?

She laughs anyway. “Thanks.”

He nods, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. “Yeah. They—um. They suit you.”

This is going so much worse than he thought. And he already knew it wasn’t going to be good.

But the worst part—the worst part—is that he can feel himself pulling away from you to do this. Turning his body, angling his shoulders, pretending to be temporarily unavailable like Jake told him to. It feels wrong in a way he can’t quite articulate.

He risks another glance across the bar.

You’re looking now.

Not sharply. Not accusingly. Just… looking. Your brows faintly knit, head tilted, like you’re watching something you didn’t expect and aren’t sure how to categorise.

Something in Bob’s chest gives a small, panicked lurch.

He laughs, turning back to the blonde. “Sorry. I’m not—this isn’t usually my thing.”

Marci hums, amused. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob glances across the bar, searching for something—anything, any excuse—when a frantic hand gesture catches his eye. Jake. Of course. His eyes are wide, expression stern, a sharp finger pointed straight at Bob as he mouths something Bob absolutely cannot make out.

But he can gauge the general vibe.

Try harder.

So, with a deep breath, Bob forces his shoulders to relax and asks Marci if she’s here on vacation—which works. Her face lights up, and she launches into the story of why she’s here. Why she and her friends decided they needed a girls’ trip because one of them found out her boyfriend had not one, but two other girlfriends.

Then it’s something about work. Something about her boss, who only has it out for her because she has naturally thick hair and he’s going bald. Then it’s her family. Her cat. A friend who moved to Canada who, like, totally regrets it because it’s so cold up there.

Bob nods in all the right places, hums when it feels expected, and lets the sound of her voice wash over him without really catching on to anything specific.

He’s not trying to be rude. It’s just easier this way.

He takes a slow sip of his drink—barely tasting it—and tries to settle into the role Jake’s assigned him. Tries to look relaxed. Tries to angle his body the way he’s supposed to, shoulders turned just enough to sell the illusion.

Temporarily unavailable.

The phrase echoes through his head, absurd and heavy all at once.

And every few minutes, he lets his gaze drift. Not fully—just enough to check. To confirm.

You’re still at the bar, but you’re not where you were before. You’ve shifted closer to Reuben now, your bodies angled together as he leans in to hear you over the music. Your head dips when you laugh at something he says, hair falling forward, obscuring your face for a second.

Bob’s chest tightens.

This is working, right? This is the point. This is what’s supposed to happen.

He tells himself that. Repeats it. Loops it in his mind like a mantra—the only thing keeping him grounded—and tries not to catalogue every tiny move you make, every glance you don’t send his way. But it’s hard. Because he wants to be the one you’re laughing with. Leaning into. Looking at with that concentrated little frown between your brows.

Marci laughs at something—and he realises suddenly, belatedly, that it must have been a joke. He smiles back, a reflex more than a choice.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically. “It’s loud in here.”

She doesn’t seem bothered. He’s not even sure she heard him, because she just keeps talking—easy, unoffended—like this is exactly the kind of interaction she expected when she walked into a bar like this.

Bob wonders—briefly, unfairly—if this is how it always goes for people like Jake. If it really can be this easy. Just standing here, nodding along, letting someone talk while the rest takes care of itself. No second-guessing every word, no constant awareness of where everyone else in the room is standing.

Because Marci doesn’t seem to need anything from him beyond that. She’s talking, filling the space easily, smiling when it suits her, perfectly content with half his attention—or less, really. It’s easy. Effortless. And the unsettling part is how little of him it actually requires.

For a moment, Bob feels strangely hollow. Lost in his thoughts, stuck on the idea that maybe this is what flirting is supposed to feel like, and he’s just been doing it all wrong.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder—solid and familiar—and Jake appears, a charming smile already stretched across his face.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need my friend for a minute. Do you mind?”

Marci’s cheeks flush. “Oh. No, not at all. Take your time.”

Okay. Maybe it’s just Jake. Maybe it really is this easy for him.

With a wink and a nod—a very cowboy nod—Jake turns away and steers Bob a few steps from Marci. Further from the band, where he doesn’t have to shout over the music.

“I think it worked a little too well,” he says.

Bob frowns. “What?”

Jake tips his head toward the bar. Toward you.

“She asked Payback to take her home. She’s gone.”

Bob’s stomach drops. “She... she what?”

Jake doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

Bob can feel his heart pounding, too fast, too loud, like it’s climbed up into his throat. There’s a tight, bitter ache behind his ribs—unfamiliar and immediate—and he swallows hard, like that might make it go away.

“Like, take her home?” he asks, trying to keep his voice even. “Or take her home?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Relax. She didn’t ask him to take her home like that. She’s probably just tired.” He pauses, then grins. “And jealous.”

Is that supposed to make Bob feel better? Because it doesn’t.

“I should—” Bob tries to step past Jake, but he blocks his path.

“Should what?”

“I should explain. I don’t want her to—”

“Explain what?” Jake asks, rhetorical. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were talking to a pretty girl in a bar and she couldn’t stand to watch. This was kind of the whole plan.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “Well, I don’t like the plan.”

Jake lets out a sharp sigh. “Come on, Floyd. Don’t chicken out now. I know Phase Three’s hard but I promise you’re gonna like Phase Four.”

Right now, Bob couldn’t care less about phase three or four or Jake’s entire stupid plan. All he cares about is you—where you are, what you’re thinking, who you’re with. He doesn’t care about jealousy or mystery or being temporarily unavailable.

Just you.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, eyes bouncing between Jake’s face and the door. “I won’t explain myself—but I’m going back to the hotel. I’m done tonight.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not going to blurt out some lame excuse and ruin everything?”

Bob gives him a flat look. “Yes. I promise. I’m just—I'm tired, okay?”

Jake doesn’t move at first. He just looks at Bob, studies him, as if he could stare hard enough to read his mind. Then, after what feels like a weirdly long time to be holding such intense eye contact, he steps out of Bob’s path.

“Fine. Be boring, go home.” His eyes move from Bob’s face to the bar behind him. “Mind if I comfort your friend?”

“Knock yourself out,” Bob mutters, brushing past Jake as he heads for the door.

Jake calls something behind him, but Bob doesn’t hear it—and he doesn’t want to. All he wants is to get back to the hotel and see you, before his imagination starts showing him things he won’t be able to shake.

It isn’t until he’s climbing out of the Uber, fishing for his room card in his back pocket, that he realises he should’ve texted you—let you know he’s on his way back. He doesn’t want to frighten you. Or worse. You could be showering again, or changing, or walking around in your underwear—

God. He needs to stop before his brain goes somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t—before he pops a boner waiting for the damn elevator.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and types a quick text:

Forgot to let you know I left the bar. Just got back to the resort.

But before he hits send, he hesitates. Is he trying too hard?

So he retypes as he steps into the lift:

I’ll be at the room in five.

He hesitates again. Should he elaborate?

He types again:

Decided to call it an early night and I’m just about back at the room. Hope that’s okay.

Hope that’s okay? Why wouldn’t it be? He doesn’t need your permission. It’s his room too.

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the elevator, then deletes the text and tries again:

Just letting you know I’ll be back at the room in—

He glances up from his phone. Shit. He’s already here. Texting now would just be weird.

It’s fine—he’ll just knock. That’s a fair enough warning. Right?

He lifts his hand and raps on the door three times.

A beat passes. Then another. Nothing.

His brows draw together, his heart beating far too fast for this to mean nothing.

He knocks again. Waits.

Still nothing.

His stomach knots nervously, nausea crawling bitterly up the back of his throat.

Maybe you’re out on the balcony?

He exhales slowly, then slips his keycard from his back pocket and swipes it through the reader. The lock flashes green, then beeps and clicks. He turns the handle and pushes the door open slowly.

“It’s just me,” he calls. “I forgot to text when I left the bar, but—”

The room is dark. Not a single light left on. Bob’s brows knit tighter as he lets the door fall shut behind him with a soft click. He treads lightly, quietly, squinting through the dark toward the bed in the middle of the room.

But it’s empty. Everything’s empty.

The bed, the bathroom, the balcony—the whole damn room is completely empty.

Fuck.

Bob squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a slow, steady breath, like that might be enough to force his thoughts back into order. Like he can shove it all back down if he just doesn’t think too hard.

But it doesn’t work.

The images come anyway—half-formed and unwelcome. Not clear enough to be real, but sharp enough to sting. He doesn’t want to picture it. Doesn’t want to give the thought any shape or weight. But his brain keeps circling the same awful question, over and over, until it feels burned into the backs of his eyelids.

What if Jake’s stupid phase three didn’t make you jealous—what if it just made you move on?

What if you saw him laughing with someone else and decided not to wait around for clarification. What if you didn’t owe him that. What if you assumed the worst because, frankly, he’d given you every reason to.

Bob shoves his glasses into his hair and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He did this. He followed the plan. He pulled back. He looked away. And now the room is empty, and you’re not here, and the silence feels loud enough to accuse him of something.

Maybe you didn’t even mean it to happen like this. Maybe you were just tired. Maybe you just wanted to go home and sleep.

But the thought doesn’t settle. It won’t.

Because another part of him—the louder, more anxious part—keeps whispering that he waited too long. That he hesitated when it mattered. That he let someone else step into the space he should’ve been standing in all along. That Jake’s plan was never going to work because Bob was already too late.

And now he’s alone in a dark hotel room, trying not to imagine what he’s already decided he’s lost.

After a few minutes of standing in the dark, listening to his pulse pound in his ears, Bob fumbles for a light switch, flicking on the first one he can find. The overhead lights flicker to life instantly, bathing the empty room in a warm yellow glow that feels almost mocking in its normalcy.

He avoids his reflection in the mirrored wardrobe as he steps around the bed and flips open his suitcase. He picks out a pair of sleep shorts and one of his threadbare sleep shirts, throws them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his shirt with clumsy fingers.

Every sound is obnoxiously loud in the quiet room. He can hear the soft whistle of the breeze outside, the distant echo of voices from other rooms. Even the rustle of fabric is too sharp in his ears as he shrugs his shirt off.

Then his hands drop to his waistband, about to unbutton his shorts when he hears the door click—and freezes.

It barely takes you two steps to come into view, looking a little startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” You frown. “Sorry, I—uh—I didn’t expect you to be here.”

The tension drains out of him all at once, like someone pulled a plug. Bob can feel it in his shoulders, his jaw, the way his lungs finally remember how to exhale. You’re still wearing that sinful little sundress—hair still perfect, makeup unsmudged. Almost as if everything he’d imagined hadn’t happened at all.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “I’m sorry, I—I should have texted you, but I didn’t think. Just wanted to get out of that stuffy bar.”

You huff a quiet, humourless laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Looked like you were having a terrible time.”

Bob frowns. He might not be as good at reading women as Jake is, but he knows you—and he knows that was dripping with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

You shrug, but it’s stiff—too deliberate. “Nothing. Just… surprised you didn’t go home with your new friend.”

Bob’s brows draw tighter. “New friend?”

“The blonde,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite stick. “At the bar. Gorgeous, by the way.”

“Oh—uh.” Bob hesitates. “She was just—we were just talking.”

“Just talking?” you repeat, brows lifting.

He nods automatically, then pauses. There’s something different in your expression now—darker, sharper. Focused on him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

“I could see you, Bob,” you say, folding your arms. “I could see her. She was into you.”

He blinks. “She was?”

Your mouth twists. “God. Really? Isn’t that the whole reason you went over there? So you could get laid?”

The words hit harder than he expects.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean—no. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, heat creeping up his neck as he thinks of Jake—don’t explain, don’t chase. “I didn’t think she was interested… like that.”

You stare at him for a beat, then let out a short scoff. “Wow. Okay.”

You step closer without meaning to—or maybe he steps back. He’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re very aware of the fact that he’s shirtless now, your gaze dipping and catching before you drag it away again.

Something tight and confusing coils low in his stomach.

“You know, I used to think it was just me,” you say lightly—too lightly. “But at least now I know you’re clueless about all women.”

Then you turn on your heel, march toward the other side of the bed, snatch something out of your suitcase, and stomp into the bathroom.

Bob just stands there, stunned. His brain is still catching up—confusion tangling with relief, with something warmer and sharper that has no business showing up right now. His heart is still pounding, but not like before. Not panic. Something else.

“I’m changing,” you mutter.

Bob fumbles for his shirt, pulling it over his head as he turns toward the balcony. He doesn’t look back—no matter how much he wants to—he just slides the door open and steps out into the warm night.

He takes a deep breath, staring out at the quietly crashing waves, and for the first time since Jake started talking about plans and phases and being temporarily unavailable, a thought sneaks in—unwanted and reluctant, but impossible to ignore.

Oh.

Maybe it’s… working.

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[violained]

𝐬𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 ─ dean winchester

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: dean dreams about you and can't recover. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: gn!reader. mildly angsty yearning, wanting, needing. dean is helplessly in love and hurting because of it. use of pet names (sweetheart, pretty, baby). a short glimpse of more yearner!dean <3

masterlist ♡ requested

His palms are clammy, he swipes them down the loose thighs of his sweats. Flickering, fluorescent light makes the pinked line of his eye harsher when he glances up into the mirror, and thin rivulets of water drip off his chin. Back down into the sink with no sound at all. His fingers move to the ceramic edge.

He dreams about you too much.

Golden and fuzzy, your face highlighted by an omniscient sun. Smiling down upon him shiny, mouth creased at the corners. You let him run his thumb over your cheek and he gets to pretend for a while, that he can feel you. But it's selfish to be disappointed when you fade, and he blinks awake to a dark, stained ceiling.

You'd been in the bed opposite his, tonight. Futile to close his eyes again and try to succumb back to sleep. Bathroom, he'd decided. To breathe and forget and remind.

Not his. To hold or admire or love, though he loves you very much. It's a dagger to his heart, a pretty, embossed and painful thing that taunts him and smudges sticky crimson around his insides. Over his ribs, it drips to his stomach. He feels it everywhere, always and ever flowing.

The steady drip, drip, drip of the tap keeps him tuned. But it's soon paired with soft, tentative footfall and he turns his head towards the sound. It stops and then shuffles, his hands feel wet all over again.

"Dean," you call, muffled. His forehead drops to the door, he curses. "Are you alright?"

He swallows down a thick ache. "Yeah," he answers. "M'fine, sweetheart."

Silence stretches for one moment, and the next. Until your soft sigh pierces through the veil and he hears a gentle thud where you've just sunk your head against the door, with his. He wonders if they'd be touching if there wasn't something in the way.

"Did you have a nightmare? I told you to wake me up for those, De. It's okay."

It's worse that you're caring and kind. Worse that you do smile at him and look at him and pay attention, worse that you know the turns of his tangled, tarnished mind and love so loudly despite it. The doorknob turns under his grip and he isn't sure when he'd reached for it at all, it's a mistake.

You're pretty like this, subtly-lit and mostly shrouded by the dark. Hair mussed and eyes glinting, drooped with heavy sleep that he desperately hopes he hadn't woken you from. The majority of him yearns to thrust forward and wipe the shadows from your soft under eyes and kiss at your nose, tuck you back into bed with him and hold you until the sun rises.

"I'm alright," he assures, voice quiet. "You should go back to sleep, pretty."

Your head shakes. "It's too quiet without your snoring. I need the noise."

A small smile spreads then, he ignores the pang of his chest and crosses his arms to stifle it.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Are you gonna make fun?"

The dagger stabs at him, then. He bends down to meet your eyes in full and lets his gaze flutter about the shine in them. "No," he breathes. "'Course, not. Not about that. Okay?"

You nod and he lets a low sigh bleed out from his lips. It's without thinking that his fingers find your bicep, they give an upwards sweep. His jaw works when you lean and press against the touch. He does it again, down your sleeve and up to bunch the fabric, soothing and repetitive, he wishes this was regular and every day.

"Baby. You're fallin' asleep, go on," he whispers. "I'll be out in a sec."

It's a very massive slip, baby. He'd want to crawl into the Earth and wilt amidst it's soil if he had said it aloud during the day. But with how sleepy you are, he's sure you haven't noticed. Even surer when you smile crooked and turn to make way back to bed, and the first bout of relief he's felt in a long time blooms big.

One day he'll call you by it without being nervous, he dreams again, awake. You'll flush and bubble out that flowery laugh that he loves and call him something just as honey-sweet and coveted right back. It'll be known and yours and real, love.

Real love.

He closes the door and faces the mirror once more, and hopes he has another one when he falls back asleep tonight.

❤︎⁠

forgot i was posting this on valentines oops </3 maybe i will whip up something sweet to compensate!!!

[seasononesam]

Yeah, but how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember? About that night, you mean?

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

that old cliché.

you swore you’d never give in to the maid of honour and best man cliche. and then you met evan buckley.

evan buckley x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol. buck’s a filthy flirt.

word count - 6k

authors note - and so she returns!! thank you all so much for your loveliness on my post about my break - I appreciate it more than you know. this one was so much fun to write. i’ve not written any longer stuff for buck, but he’s a character I feel that I have a really good understanding of - I actually think we’re very alike - so this came so easy. hope you love it as much as I do. <3

masterlist. inbox.

Silvery melodies of laughter clink off the rim of the champagne flute you hold in your freshly manicured hand. As the gentle breeze whips through the material of your dress, you look around you, realising you’ve never seen so many people so happy at once.

The backyard of the Italian villa is packed, dozens of guests milling around - dancing, drinking, chatting and catching up. Family, friends, colleagues; people from every phase of the bride and grooms life, all celebrating together in one place.

A rocks glass is placed down onto the table in front of you with a thud. Looking up, you’re met with the sight of the best man towering over you expectantly with a drink in his hand.

“Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

You scoff, staring up at him through your lashes.

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yeah. But why?”

“It’s whiskey. I watched you grimace every time you had to drink the champagne, so I thought you’d want something different.”

You swirl the glass, listening to the tinkle of the ice against the sides.

“You were watching me, huh?”

“Of course I was. Can’t take my eyes off you in that dress.”

“Shut up,” you chide, fighting to keep the grin off your face. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“The whole best man and maid of honour thing. It’s just too cliched.”

He laughs all hearty and genuine, and you poignantly ignore the way the butterflies start fluttering in your stomach.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to eat me.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, shaking your head at him.

“Yeah, right. In your dreams, Evan.”

“Oh, you will be,” he winks, knocking his glass against yours in a quick cheers before walking off to the find the groom.

You watch him go, not completely oblivious to the way his suit fits him just right. Determined to stand your ground, you inhale a deep breath before taking a sip of your drink. The drink that definitely isn’t exactly what you needed. The drink that he’d practically read your mind to figure out. Effortlessly.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s been like this all day.

You met Evan Buckley for the first time last night, at the rehearsal dinner. The bride, your best friend in the world, kept telling you that you’d love the best man.

“He’s from California,” she’d said. “He’s Danny’s friend from when they were kids. He’s a firefighter, babe. He’s hot.”

You’d laughed it off, zipping up the back of her dress while she watched you in the mirror.

“Oh, come on. That’s so cliched. The whole maid of honour and best man thing is so old, Lucy.”

“You’re single, he’s single,” she’d protested. “It’d do you some good to get laid, relieve some stress. And people let their guards down at weddings. Now’s your chance.”

“If I wanted to get laid, I’d get laid,” you scoffed.

“All I’m saying is that Buck is completely your type. He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, he’s sweet. And you’re gonna have to spend a fair bit of time together tonight and tomorrow, so… just keep an open mind.”

“Fine,” you soothed, rolling your eyes. “Mind wide open. Alright?”

“You’re gonna love him.”

“You said that already.”

“Because I really believe it. You’re gonna love him.”

And the problem is… she was kind of right.

No, you don’t love him. You’ve known him for 48 hours. But… there’s something.

Lucy wasn’t lying. He is gorgeous, and funny, and sweet. And hot. So hot. He showed up to the rehearsal dinner in dress pants and a linen shirt, all sun kissed and muscled and tanned and stunning.

The two of you were seated next to each other, planned so carefully by the bride and groom. One minute you were making cautious introductions, shaking hands and smiling gently. The next minute you were crying with laughter, clutching at his bicep as he grabs your thigh, legs intertwined and chairs pulled together.

Lucy and Danny nudge each other occasionally, watching the both of you get along like two old friends that have known each other forever. A look passes between them that says I told you so clear as day.

But you’re stubborn. Too stubborn, some may say. You know you’ll never hear the end of it from your friends if you give into this very alluring temptation, and perhaps your pride means a bit more to you than it should. So you resist, you refuse to give in. Even if you really want to.

And that was just last night. Today has been even worse.

By worse, you mean the connection between you and Evan has grown even stronger. You walked down the aisle with him, arm linked with his, both dressed up to the nines. The maid of honour and the best man, a perfect picture.

You haven’t been able to keep your hands off each other all day. Little touches - his fingers on the small of your back, your grip on his bicep, shoulders brushing and thighs pressed together. Nothing crazy, but nothing meaningless, either. There’s an undeniable electricity buzzing between you, hot and alive.

You’re not sure how much longer you can deny it.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You’re dancing with Lucy and her little nieces when you hear yelling and commotion coming from the other side of the dance floor. Looking over, you see Danny, Evan and other groomsmen flailing around and fussing.

“What happened?” Lucy’s yelling, making her way over with you in tow.

“Just a drink spillage, Luce! But it’s red wine, and now Buck’s shirt is pink.”

You look at the man in question and can’t help but laugh. His crisp white dress shirt is now a pretty shade of pink across the front, his cheeks a rosy colour to match.

“Stop laughing,” he chides, but he’s grinning at you as he says it. “I need to go and change. I have a spare shirt in my suitcase upstairs.”

He starts to leave, but soon turns around and calls your name.

“I don’t have a key for that big door at the end of the hallway to get to our rooms. Do you?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse. You want it?”

“Just come with me. It’ll be easier.”

Before you can argue, he’s taken off, big strides across the garden. You have to practically run in your heels to keep up with him, shaking your head in frustration.

“I could have just given you this,” you say when you reach the door, unlocking it for him.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

The smirk he gives you is so cheeky, it’s a wonder you don’t smack it off his face. Cocky bastard.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, walking with purpose to his room.

“Come in with me? It’ll only take a minute, then we can walk back together.”

You know you should say no, tell him that you’ll meet him downstairs. But you don’t. Instead, you say,

“Fine. But hurry up. I don’t wanna miss the party.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mock salutes, unlocking the door to his room that’s conveniently directly across from yours.

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid watching him undress. He shrugs off his now pink shirt, taking it with him into the bathroom.

You’re surprised at how tidy everything is. Not that you think Evan would be particularly messy, but he doesn’t strike you as a neat and clean type. His suitcase is unpacked into the closet, bed made, nothing on the floor. It only makes you like him more.

“Can you grab my other shirt from the closet please, gorgeous? The one I wore last night for the rehearsal dinner.”

You swing the two doors open and rifle around, failing to see the linen button up that he’s looking for. Suddenly, you feel a warmth behind you, Buck’s solid form caging you in. He reaches around you, arm brushing yours as he finds what he needs.

“Found it,” he murmurs into your ear, all low and honeyed.

Against your better judgment, you turn around, finding yourself face to face with him. He towers over you, watching your reactions carefully. Your hands reach out and rest on his bare chest, steadying yourself before you either fall over or pass out.

Buck gently traces your bottom lip with his thumb, eyes completely locked on yours. You have to resist every urge to either bite it or suck it into your mouth, reminding yourself that now isn’t the time. The noise from the garden floats up and through the window that’s cracked open slightly, tethering you to the reality that is slowly fading away the longer you hold Evan’s gaze.

He leans in, and to your surprise, doesn’t kiss you immediately. Pressing his forehead to yours, he inhales deeply, as if committing the moment to memory. His thumbs are now tracing gentle circles on your jaw, soft and callous at the same time. You inhale slowly, processing the scent of his cologne mixed with the evening breeze. If you could bottle it up, you think, you’d be a millionaire. This would cure everything.

Buck finally closes down the gap between you, inching towards your lips softly. You shut your eyes, waiting for him to finally kiss you - when there’s deafening knocking on the door. The two of you jump apart, hearts pounding and nerves on a live wire.

Evan strides over to the source of the noise, taking a deep breath to try and compose himself as he goes. You perch on the edge of the bed, smoothing down your dress and attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible.

“Buck? Dude, it’s Jake. Hurry up, yeah? The guys wanna do our dance routine before everyone gets too drunk to remember it.”

He doesn’t bother opening the door, just yells back through the wood.

“Yeah, sure - I’ll be down in a minute!”

You hear Jake’s footsteps retreat, both of you exhaling the breaths you didn’t know you’d been holding. Buck looks at you, worried that the moment’s been ruined, to find you stifling a laugh behind your hand.

“There’s a dance routine?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, fighting to keep the grin off his face. “We created it years ago. The guys won’t let it die.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this.”

You’re cackling, reclining onto the duvet as you laugh.

“Stop,” he groans, jumping over to flop onto his back on the bed next to you. “I did a lot of regrettable things in college… and that routine is definitely the worst of it.”

“I hope you know that you’re never going to live this down, Buckley. I’ll be reminding you of this forever.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at you. “You really like me, huh?”

“What the hell gave you that impression?”

“You said forever. What’s next, honey? You gonna get down on one knee later?”

You’re suddenly aware of the warmth of the whiskey flowing through your veins, giving you a liquid confidence that stuns both you and the man lying next to you.

“Two knees, maybe. But not one.”

His eyes go wide as you smirk, pulling yourself off the bed and making your way over to the door. Buck watches you carefully, gaze steady and firm.

“You coming? I’m more than ready to see those moves of yours.”

He stands up, slipping on his shoes and shrugging the clean shirt onto his broad shoulders. You grab your purse, leaning against the doorframe as you wait.

Evan reaches past you for the door handle, nose purposely brushing yours as he does it.

“I’ll hold you to what you said before,” he murmurs, moving a strand of hair away from your face softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

You look up at him with big doe eyes, like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Sure, Evan,” you reply lowly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Breaking away from him, you swing the door open, strutting down the hallway without looking back. Your confidence has sky rocketed, knowing that he wants this just as badly as you do. You walk back out to the garden and take your earlier seat, ready for the show you’ve been promised.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The dance routine is spectacular.

It’s cheesy and hilarious and very early 2000s inspired - it’s almost like watching a music video from a boy band you loved when you were a teenager. It should embarrass you, turn you off majorly, but… it doesn’t. It only does the opposite.

Everything Buck does makes you like him more.

You spend the rest of the evening dancing, laughing, and floating on cloud nine. In a garden in Italy, surrounded by your best friends - you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be.

As the evening dwindles to an end, everyone slowly begins making their way back to their rooms within the villa. You sit down, unbuckling your heels to finally give your feet a rest. It almost feels like deja vu when a rocks glass is placed down in front of you on the table.

“Hi, Evan.”

“Hi gorgeous.”

“What’s this?”

“A drink.”

“Yes, but why?”

He pulls out the chair in front of you and sits down, looking at you intently.

“Thought we could have a nightcap before we go upstairs.”

You look around to find that mostly everyone has decided to call it a day. You can see Lucy and Danny walking off hand in hand, going for a stroll around the grounds before they let the wedding officially be over. It just leaves you and Buck, sat in your original places.

“Is this Baileys?”

“Yes ma’am. Do you like it? I figured you probably wouldn’t want another whiskey, seeing as you’ve had so many.”

You scoff, trying to fight the grin that threatens to take over your face.

“I’ve had, like, four, thank you very much.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, making you chuckle as you shake your head.

“Cheers, Evan,” you toast, clinking your glass against his matching one. “We did it. A wedding without a hitch. Mostly.”

“My shirt will never be white again, but besides that, we did a pretty good job.”

“We make a good team.”

He looks slightly taken aback by your honesty, trying to hide his smirk.

“Yes, we do. A super hot, super funny team.”

“A super hot, super funny team.”

You both laugh, heads thrown back with no cares in the world. Buck shuffles his chair forward so his legs are slotted on either side of you, warm skin radiating into yours. The moonlight is glinting off of his cheekbones, illuminating the light streaks in his hair. You’re a little tipsy and much too tired to fully fight your feelings anymore.

He’s beautiful, and you’re sick of denying it.

The two of you finish off your drinks, sat in a comfortable silence beneath the starry night sky. His hand has found its way onto your thigh, thumb rubbing gentle patterns into your bare skin. You’re sneaking glances at him when he looks away, admiring the way he’s glowing, buzzed off of the alcohol and the excitement of the day. He’s doing the same with you, soft smile etched onto his face as he watches you gaze up at the stars above your heads.

A yawn escapes you, making both of you chuckle.

“I’ll walk you to your room?”

“Well, you better. I’m the only one of us with a key for that big door.”

He laughs even harder, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I forgot about that. If you weren’t here, I’d have slept on the floor in the hallway or something.”

“Probably wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, standing up and tucking your chair under the table.

“Sorry, what was that? Say it again? Hmm? Hmm?” he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you so your feet are no longer on the floor.

“Okay, okay! Put me down before I throw up,” you shriek, giggling like a teenager.

He places you back down, hands on your hips to steady you. You look up at him, keeping your eyes fixed on his to steady yourself from the dizziness. When you feel ready to go, you clear your throat, willing yourself to walk away before you kiss him stupid.

“We should go to bed,” you whisper, afraid to ruin the moment.

“Yeah?”

“Separate beds,” you tell him sternly, chuckling when he cackles.

“Yes ma’am.”

Buck walks you back to your room in a gentlemanly fashion, looping your arm through his to keep you both upright. When you reach your door, your fingers linger on the handle, as if you’re not quite ready to go inside just yet.

Reaching out gently, he moves a strand of hair from your face, fingertips brushing your cheekbone as he does it. You sigh softly, eyes fluttering shut at the sweet contact.

“Goodnight, gorgeous,” he murmurs lowly. “Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight.”

He takes a step back towards his door when you speak again.

“Evan?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Everything, today. You’ve been a damn good best man.”

“Well, thank you. For being the best maid of honour.”

You nod, smiling like an idiot as you unlock your door and shut it behind you. You take a deep breath when you’re finally inside, throwing down your heels onto the floor and your purse onto the side table. Reaching behind you, your fingers tug at the zipper on your dress, attempting to pull it down.

It’s only now you realise your dilemma. The zipper is on an awkward place on your back, right where you can’t get to. You think quickly back to this morning - one of the bridesmaids doing the dress up for you, pulling the material taut as she fastened it. You’re not going to be able to get this off yourself.

Finding the purse that you discarded minutes earlier, you aim to find a hair clip. If you can loop a bobby pin into the zipper, you think, you might be able to pull it yourself. You root around in it for a second, before pulling out two phones.

Well, fuck.

You’d completely forgotten that Evan had given it to you earlier in the evening, worried that it was going to get broken if it stayed in his back pocket. You’d tucked it away and not thought about it again.

Until now.

Now, you’re realising that you’re going to have to go and give it back. He probably hasn’t remembered that you have it, otherwise you’re sure he’d be knocking on the door or yelling across the hallway.

You stand in the middle of your room, with two phones and a stuck zipper, wondering if the universe thinks this is funny.

You’re certainly not laughing.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“Evan?”

He swings the door open, facing you in his suit trousers with no shirt on.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I have your phone.”

Holding it out to him, his fingertips brush yours as he takes it from you, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh, shit. I forgot about this. Thanks, pretty.”

“Of course.”

You stand and look at each other for a second, so much left unsaid.

“Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Anything.”

His instantly willingness has butterflies fluttering in your stomach, flitting and lightweight and undeniable.

“Can you help me get my dress off?”

When he smirks and goes to speak, you cut him off quickly.

“The zipper is stuck, Evan. Alice zipped me up this morning and I can’t undo it by myself.”

“This is a very long winded way of asking me to get you naked, gorgeous.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“If that’s what I wanted, I would just ask you, Buckley.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

“Can you help me or not?”

He’s laughing, now, head thrown back with it. You hate the way it makes your heart sing.

“You coming in? Or you want me to undress you in the hallway?”

“You’re not undressing- fuck, you’re annoying.”

He’s still chuckling when he ushers you inside, shutting the door firmly behind you both.

“How do you wanna do this? Lights on, lights off? Curtains open or shut? Music? Candles?”

“Undo the damn zipper before I smack you.”

His laughter is rumbling through his chest, contagious in its nature. You want to be angry at him, but you just can’t seem to find it in you.

“Turn around, gorgeous.”

You spin to face the door, taking a deep breath as you anticipate his touch. You feel his warmth behind you, fingertips dancing over the skin of your shoulders before they reach your zipper. You can’t see him, but you can envisage the sight - his broad chest, thick neck, that beautiful sun kissed glow he’s developed over the past few days. Your lungs heave as the room suddenly feels like it’s a thousand degrees.

Buck slides the zipper down your back slowly, with intent and clarity. When it reaches your coccyx, he stops, resting his other hand on your hip to keep you steady.

You know you should step away, maybe throw him a quick thanks as you leave. But you do believe in fate, whether you like to admit it or not - and this entire night has felt like it’s been written in the stars.

Who are you to deny what the universe is so clearly gifting you?

You let your arms relax, sighing as the dress falls off of you and down to the floor. You step out of it, finally turning around to face Buck wearing nothing but your lacy white underwear. Surprisingly, there’s not an ounce of self consciousness in your body. The only thing you feel is desire.

For the first time since you’ve met him, Evan is completely speechless. His eyes rove over you, drinking in the sight in front of him, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in awe, fingers itching to reach out and touch you. “The minute I first saw you, I couldn’t believe you were real.”

“Evan?”

“Yeah?”

“Touch me, please.”

He grins, surging forward to cup your cheek with one hand while the other finds its home on your waist.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

“Finally.”

Buck leans in and presses his lips to yours surprisingly gently, testing the waters. You tangle your fingers into his hair, pulling him as close as possible. He gets the message, reeling you in and deepening the kiss until you can’t tell where he ends and you begin.

You’re being walked backwards and into the wall, pushed up against it for leverage. You hike a leg up over Bucks hip, groaning when the two of you grind forwards at the same time. His hands are everywhere - your face, tits, ass, waist - anywhere he can reach. It’s like he’s not quite sure where he wants them, as if he’s worried he’ll leave somewhere untouched.

“You’re all I’ve thought about for two days,” he’s muttering into your neck as he leaves open mouthed kisses on your skin. “Driving me crazy.”

“I got myself off last night,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut when he sucks at the spot under your ear. “Thinking about you.”

“Fuck,” he moans, sinking down to his knees in front of you. “Tell me more. Please.”

It’s almost biblical, the sight of him. On his knees, practically begging, looking up at you like you’re his saviour. You’re dizzy with the power, blood rushing straight to your head.

Buck presses kisses into your leg, starting at your calves and moving up. When he gets to your inner thigh, he gazes up at you, pleading with his eyes for you to continue.

“Tell me more or I’ll stop,” he says sternly, hooking his fingers into your underwear to pull them down and off.

“Okay, okay,” you pant, dropping your head back against the wall. “I, I- I couldn’t stop thinking about your arms in that shirt. The, the, the-”

You’re stuttering as he licks a stripe up your core, diving in with no hesitation. His fingers are gripping your thighs so hard you know it’ll bruise, and you can’t wait to feel the imprints in the morning.

“The?”

He’s pulled away to look at you with his brow quirked, dirty smirk etched across his face.

“Keep going, gorgeous. You haven’t even got to the good part. Neither of us have.”

You scoff at him in defiance, but slide your fingers into his hair to tug him back to where you want him.

“You looked so strong,” you continue, sighing when his tongue finds your core again. “Kept thinking about how easily you could throw me around. Pick me up, sit me on your face…”

Buck groans, all deep and rumbled, and the vibrations have your legs going weak. He doubles down on his efforts, slipping his tongue inside as his nose nudges your clit. He’s a fast learner, taking mental note of the spots and pressures that make your knees buckle.

“Keep going,” he mumbles into your core.

“You keep going,” you retort, pulling at his hair.

He chuckles but obliges your request, sucking your clit into his mouth with purpose. You’re shaking, holding onto him for dear life as you reach your climax. The moan you let out is borderline pornographic, and it has Buck palming himself over his suit trousers with a groan.

“Fuck, Evan,” you pant, chest heaving as you slump into the wall. “You need to grab me before I collapse. My legs are jelly.”

Laughing as he does it, he stands up and wraps his arms around your middle, holding you against him as tightly as he can.

“You okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Better than ever.”

He rests his lips on your forehead, both of you breathing each other in for a moment.

“Can’t believe you were right across the hallway from me, trying to be quiet while you were getting yourself off,” he murmurs, fingers running up and down your back. “You should have come over here. I would have helped you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you tease, cupping his face in your hands. “I was still acting like I didn’t wanna rip your clothes off back then.”

“Knew you’d crack eventually,” he winks, grinning when you laugh.

You pull him into you for a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, clearly telling him exactly what you want.

“You gonna fuck me, Evan? Or are we just gonna stand here all night?”

He shakes his head with a smirk before throwing you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce back off. As he starts to crawl over to you, you stop him with a foot on his chest.

“Nuh uh. You’re wearing too many clothes. Strip, Buckley.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He’s standing up immediately, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them off in one fell swoop. His boxers are next, leaving him stood bare and beautiful in front of you.

“Fuck. You’re not real,” you breathe out, eyes dancing over him.

“Oh I am so real,” he’s reassuring, situating himself on top of you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him down so you can grind your hips into his.

“I’ve been waiting two days for this,” you murmur into his lips. “Make it worth my while, please.”

“Careful what you wish for,” he teases, kissing you again with such a force that you’re dizzy.

Buck sucks a bruise into your collarbone, licking a stripe up your sternum and tasting the salt that sits on your skin. Your patience is wearing thinner and thinner, anticipation bubbling up in your veins.

“How’d you want it?” he whispers into your ear.

“Just- deep. Wanna feel you for the rest of the weekend.”

He groans, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips.

“Anything you want, gorgeous. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything in the world.”

His lust drunk rambling makes you giggle, wiggling your hips into his to hopefully hurry him up. You tug at his hair, pulling his face so it’s level with yours.

“Now, Evan. Can’t wait any longer. Please.”

“Fuck. You’re so pretty when you beg.”

He lines himself up, pressing his forehead to yours as the two of you connect. He’s big and he’s stretching you out just right and you think you might have died and gone to heaven. You both groan, panting into each others mouths.

“Fuck, baby. It’s like you were made for me.”

The baby sends warmth running through both your core and your heart, all the signals setting your nervous system on fire.

“Please,” you whimper, kissing him with desperation as you tangle your fingers in his curls and pull. “Please, Evan.”

“I’ve got you,” he’s mumbling, pulling his hips back and sliding them forwards with clear intent.

Reaching up beside your head, Buck pulls a pillow down and situates it under your hips, putting you where he wants you.

“Want you to feel me as deep as possible,” he murmurs, tucking his head into the crook of your neck. “Won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

You can only moan at the promise, praying he delivers. There’s a shiny sheen of sweat covering his sun kissed skin, making him glow in the moonlight like some sort of angel. Sent just for you.

Buck sets a steady rhythm, not too fast but just fast enough. He clearly knows what he’s doing, and you ignore the pang of jealousy in your chest at the idea of him with another woman, even in the past.

Now that you’ve had a taste of this, you don’t want to let it go.

He’s pressing kisses onto whatever skin he can reach - your neck, your collarbone, underneath your ear. His hips never cease, determined to get you both to where you need to be. When he hitches one of your legs over his waist, you can’t help but drop your head back, eyes fluttering shut at the new angle.

He tilts his hips upwards, and hits a spot that has you keening. Speech has left you, and all you can do now is take it like you were made for it.

“Right there? Yeah? That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod frantically, sucking in a shuddering breath like you’ve been under water. Your legs have started to shake, and Buck’s grinning when he thinks about how far he can push you before you’re at your limit.

“Come on, pretty girl. Give it to me.”

You’re so close you can taste it, desperate to find this release that’s been building for the last forty eight hours. When Buck moves his hand from your hip to your throat and squeezes just slightly, you snap.

You’re coming with a breathless moan, back arching into him to plaster your fronts together.

“Shit, you look so beautiful when you come. Jesus.”

You manage a soft smile, looking up at him to see those bright eyes staring into yours. He looks entranced, as if he’s staring at a piece in an art gallery. You swipe his hair back from his sweaty forehead, teasing your thumb across his bottom lip. When he sucks it into his mouth, your jaw drops open, mind foggy with arousal.

“Think you can give me another one? Let me see you come all pretty again?” he asks around your digit, tongue laving over your skin.

“Mhmm,” you’re agreeing before you can even process it, eager to please.

“That’s my girl.”

He moves your fingers from his mouth back into his hair as his find your throat once more, applying a little pressure. His hips pick up their pace, faster and harder than before. He’s fucking you into the mattress, strong arms keeping you from sliding off the bed.

He looks breathtaking, on top of you like this. He’s so broad, towering over you like he’ll shield you from the entire world if he has to. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the whole universe, unbothered by anything or anyone else.

“Buck- I… I-”

“I know, baby. Can feel it. Atta girl.”

You pull him down to kiss you as you reach your third climax of the night, arms wrapping around his neck so every inch of you is pressed together.

“There we go, good girl. That’s it, yeah. It’s yours, baby. It’s all yours.”

Buck finally finds his release, triggered by yours. His head drops into your neck, his frantic breath tickling your skin. You murmur sweet nothings into his ear, talking him through it as he shudders and shakes. Eventually, he collapses completely onto you, body weight pinning you down.

You’re both heaving for air, lungs burning as you try to regain an ounce of composure.

He murmurs something into your shoulder, the vibrations of it rumbling through your bones.

“Hmm?”

“You called me Buck.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, silvery and melodic.

“I’ve been trying not to for two days.”

“I know. You thought you were making a point.”

“I was making a point.”

“Sure, honey. Sure.”

“I hate you,” you grumble, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face. “I also hate that we’ve just made Lucy and Danny the happiest people ever.”

“Oh, shit. I hate it when they’re right.”

He pulls his head from your neck to look at you, resting his cheek against your chest so he can gaze up and into your eyes.

“I’m sure we can keep this a secret for a little while.”

“Yeah… we can’t.”

You quirk your brow at him in a silent question.

“I told Danny I was gonna marry you the minute you walked into the rehearsal dinner in that red dress. Can’t hide how I feel about you, gorgeous. It’s physically impossible.”

You can’t help but laugh, running your fingers through his hair to scratch at his scalp.

“Take me on a date first. Then we’ll talk about marriage, okay?”

“You did say forever, earlier.”

“That I did. Maybe my heart knew something my brain didn’t.”

Buck grins up at you, all blinding and giddy.

“The best man and the maid of honour, huh?”

“That old cliche,” you chuckle. “We weren’t the first, and we won’t be the last.”

“You’ll be my last, gorgeous.”

“Real smooth, Buck. Real smooth.”

“Buck,” he whispers, half in amusement, half in awe.

He could get used to this. You both could.

as always, reblogs are like gold to writers. if you enjoyed this, please reblog!! it’s invaluable <3

@peachysink @jjamjamie @alipap3 @spookyysinsanity @sophiah2253 @annaaaaanguyenn

[lila-lou]

✨ Masterlist - Lost and found✨

Lost and found

Lost and found - Pt. 2

Lost and found - Pt. 3

Lost and found - Pt. 4

Lost and found - Pt. 5 18+ only!

Lost and found - Pt. 6 18+ only!

Lost and found - Pt. 7 (The End)

[piece0fgarbag]

jealous type (part 2) - j. k.

(Joe Keery x Fem!Singer!Reader)

Summary: The Grammys puts you and Joe in the same room again, reigniting an unspoken jealousy and sexual tension that are impossible to avoid.

Word count: 9.5k

Warnings: +18 MDNI. SMUT (public and unprotected p in v), some angst, fluff-y.

a/n: lets pretend joe was at the grammys looking hot as usual...

The day after you left Joe for good, Mary and Paul traveled on your private jet all the way to New York. They helped pack everything from your shared apartment while you rotted in sobs in a hotel room. 

Joe was gone, probably in California, so Mary couldn’t kick his ass the way he deserved. 

You blocked his number, deleted your socials, and, for the next entire month, wrote the most depressive songs of your career. It would be crazy to announce this breakup album about a relationship no one ever knew about.

Mary and Paul insisted on taking you to their Christmas’ and New Year’s plans, like a sad, sickened puppy they had to take care of. 

They wanted badly to convince you to speak with Joe, clarify stuff, and find closure, but they couldn’t deny that those three messages Sabrina sent were enough damage to your mental health. 

“Want to know what I did when my ex cheated on me? Paul said one time he and Mary had driven you to the airport. “I fucked the girl she was always jealous of.”

Mary groaned. “That’s the worst advice ever, babe.”

For a second, you imagined sleeping with every hot guy in the industry to break Joe’s heart as he had done yours. But your sadness was making it impossible to even think about talking to another man again. 

During the first three weeks, there was one app you kept: Twitter. After years of not using it, you had found the fun in it and learned to block names from appearing on your feed. 

Scrolling on it was your favorite time-consuming activity until two tweets ruined everything. 

First, someone spotted Joe and Sabrina attending an SNL after-party. They hadn’t been seen together, but they were both in the same room so everyone —including you— assumed they were dating. 

Then, that same afternoon, the universe kept punishing you with a tweet saying, “omggg joe is active here again? he liked a Y/N Y/L/N edit!?” The comments were screenshots proving that he indeed had liked an edit of yours with… brazilian funk music? 

You weren’t sure how those short videos worked, but you liked it too as a thank-you to the fan. They had probably spent a long time finding clips of you looking not so miserable and—

A hundred notifications arrived all at once and you almost dropped your phone.

“OMG @ Y/N DOWNLOADED TWITTER AGAIN?”

“OMG SHE REMEMBERED HER PASSWORD!!”

“GIRL WE NEED THE NEW ALBUM!”

Your name was trending as everyone made a big deal of your accidental comeback on Twitter. Accidentally, you tapped on the DMs tab, which filters to only receive messages from verified accounts.

Your heart dropped at a name you had started to loathe. Only the start of the message was visible.

Joe Keery: y/n, why are u doing this?? what have I done to…

No way in hell you would open the chat; curiosity was not one of your traits now. All the chaos had been a message from the universe to delete the damn app. 

But even though you loved doing nothing but crying and creating music, there was one event you had to attend: the Grammys. 

You were nominated for Album, Record, and Song of the Year, and in the hype felt months ago, you hadn’t thought twice in accepting the event’s insistent begging to present an award and perform at least one song. 

A week before the Grammys, Mary dragged you to the show’s rehearsal. You hadn’t opened the email, not caring who you would present with or which award. There would be a teleprompter; why would you need to practice?

Fellow artists were hanging out in a lounge room as event managers called each pair to the stage. You politely greeted most of them, then sat down on a faraway chair and tried to fall asleep.

Someone gently shook your shoulder. “Hey, are you awake?”

You slowly opened your eyes and removed your headphones. “What—? Oh.”

Harry Styles was smiling down as he scratched his arm awkwardly. “Sorry to bother you. Just wanted to say hi.”

He wanted to say ‘hi’ to you?! “I thought you retired,” you said without thinking before covering your mouth. “Sorry.”

He chuckled out loud and slumped down next to you, placing his arm on your backrest. “That’s alright. I released a song, like, a week ago, so I’m barely un-retired.” 

Harry smelled good, you thought as you gave him a discreet once-over. 

“Nice. Will listen to it later,” you said. 

He shrugged. “It’s okay; you don’t have to.”

You frowned, not impressed by his attempt to look humble. “Why not? I like your music. Well, your debut album and Fine Line. Harry’s House was okay-ish.”

Harry seemed taken aback by your bluntness but he smiled widely. “That’s… absolutely valid. Umm, I do like all your music, so this is awkward now.”

Pleased that he was matching your mood, you crossed your arms and teased, “C’mon, there must be one song you dislike.”

He curled his lip and shook his head. “No… Maybe the unreleased one you sang a couple of months ago. Too cheesy.”

Even though it was obvious he was joking, you scoffed. “I hate that one too now. Never gonna release it.”

Harry turned to you, his arm accidentally grazing your shoulders. “Let me guess. They broke your heart?”

Worse, it broke you completely. But you just nodded and smiled weakly. “Something like that.”

You didn’t notice as his eyes travelled up and down your body, lingering on your legs. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to ask a question… just when the door opened.

“Miss Y/L/N?” a crew guy asked. “It’s your turn.”

Harry stood up and offered you a hand. You politely accepted it, refraining from making a sarcastic comment about his unnecessary gentlemanship.

“Oh, you should come too, Mr. Styles. You’re after her.”

The mentioned one nodded before you two followed the man to the stage. 

“It’ll be my birthday,” he suddenly said.

You blinked, confused. “Huh?”

“The Grammys are on my birthday,” Harry explained. 

You snorted humorlessly. “I would probably kill myself if I were you.”

Harry smiled and shook his head. “Why? It’s fun. Especially the afterparty.”

“Yes, if you drink and snort coke,” you mumbled. “And want to hook up with anyone hot.”

He joked, “Celebrity Manual 101 to the T.”

An assistant explained which award you had to present, which was the cue, and where to stand after it. There weren’t many lines and the teleprompter was slow, so your rehearsal lasted less than ten minutes. 

You hurried off the stage once it was over and repeatedly called Mary to have her pick you up.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry came out of the venue too and approached you. “Want me to give you a ride?”

Your instinctive response would’ve been to deny, but Mary wasn’t answering any of your calls and your stomach was protesting. 

You had followed Harry since his One Direction time, and he seemed like a decent, kind guy. His solo lyrics were amazing in your perspective, so… maybe you could step out of your comfort zone for once?

“Wanna eat something at my place?” 

— — —

For the entire week leading to the Grammys, all people talked about was the series of pictures of you in Harry Styles’ car, then both of you entering your hotel through the private back door. 

Then there were the pictures of you two going to a recording studio with his producers on Tuesday, visiting a friend in common on Thursday, and sneaking into a sushi restaurant on Saturday.

Harry was the friend you didn’t know you needed. He was as reserved as you, but kinder; knew everyone in the industry yet had no drama with anyone, not even his exes, and matched your songwriting vibe. 

After the Grammy practice, you showed him the almost fifty songs you had written since breaking things up with Joe. They weren’t finished, and they weren’t really on plans to be released soon, but a lightbulb turned on in Harry’s mind as he found rhythms for half of them. 

You had no idea how his lyrics could be so good at expressing your feelings. 

“Has anyone cheated on you?” you wondered as he served you more sushi. 

Harry frowned, thinking deeply, before shaking his head. “Not really.” He asked a server to pack your food to go.

“Let’s go to your place; I wanna finish those background vocals in Sinful,” you said excitedly while picking up your purse.

He chuckled and placed his arm around your shoulders. “That one’s my favorite too. Our voices mix perfectly.

The restaurant’s host opened the back door for you with a polite smile. Harry led you to his car across the empty parking lot. The restaurant had closed an hour ago, but Harry knew the boss. 

“Are you excited for tomorrow?”

At the reminder of the Grammys, you grimaced. “Oh, no. My stomach already hurts from the nerves.”

Harry stopped right outside the passenger door. He soothed your shoulder. “You wanna go together? Maybe it’ll help with your anxiety.”

Mary had suggested it already… but with ulterior motives. You shrugged. “I don’t know. Won’t that bother your girlfriend?”

Harry rolled his eyes as he opened the car door for you. “Zoe isn’t my girlfriend. We’re just friends.”

“Friends? I do not fuck my friends,” you teased.

He entered the driver's seat, smirking. “You’re not living your life to the fullest. When was the last time you had sex?”

You sighed. “A month ago… with You-Know-Who.”

Harry made a fake puking sound as he kept driving to his place. “You need to get laid, love. Tomorrow we’ll get you someone.”

“No, thanks.”

“Y/N, believe me…” He looked at you with complete seriousness. “A rebound fixes everything.”

You whined and threw your head back. “I don’t want a rebound! I want…” Joe. I want Joe again. But you just whispered, “...to throw myself off a balcony.”

Harry chuckled and squeezed your thigh. “Sometimes trying new things can help with the heartache, princess.”

And you knew, right in his tone, what was said between lines. You stared at his attractive profile, his eyes firm on the way ahead while his hand remained on your leg.

It was time to choose a road: keep crying over Joe, the first man you genuinely loved, or accept a quick british cure.

— — —

Every award show was overwhelmingly crowded; that was a known fact, so at the Grammys, you spent three minutes on the red carpet before rushing inside. 

If your peers found you rude or egocentric for avoiding conversations, you couldn’t care less. The past month had taught you to run away the second you felt uncomfortable… a piece of advice that your therapist did not approve of, but whatever.

Dolce & Gabbana had made you a custom red gown that mixed what you needed from the past festival: fairy-like sexiness. 

“You look like Lord of the Rings and Fifty Shades had a fanfiction that turned into a movie,” Mary had said as she took pictures of you on the red carpet. “A smile?”

“Nothing to smile for,” you had jokingly muttered to your best friend. 

Since everyone was still on the red carpet, there were only the assistants, the servers, and you in the event’s main room. Mary went to the bathroom while you looked for your seats among the various tables.

“Oh, no,” you whined when you found your name card… next to Sabrina’s. 

You rushed to grab yours and exchange it for another table.

“Miss? Miss!” An event’s assistant approached you with wide, horrified eyes. “You can’t do that. The seat arrangements have been planned for—”

You took out three hundred dollars from Mary’s purse. “Is this enough? I have Cash App, and—”

“Let’s make it a thousand,” the assistant offered. She shrugged and crossed her arms. “Or I can’t do anything to change your seats.”

Before Mary could arrive and see the immature thing you were doing, you transferred the money to the young lady. 

She smirked at her phone once the bank notification appeared before grabbing your name card and walking off. You picked up your dress’ hem and hurriedly followed her. 

The kind woman stopped at the table closest to the stage and exchanged a name card with yours. “Done. Bye!”

You walked around the table to read the name cards and almost shrieked. At each of your sides were ‘Harry Styles’ and ‘Djo.’ You’d rather kill yourself in front of them. 

“Girl! Woman! Whatever age, come back!” you shouted to the assistant, but she disappeared out of the room. 

“What happened?” Mary mumbled behind you, her eyes on her phone as she typed aggressively fast. 

You grabbed her wrist to get her complete attention and pointed to the name cards. She squinted her eyes, then chuckled loudly.

“This is crazy. I have to take a picture for Paul.” Mary pointed her phone at the table.

“What—?” you whispered, flabbergasted. “This isn’t funny!”

Mary’s wide smile didn’t waver as she replied, “I know, it isn’t funny at all.” She knelt to take another angle. “This is like my own Twilight happening in real life.”

You opened and closed your mouth, still taken aback by her lack of help. “Mary, what are you doing?!”

Some waiters and assistants turned around to look at you two. You smiled awkwardly at them before grabbing the closest one’s arm. “I need to change seats—”

“Absolutely not,” the bald man snapped. “The seat arrangement stopped receiving changes two minutes ago.”

You pulled out Mary’s wallet. “How much—?”

He took a big step back and glared at you. “Are you about to bribe me?”

Quietly, you gulped. “N-no. Was just looking for…” You took out the first thing you found: your friend’s Chuck E. Cheese card. “...this?”

Suddenly, Harry appeared behind him and smiled politely. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You whined and gripped his arm. “Harry, I can’t sit here. Look!”

He curled his lip at Joe’s name and shrugged. “Umm… I don’t know. Swap seats with me?”

The bald man shrieked, “No, you won’t. The camera crew has the seat arrangement already and I won’t have any confusion happening today, you understand?”

Mary sighed deeply. “It’s just one seat, sir. Can’t you accept a hundred dollars and a selfie?”

The man looked her up and down with disdain. “I’m done with celebrities,” he muttered before hurrying away.

You could feel yourself getting lightheaded from the stress. Artists started entering the venue, chatting calmly as they searched for their seats. 

Harry placed a comforting hand on your waist. “It’s alright. Just scoot your chair close to mine.” He gave you a once-over. “You look pretty, by the way.”

“She does.”

A bullet could do less harm to your heart than that voice.  

You weren’t brave enough to look at Joe behind you, but you could feel him, a presence you had gotten used to for almost two years. 

Harry smiled at Joe and offered his free hand. “Nice to meet you, man.”

That hurt. Of course Harry wouldn’t cross Joe off just because he was your ex. He never caused drama and wouldn’t start just for you.

You moved sideways, letting them shake hands. Joe’s eyes were on you, on Harry’s hand casually on your waist. 

“Mhm, nice to meet you,” Joe muttered sarcastically.

A flash blinded the three of you. Mary lowered her phone quickly and gave you an apologetic smile. “S-sorry. Didn’t notice the flash was on.”

Mary turned around to scurry away, then hesitated and approached Joe. She gripped his shoulder hard and whispered, “There’s a place in hell for men like you.”

Joe stared at her, speechless, before Mary sent you a quick kiss and rushed away. 

For a second, your eyes found Joe’s, but you swiftly looked to the ground, your heart aching like an open wound. 

Your entire body was shaking from the close proximity after a whole month without him. A month needing him back, craving his touch badly. 

“Oh, are you cold, love?” Harry asked before taking off his blazer and putting it over your shoulders

Joe scoffed and slumped down on his seat, giving you his back as he distracted himself on his phone. 

You took that moment to stare at him, to analyze him. He looked incredibly hot with his messy blonde hair and black outfit. In another universe where you two were publicly together, you would’ve sucked him off underneath the table. 

The room got full just when the show started. The first presentation occurred, then the host gave his speech, told his jokes… yet you weren’t paying attention to anything but Joe. 

It felt surreal having him right next to you but not being able to hold his hand, rest your head on his shoulder, or kiss his cheek. You two were now… strangers. 

Joe was barely moving, his eyes glued to the stage, but you noticed his hands turning to fists whenever Harry talked to you. 

At the start of the first commercial break, he turned to you and opened his mouth to speak, “Can—?”

An event manager arrived at the table. “Miss Y/LN, it’s time to prepare you for your presentation.”

Harry squeezed your hand. “Good luck, love.”

If looks could kill, Joe would’ve been sent to prison for murdering the former One Direction member. 

You followed the girl, choosing to not overthink what Joe was about to say, and entered the backstage world. 

While the stage remained great for the cameras, the behind the scenes was always a chaotic place. People with clipboards, water bottles, and cameras ran around, not looking as they pushed you out of their way. 

The giant dressing room was divided into three rooms for different artists. Mary was already on the middle one, typing on her phone as usual. 

Suddenly, a girl leaned out of the next room and squealed. You jumped back surprised and definitely not expecting a fan there. 

“She’s here!” the girl said to the other five girls before they ran to your dressing room. 

For some reason, Mary wasn’t reacting, just watching the interaction calmly. 

“Hi! We’re big fans,” a second girl said. 

You forced a smile and nodded. “That’s great. Nice to meet you.”

They were probably family with someone important that let them into the backstage without problems. 

“Can we take a picture?” a third one asked. 

Despite your discomfort, they seemed nice and very fucking excited, so you nodded and posed with them. 

A girl with black hair and pink bangs nervously asked, “Could we make a Tiktok?”

“D’you know the Gnarly dance?” another asked. 

An Asian girl slapped her arm. “Dude, don’t bother her anymore.”

They started bickering about dances, videos, and… zucchini? You felt like a Millennial hearing about Skibiddi toilets for the first time in their life. 

Before you could speak, an event’s assistant entered. “Katseye on stage in two minutes. C’mon, ladies, follow me!”

They squealed again, fixed their hairs quickly and exited the dressing room. Mary smirked at you and crossed her arms. “You knew who they were?”

You huffed and lied, “Of course I knew they were… Cats’ Eyes.”

Mary rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It’s 2026, Y/N. Please download Tiktok.”

Before you could keep protesting, your assigned styling team arrived. Mary made sure they put on your chosen dress, a blue gown—blue as your boring mood, she had joked—and fixed your hair until it was perfect. 

“Try not to mess yourself up for the next five minutes, okay?” Mary said from the door, ready to bolt. “I’ll be in the audience, throwing tomatoes at you.”

You smiled weakly at her joke. “Check that they aren’t rotten. The smell never leaves with those.”

Once she left, the quietness came back, leaving only the low hum of the current presentation out there. You sighed deeply and slumped down on the couch, careful to not ruin your hair. 

Finally, five minutes of calm—

“There you are.”

Sabrina’s voice cringed you.

Sitting up, you watched as the singer, already dressed for her presentation, closed the third door of the dressing room and firmly approached you.

For many nights, you had imagined your first confrontation with your former friend. In all those fantasies, you grabbed her voluminous blonde hair and threw her like a baseball to another planet. 

But in all those imaginations, you didn’t suddenly remember the good memories, the late-night conversations, the trusted confessions… 

You stood up, refusing to cry, as you muttered, “What do you want? To rub it in my face?”

Sabrina frowned. She seemed angry, almost livid. “Rub what, bitch?”

“Excuse me?” you gasped.

With her powerful five feet, she didn’t back down as she spat, “Like you heard: bitch. You’re a fucking immature bitch for blocking me, ignoring me everywhere, and disappearing without explanation. What is wrong with you?!”

You scoffed, the sadness subsiding and morphing into indignation. “Oh, so you wanna play stupid. Or is it slow? Maybe it’s useless.” Not really understanding yourself, you started to quote her lyrics. 

Sabrina frowned, taken aback by your random words. “What—?”

“That’s an awful song, by the way. Your whole album is shit,” you started to lie, wanting to hurt her as she had done with you. “It doesn’t deserve to be nominated.”

Her face turned red, and if you were in a cartoon, smoke would’ve come out of her ears.

“Oh, yeah? Well, your album is just whining and crying about how depressed you are,” Sabrina attacked back. “How about you go to goddamn therapy, Y/N?”

You almost stepped back from the shock. “You know what? Fuck you, man-stealer.”

Sabrina’s jaw dropped. “What?! Who did I steal?”

“You know what you did… homewrecker,” you replied, hesitating with the insult. “I saw your messages with Joe.”

Sabrina stayed quiet, her face going through various emotions as she processed your words. “Joe…? What…? Girl, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about—?”

“Before Christmas,” you explained. “He was going to California to—”

“Oh, that,” she muttered and sighed deeply. “You’re the biggest idiot ever, Y/N.”

Okay, now you wanted to seize her blonde hair and shove her small body to the ground.

“For trusting you two? Yes, I am. You deserve each other, you both lying snakes!”

She scoffed and gripped the bridge of her nose. “Dude, he’s not even my type!”

You crossed your arms and took a step closer. “What do you mean? Too easy for you or—”

Suddenly, Sabrina got on her tiptoes, grabbed your cheeks, and pecked your lips. You went still, not even closing your wide, shocked eyes.

She pulled back, her hands shaking slightly. “That’s what I meant.”

You stayed there, staring at each other quietly. Your whole face was red as you tried to come up with a normal sentence. 

“I—I didn’t realize… I, wow, uhm…”

Sabrina sighed and shook her head. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything or do something. I just… Can we still be friends?”

Still not sure about what was happening, you nodded. “Uhm. Yeah, why not? Just… We should talk more about… that.”

She scratched her arm nervously. “Yeah, I get it. Can you, like, not tell anyone?”

“Absolutely,” you assured her. “Your secret is safe with me. Won’t even tell Mary.”

Before the conversation could continue, the main door opened. An assistant smiled nervously. “Miss Y/N, hey, uhm… I forgot to pick you up. You have thirty seconds to get mic’d.”

Fuck.

“We’ll talk later,” you told Sabrina as you walked backwards to the door. “And I’m sorry I thought—”

Sabrina raised her arms. “OMG, girl, just go! You’re late!”

The sound team was on the verge of a nervous breakdown as they connected the earpiece and the sound equipment needed on your body.

The recent chat with your former friend was replaying nonstop on your mind. Never in a million years would you have thought Sabrina liked you. It made sense now why she had been constantly behind you after ending things with her ex. 

Your cheeks remained pink as you imagined what could’ve happened if Sabrina had made a move before you met Joe… 

“Ready,” a sound girl whispered, relieved. “Go, go. The commercial break is over.”

Another assistant gave you a microphone and gently pushed you to the stage. Oh, no, no. With all the latest drama, you haven’t had time to process the upcoming presentation. 

People applauded when you appeared on stage. You smiled nervously and walked to the center as the music started. 

A wooden swing decorated with leaves and flowers was hanging in the middle of the stage. You sat on it and started singing your famous yet nominated sad song.

You kept your eyes on the camera, avoiding connecting gazes with certain people down the stage. Your shaky hand gripped the swing’s cable as you swung softly.  

Your mind was trying to be focused on the lyrics, but your body needed action; you needed to release all this anxiety. 

As the instrumental part before the bridge started, you were supposed to walk to the front of the stage, place the microphone on the stand and sing more dramatically. 

But, at the last second, you made an impulsive decision and walked to the band behind you. They were always in your shows, so you had the confidence to approach the guitarist.

“Can you give me that electric guitar?”

He looked at the instrument behind him, sighed, and obeyed. “Do you even know how to—?”

You walked back to the microphone calmly, pretending this was the plan all along, as you placed the guitar strap on your shoulders and turned it on. 

This was your song; you had created it in your mind, and you had produced it, so you were in all the right to make some upgrades. 

As you changed the song’s rhythm, you felt that the lyrics stopped being about your childhood trauma and became more about your current insecurities and everyone’s pressure on you. 

You could feel your own lyrics hurting your soul. It stopped being the Tiktok song you were tired of singing, and it went back to the lyrics you wrote in your diary while crying. 

As you finished, you had to take a big step back from the microphone to recover your breath. Everyone in the room stood up to clap, but you needed to run. 

So that’s what you did. 

You returned the instrument and rushed off the stage. People were confused as you ran between them, the cameras following you. 

The show went to commercials quickly, afraid of what you may do, but you couldn’t care less as you pushed the door out of the event and almost fell to your knees in the lobby. 

A waiter gasped and helped you up. “You alright, lady?”

You vaguely thanked him before dragging yourself to the nearest elevator, in need of air. Without a doubt, your finger pressed the last button to go straight to the rooftop.

As you had imagined, it was empty with just some couches and tables perfectly in place. You ran to the edge of the terrace and grasped the railing like your life depended on it. 

You were fine, you were safe, and your show was over. Nothing had gone wrong; no one had thrown tomatoes at you. 

So you sighed deeply and slowly walked to one of the couches. You took long breaths, calming yourself by remembering that nothing really mattered anymore. 

“You alright?”

The last thing you needed currently was Joe’s voice right behind you. You kept soothing your chest as you nodded. 

“You don’t look okay,” he muttered. 

You closed your eyes when his form took shape in your eyesight. 

“I’m fine,” you whispered. “Don’t worry about me. You don’t need to do that anymore.”

Joe crouched in front of you. His left hand on your thigh made you open your eyes, staring right into his. 

“D’you need some water?” he whispered worriedly. “That was a great presentation, though. You have nothing to be nervous of. 

You quickly shook your head and stood up. “Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“We can talk tomorrow,” you sighed. “I’ll unblock you and—”

Joe rose to his feet too. “No. You don’t get to decide that anymore. Not after you walked away from my life for an entire month,” he said angrily. “Not when you threw away our relationship because of your immaturity and lack of trust.”

You licked your lips anxiously, taken aback by his livid tone. “I know, but tonight’s overwhelming enough and—”

“Is it because of him?” he cut you off. He approached you in swift strides and grabbed your arms. “Can’t let you go without knowing.”

You blinked confused. “What—?”

“Harry Styles,” Joe snapped. His angry eyes weren’t wavering away from yours. “Are you going out with him?”

You sighed. “We’re just friends.”

He scoffed, his right hand going up to the nape of your neck. “Are you fucking him, Y/N? Did he kiss you?”

The sudden closeness of his lips, his deep brown eyes into yours, and his usual cologne were making a mess of your brain. 

“I—No. It’s not like that,” you stammered.

Joe’s hand wandered to your cheek. He stroked it with a weak smile. “I saw the pics. He took you out, you took him home… I’m not an idiot. You don’t need to lie to me.”

You held his wrist and caressed it as you whispered, “How could I sleep with someone else when you’re all I see in my dreams?”

Joe closed his eyes, your words cutting right through his heart. His hand dropped as he took a step back. “And I only see you in my nightmares.”

You gulped and hugged yourself awkwardly. “I get it. You should hate me.”

He looked at you horrified. “Hate you? I wish. I should; you’re right.”

You hadn’t noticed he had been carrying a folder. Joe placed it on the coffee table. He pointed at it, and you reluctantly sat down and opened it. 

“Every message I had with Sabrina.”

There were around fifteen pages of text messages, printed out by a specialized system to show the exact time. They were all cordial, brief, and talking about—-

Joe took a small square box from his pocket and threw it carelessly at the table. “I knew Mary is obligated to tell you everything, so I asked Sabrina for help.”

You didn’t need to open the box nor read more messages. Your eyes watered as you covered your face, feeling like the worst person in the world.

“I spent days and nights asking myself what the fuck I did wrong, trying to understand you,” he continued. “I didn’t realize it was about her until she told me you had blocked her too.”

Joe knelt again in front of you until you were looking at him again. “I kept asking myself what I must have done to make you think I would ever cheat on you, Y/N.”

With shaky legs, you stood up and started walking to the door. Joe stopped you, seizing your arm. “Where are you going?”

You whispered in a tearful voice. “I fucked up. You weren’t with her. Alright, fine. But that doesn’t change things.”

Joe scoffed. “What the hell do you mean? It changes everything.”

There was an ashtray on the table that made you crave a cigarette. 

“It doesn’t change that I left without a word; I gave up on us unfairly,” you explained. “You didn’t deserve any of this, Joe. I love you too much to make you come back.”

“No,” he snapped. Again, he grabbed your arms to keep you in place. “You can’t decide what I deserve or not. You can’t say you love me and then break my heart again.”

You covered your face for a second, overwhelmed by your own resistance to crying. “That’s what I mean, Joe! I’ll just drag you down with me and my problems. I’m not okay; I’m insecure and every stupid thing gives me anxiety and—”

“And I still love you!” he cut you off. “Even with your flaws and your issues, I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, Y/N.” 

You looked up at Joe when his voice broke. His eyes were matching your tearful ones.

“We both fucked up,” he continued. “I know you hate surprises; you’ve told me a thousand times, and I still stupidly planned all that with Sabrina.”

“Please tell me you didn’t have a whole party planned,” you mumbled.

Joe smiled weakly. “It was her idea, but thank God it didn’t happen. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He soothed your arms. “You should’ve talked to me. Even if I want to, I can’t read your mind, honey.”

You nodded, sniffling. “I’m working on my communication issues. It’s just… I guess I wanted to suppress that jealousy since she is my friend, but, yeah, I fucked up. I’m so sorry, Joe.”

He rested his forehead against yours. “I forgive you. I’ll forgive you a thousand times if it means getting you back.” You started to pull back, so his arms swiftly engulfed you. “Please… I can’t lose you again.”

“No, no,” you whimpered and quickly brushed off your tears. “I’ll do something bad again, I’ll break your heart, and the cycle will be repeated.”

Joe pressed your body close to him and kissed your temple as he mumbled. “You don't know that. We’ll work together, communicate better, and—”

“Joe, stop,” you whispered sadly. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

He grabbed your face with one hand and shook his head. “You’re hurting me by acting like this. Acting as if you don’t deserve to be loved because of your mistakes.” He pressed his lips against your forehead.

You could feel your body melting against his, recovering the heat it had missed. “You’ll end up hating me.”

“I could never hate you,” Joe whispered firmly. He pulled back to look you in the eyes. “We may fight, I may get mad, you may act stupidly, but I will never hate you, baby.”

The pet name squeezed your heart. Your hands nervously lay on his chest, caressing him lovingly. 

“I’ll go back to therapy,” you mumbled. “I wanna get better for our relationship, for my friendships—”

“And for you,” he completed. “You have to do it for yourself.”

You nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll do my best.”

Joe tightened his hold around your waist and whispered, “You look beautiful tonight.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach. “This old thing?”

He smirked and gave your dress a once-over. “I burnt one of your sweatshirts.”

The smile vanished. You frowned, completely taken aback. “What? Which?”

“The green one. The one that was mine but you started using it as a pajama?” At your nod, he continued. “I hugged it every night since it smelled like you.”

You pouted, feeling the pang of guilt again.

“Don’t feel too bad; I jerked off to it every night too.”

Oh. Your cheeks turned red. “So… you didn’t fuck anyone else?”

He gave you a deadpan look. “Didn’t even cross my mind. I was too busy crying or using my hand with your sweatshirt pressed on my face.”

You covered your face as you giggled. “Didn’t I forget a thong or anything smaller?”

Joe shook his head, his heart beating faster at the sound of your laugh. “Searched all around the apartment, but Mary and Paul did a good job packing all your stuff.”

“And how did you burn it?”

He hesitated before replying, “When I saw the pictures of Styles entering your house… I had a breakdown. I thought the worst, and in the midst of it, I threw the sweatshirt to the fireplace.”

You curled your lip and rested your head on his chest. “I’m sorry. I never did it with the intention to make you jealous. He really is just a friend.”

“A friend that wants to fuck you,” he mumbled bitterly. 

Smirking, you pulled back. “Maybe, but I don’t want him.” You whispered in his ear, “He isn’t you.”

Joe felt a weight lifted off his shoulders at the reassurance.

He nodded, caressing your face again—he couldn’t believe he had you back in his arms—and said, “I’ve been trying to contact you every single day. I went to all your houses, to your friends’ and families’, sent you emails….”

You frowned. “Wait, you went to my family’s house?”

“Yeah. To your mom’s, your sibling’s, your cousin’s.”

“What?” you mumbled, confused. “They never told me that.”

Knowing your family, they probably thought they were protecting you by keeping that information to themselves. 

“It was very awkward,” he admitted. “Your cousin didn’t remember me and thought I was a Jehovah’s witness.”

You chuckled loudly before covering your mouth self-consciously… but you were with Joe, your Joe, your other half who would never judge you, so you kept laughing carelessly.

Joe couldn’t help but join you as he recalled that long day at your cousin’s house. 

“... and then I even texted you to your old Wattpad account.”

“You what?!” you gasped. “How did you remember my username?”

He pursed his lips. “It’s difficult to forget a name like ‘NiallHoransDyedHair69.’”

Your cheeks were turning scarlet. “OMG, I told you that once!”

Joe shrugged. “Just so you know… your One Direction fanfic is still there.”

“What?!”

“I read some chapters.”

You looked at the balcony behind him and wondered if throwing yourself would be enough to end the suffering. 

“What would thirteen-year-old Y/N say about Harry Styles now being in love with you?”

“He is not,” you muttered. “Joe, he is a really nice guy. You two should meet—”

“Absolutely not,” he interrupted you. “I’ve already punched him a hundred times in my dreams.”

You squinted your eyes. “Wait, don’t change the topic… You had to create a Wattpad account.”

“Sadly.”

“Did you look up your name?”

He frowned. “No…”

But his tone betrayed him. You gasped, covering your mouth. “You did!”

Joe looked to the ground awkwardly. “I saw some pretty weird shit and quickly closed the app.”

You giggled and placed your hands on his shoulders, squeezing them comfortingly. “It’s just fanfiction, and believe me, there are worse stuff on—”

His lips pressed against yours in a soft kiss, and both of his arms dropped to your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

“Sorry to interrupt you, but I can’t help it when your laugh is so cute,” Joe mumbled before kissing you again.

You held onto his shoulders and let yourself melt back in him, in the incessant craving you’ve had for a month. Going from daily intimacy to none had stricken you both, and you could tell by his hard erection brushing your hip. 

“Joe…” you whined when his kisses lowered to your jaw. “Don’t start something we won’t be able to end.

“Who said that?” 

His hands lowered to grasp your ass tightly, making you moan. You looked behind you to the entrance. 

“No one’s coming,” he assured you. “And there are no cameras. They know shit like this happens here.”

Your mind was screaming at you to return to the event, to sit on your assigned chair and clap politely at every award… but Joe’s lips had reached that spot under your ear while his hands were bunching up your dress to caress your thighs.

“I need you,” Joe whined as his hips stuttered against you like a desperate dog. “Please, baby.”

He gently grabbed your right hand and placed it over his hard-on. “Look what you did. This is all from you.”

You gripped him and gulped. God, you wanted him just as badly…

Without overthinking it, you started unbuckling his belt. He kissed you hungrily as he pushed you to the couch, gently hovering over you. You messily shoved down his pants and briefs, spat on your hand, and stroked him. 

Joe moaned and dropped his head on your shoulder. “D-don’t. I won’t last. Need to be inside you.”

You helped him bunch up your dress and move your underwear to the side. As he pressed his tip on your entrance, you suddenly gasped and sat up.

“Wait, I’m not on the pill anymore.”

He froze and sighed deeply. “I don’t have a condom.”

You bit your lip nervously; the lust was clouding your mind. “Just pull out at the end.”

Joe looked up at you surprised. “You sure?”

Mary would kill you if she knew, but you nodded and pecked his nose. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

He scoffed, smirking. “I can list a few things.”

You spread your legs wide and whined. “That’s a problem for our future selves.”

Joe considered himself a smart man, but seeing you beneath him with your pussy already dripping for him was blurring every objective thought. 

He placed your legs around his hips and slid into you, both of your moans filling the empty rooftop. 

“Fuck,” Joe grunted at your bare tightness.

You arched your back and pleaded for more, which he didn’t hesitate to give you. There was no time nor patience for lovemaking; you both needed to discharge the suffering from the entire month. 

Joe raised your legs to his shoulders and started pounding into you roughly. You whined and clawed at his shirt, opening it messily. He shoved down your dress straps until your breasts spilled out. 

He kissed your ankle before leaning forward, doubling you pleasurably and hitting a deeper spot. You were trying to be quiet, but it was impossible with his large cock claiming you again. 

“Joe, don’t stop,” you moaned as your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling it. 

He groaned and grasped one of your breasts, his thumb grazing your nipple. “You feel so good, baby. Missed this pussy.”

You pulled him down to a filthy kiss, whining at the way your body was bending. “Yours. I’m y-yours, Joe.”

Joe’s cock twitched inside you in response. He bit your bottom lip before mumbling, “I know. No one else could ruin you like me, huh?”

You nodded and whimpered, trying to elaborate a normal sentence. “Y-yes. Need you all t-the time.”

His left hand wandered to your neck, squeezing softly. Your pussy clenched hard, making him smirk. “Like to be treated like a slut?” You could only nod and moan. His hold tightened. “Moan my name, princess. Who do you belong to?”

“To you, Joe,” you whined. “Faster, please. P-please, baby.”

He pulled back and gripped your hips before accelerating his pace. Your moans got uncontrollably loud, so he quickly stopped. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered embarrassedly. 

Joe soothed your hip reassuringly with one hand as the other loosened his tie. He took it off completely and doubled it. “Open your mouth, honey.”

You gulped hesitantly but let him put the tie on your mouth. 

“I love your moans, but we don’t want our hard launch to be like this, right?” Joe joked. 

Your giggle turned to a muffled moan as his fast pace came back. The sound of his hips slapping against yours felt like a sacred harmony to your ears.

He bit his lip and threw his head back as he tried to prevent his upcoming orgasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

For a second, you got distracted by the sight of him. His neck glistened with the moonlight as drops of sweat traveled to his chest, revealed by the messily opened shirt. He seemed on the verge of reaching heaven, and it was all because of you. 

You were making him look so helpless and filthy. Right then and there, you were sure he would never leave you. Joe was yours forever. 

“God, I’m not lasting long, baby,” he whimpered. “Need you to come first.”

Knowing his hands were busy already, you rubbed your clit and bit the tie hard. The mix of his fullness and your touch was enough to trigger your orgasm. 

You arched your back involuntarily and screamed into the tie as you came hard around him, gripping his cock tightly. 

Joe whimpered at the feeling, knowing he was a second away from finishing. He resisted, prolonging your orgasm, then pulled out and finished all over your bunched-up dress and legs. 

You gasped and sat up, staring at the wild sight dripping on you. “Joe…”

He was panting, still recovering his breath, as what he did clicked in his mind. His eyes went wide. “Shit! I’m so sorry.”

You looked at each other in shock before breaking down into laughter.

“Mary will murder me,” you said.”

Joe nodded and tried to wipe away his cum with his pocket square. “Probably will murder me first.”

You caressed the nape of his neck as he readjusted your dress carefully. The white stains were still obvious. 

“It’s okay, I just need to sneak into the dressing rooms and get my red carpet dress,” you assured him. 

But he remained nervous as he helped you up and kept wiping the stains. You stopped him with a tender smile. “It’s okay, baby.”

Joe sighed and threw the bundled-up pocket square to the closest trashcan. You kissed his cheek and buttoned his shirt.

“I hope you unblock me after this,” he said

“I’ll think about it,” you joked before patting his chest. “We should get back.”

He grabbed your hand instinctively and led you both inside. Soon, you would part ways, so he wanted to enjoy the short time he had left with you. 

Once the elevator’s doors closed, Joe pulled you into a fierce kiss, backing you to the wall. You giggled against his lips and tried to pull back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry. I remembered I have to wait until the afterparty to kiss you, and I just… had to do it one last time, you know?” he whispered while his thumbs stroked your cheeks. 

You smiled weakly, remembering the reality of your hidden relationship. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Mmm, I think I love you more.”

He smirked at your teasing. “Nope. I love—”

The elevator announced its arrival to the first floor. Reluctantly, Joe stepped back and let his hands drop to his sides. 

“See you later,” you whispered reassuringly before walking out. 

Joe stepped out of the elevator and stared at your distancing form with longing eyes. A second, a minute, and not even an hour with you was enough time. 

His left hand fidgeted with the square box in his pocket as he wondered what could’ve been if the month-old drift hadn’t happened. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the venue, you were rushing behind curtains to reach the backstage dressing rooms. Some assistants and camerographers gave you confused looks, but no one had enough time to process it before you were gone. 

Your dressing room was empty with just your previous dress and heels bundled up on the floor. After some shaking and dusting off, you put it on and walked out. 

Right on the door, you almost crashed with the event assistant from before, the one that sat you between Joe and Harry. She was pale and clutching a clipboard to her chest while a tall man stood behind her with crossed arms. 

“Miss Y/L/N, we’ve been looking for you,” he said in the deepest voice you had ever heard. “Did this woman ask you for money in exchange for a seat rearrangement?”

Your only acting experience had been in a school play’s version of The Wizard of Oz as a background tree, but you gave the performance of your life as you frowned and shook your head. 

“No, I’ve never seen this woman in my life,” you lied. “Am I in trouble for sitting at the wrong table? Oh, I’m sorry! I just wanted to be next to my friend, that’s all.”

The man narrowed his eyes, looking from the assistant to you. “You need to be on your assigned chair, ma’am. The camera crew could get confused.”

You nodded and hugged yourself with fake embarrassment. “Alright, will do. Sorry for the inconvenience!”

He gave the woman a last bad glare before walking away. The woman sighed deeply and clutched her chest. “I almost got fired there. Thank you, miss.”

Before you could assure her that everything was fine, she hugged you and whispered. “I’ll make sure the cameras get all your best angles and that the marketing team posts you a lot on the Grammy’s socials.”

“Oh, that’s not—”

“Let me escort you to your original seat!” She grabbed your wrist and dragged you out of the backstage. “They’re just gonna announce Song of the Year.”

Sabrina and her friends were chatting at the table with smiles that vanished when you arrived. They stared at the blonde singer confused, but she smiled and motioned to your seat with her head. 

“Sit down. Sarah is getting to the best part of the story,” Sabrina said casually. 

Awkwardly, you sat down and greeted her friends before pretending to understand what they were gossiping about. 

You discreetly glanced at your previous table and, of course, your eyes met Joe’s. Your heartbeat got so loud that it muffled every sound in the room. Now that your problems were water under the bridge, you could remember the reasons you loved him so hard. 

Besides his obvious good looks, Joe was the smartest, sweetest, and funniest guy you had ever met. Since the day you met, your brains had connected, even before your hearts did, and there was no one who understood you like he does.

“Welcome back to the Grammys!” The host popped your bubble as he talked to the cameras. 

He introduced the presenter for the next award and you clapped along with the audience. The nominated songs were mentioned along with a brief glimpse of each. 

Sabrina grabbed your hand on the table, squeezing it. “Good luck,” she whispered. 

You had forgotten both of you were nominated, but quickly wished her the same after the Manchild’s chorus played. 

“And the Grammy goes to…” said the presenter, opening the envelope. “Closed Doors by Y/N Y/L/N.”

Shit. You had left the speech Mary wrote in your purse back on Harry’s and Joe’s table. 

Everyone clapped and stood up just as the camera got closer to your face like a giant metallic box ready to eat you.

You forced a smile and walked to the stage, mentally screaming to yourself to avoid tripping with your own dress.

An event crew member helped you on the stairs and led you to the center of the stage, where the presenter congratulated you while giving you the shiny award. 

It was your third one since you started making music, so your nerves were slightly less uncontrollable. 

“Uhm…” you said into the mic before you froze. 

Beneath the warm lights, the various cameras and the hundred eyes plastered on you… a realization popped in your mind: this wasn’t the life you wanted. 

You weren’t born for fame, awards, or money. None of it had ever made you happy; not at the start and definitely not now. 

“I’m retiring,” you announced with a bright smile. Gasps and murmurs ran over the room. “I love writing, so if you want me to write you some songs you can talk with my manager and best friend, Mary.” 

You pointed at the audience in the back. “It’s the beautiful woman with the pink dress. Yeah, that one. Deal with her. I love you, Mary. Thank you for everything. Uhm…”

People were still whispering, and surely Twitter looked the same. 

This would definitely be your last time on a stage, so you took everything off your chest.

“The Godfather is so boring.” A few gasps came from the crowd. “Tarantino is so overrated and Paul Dano is an amazing actor.” Some claps and whistles. “Zayn Malik was the best One Direction member. Sorry, Harry!” Laugh and applause were the response. 

A life running from paparazzi, flashing lights, and fans wasn’t fulfilling you the way it seemed to do for your peers. True happiness for you came from the quiet moments in your room, the crazy plans with your friends, the soft whispers of your lover in the night.

Joe. Oh, Joe.

You looked around the audience and the simple sight of him made you smile. 

“I love you, Joe,” you said right into the microphone.

The gasps and cheers were loud now as your words shocked yet confused the audience.

A camera pointed at Joe, whose eyes were wide and cheeks were red. 

“I never thought I would find—” you stopped talking when it hit you that pouring your heart out in front of millions was probably not the best idea. 

You bunched up the bottom of your dress while holding the award in your free hand and rushed to the stairs. An assistant swiftly helped you take two stairs at a time before you ran to Joe. 

The cameras were still following you as Joe caught you in his arms and accepted your passionate kiss. 

People cheered, shouted, and applauded like a Super Bowl finale was happening in front of them. 

“I do. I wanna marry you,” you whispered to your boyfriend with a shaky, emotional voice. “If y-you still want me—”

Joe held your face and kissed you again, evoking more crowd chaos. “Of course I still want to marry you, silly.”

You chuckled as your eyes got tearful. This was it, what you had always wished for: to do whatever the fuck you wanted.

After grabbing your purse and giving Harry a quick side hug, you held Joe’s hand and dragged him out of the venue, the cameras still on you and people shouting encouraging words as you passed by them. 

“You’re insane,” Joe chuckled the second the doors closed behind you. 

You smirked. “Your fault.”

He rolled his eyes playfully before pulling out the small box from his pocket. With trembling fingers, he opened it to reveal the most gorgeous ring. 

You gasped at the sight of it. “What the fuck, it’s perfect!”

It was similar to the ones you usually used, so it would match perfectly in your hand. Joe held your hand and sighed, “I had a whole speech planned but you kinda ruined it.”

“Nooo,” you whined. “Give me a summary while we run to the car.”

Joe frowned. “Run to the—” He turned around to follow your gaze and noticed the hundreds of paparazzi rushing to you. “Shit.”

He slid the ring on the correct finger, gave your hand a soft kiss and followed you to the closest exit door. 

Mary was already there with her arms crossed over her chest. She finished her champagne glass and approached you. 

You forced a smile. “Mary! Hey… Uhm, so… things happened.” 

A smirk slowly grew on her face. “The driver is arriving. I’ll get another room. Have fun, lovebirds.”

Joe blushed, never getting used to your friend’s bluntness, while you hugged her and whispered a genuine ‘I love you’ in her ear.

The car arrived. 

Mary took the Grammy from your hand. “I’ll receive the others if you win. Just gonna pretend I’m you, thank my whole family, and then curse my ex.”

Before you could defend yourself, Joe opened the backseat door and helped you in. He waved goodbye to Mary too and followed inside. 

The moment the door closed behind him, you pulled him to hover over you.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” you mumbled as you kissed all over his face. 

Joe smiled lovingly and enjoyed the feeling of your lips on him. It seemed insane that for a month he thought he would never have you like this again.

“Wait, you haven't formally asked me,” you realized and took the ring off. “Do it again. Speech and all.”

He rolled his eyes but accepted it and cleared his throat. His voice turned serious as he started, “Since the day I met you, I’ve known I never wanted to stop hearing your laugh. Since the first time I kissed you, I’ve known I won’t be able to survive without your love.”

Your eyes were already getting tearful while your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. 

“When I imagine my future, I see you by my side, in the good and in the bad, with ten kids or ten cats—”

“Ten?!”

Joe teasingly placed a finger on your lips to shush you and finished, “Maybe just six kids, then. I’ll give you the world if you want it; I’ll run away from California and live on a prairie if you ask me to… I would do anything and everything just to never lose you. So…” 

He pretended to take the ring from his pocket and awkwardly knelt on the car’s floor. “Will you make me the happiest person in history by spending the rest of my life with me as my partner, my best friend, my wife, and the love of my life?”

Your voice was trembling as you tearfully accepted. Joe chuckled at your reaction, slid the ring on the correct finger, and kissed your hand again. Oh, you could watch him do that a million times.  

“Together forever?” you whispered.

Joe caressed your cheek before pulling you to a firm kiss. “Forever.”

---

a/n: wow! thanks for the support guys. this is insane jsjs hope you liked it. maybe i can write a part 3... or not

taglist (sorry if i forgot anyone!): @louisbelongstome28 @maviezz @hi-my-nameisrose @mattm1964 @lacywithdrawal @inesvisible @pinkiepieshepardspie @hummusxx @rempiresway @nosebeers @zulema222 @chels3711 @softlypaleprodigy @pinkpantheris @djoslut @lacyrry @cockslutslurper3000 @matthewgraygublersmh @roseosstuff @ez4ra @slushys-things @littlepippilongstocking @aracelis2goatef @tomsrebeleyebrow @ellen-winter @hungrilysymbol @pearldaisy @yeahitsmedontcreamurpants @toto31tu @ellasaddiction2 @littlewolfieposts @ellastyles13 @gigrat @catloverteen @calleighwithagh @daenerysvelaryonsblog @willowpains @sarahg19956 @hjgdhghoe @djoblue @sarah-thatstings-ann @tuckerpillsburyswife @angelicbabyd0ll @kmanobal @sunshinevansh @moonlit-luna @luver4chris @ithinkimagirlkisser @cciessuzi

[keerymehome]

The Silver Band (2)

Joe Keery x Secret Wife Reader – part 2

You can read the first part here.

Summary: The ring on Joe Keery’s index finger? That’s his wedding ring, just orbiting the wrong planet. Except this time – he’s tired of keeping secrets

Fluffy lil angst but only if you squint, just Joe being unable to control himself.

A/N: okay, I’m so overwhelmed by the love the first part got I went a little overboard (so much that I'm over the word count to reply to the lovely anon), but I never had an intention to write a part two until I saw this and I was just immediately – YES. So, thank you everyone!

Word Count: 3,681

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. Once. Twice. Three times before you even dry your hands, the vibrations echoing like distant thunder heralding a storm you didn't know was coming.

Joe: don't look at twitter Joe: I’m serious don't look Joe: okay maybe look but just know that I love you and I’m sorry and also, I’m not sorry

You stare at the messages, dish towel frozen mid-twist, water dripping from your fingers like a countdown you can't stop. The last one is time-stamped four minutes ago. The one before it, six. The first one, eleven. He's been spiraling for eleven minutes and you're only just now finding out because you were doing dishes, because you had your phone on vibrate, because you live in a world where Joe Keery doesn't usually panic-text you about social media. The words blur on your screen, black birds against white sky, carrying news you can't yet decipher.

You text back with damp fingers, the keys slippery beneath your touch:

You: what did you do

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again, like a heartbeat stuttering, like someone trying to speak through tears.

Joe: I answered a question Joe: honestly Joe: with my hand

You don't understand. The words hang in the air like smoke, obscuring everything. You open Twitter.

The first thing you see is JOE KEERY MARRIED trending at number one, the letters bold and screaming, a neon sign flashing in the dark of your quiet kitchen. It's surrounded by flame emojis and crying gifs and a million question marks, a digital bonfire consuming the platform in real time. You scroll past the panic, the celebration, the speculation - the internet a hive mind swarming with curiosity - until you find the video someone uploaded from the front row.

The crowd is a roar, a living ocean crashing against the stage. Someone shouts "Marry me, Joe!" - same as they always do, same as you've heard in a dozen other clips he's sent you, laughing about it afterward like it was a joke between you, a secret only you understood.

But this time he stops playing. Fingers frozen on the strings, the music dying mid-breath. And then his right hand rises, index finger pointing toward the ceiling like he's conducting electricity, like he's drawing down lightning, like he's planting a flag on territory he's finally ready to claim. The silver band catches the stage lights and throws them back, a small deliberate supernova against the dark, a star being born in real time.

"Can't," he says, and his voice carries, rough and sure as bedrock. He wiggles the finger slightly, showing it off, making sure they see what they've been missing all along. "I already am."

The scream that follows doesn't sound human. It sounds like a dam breaking, like twenty thousand hearts stopping at once, like the moment before an avalanche when the snow still looks perfect and then - collapse.

Your phone buzzes again, insistent as a pulse.

Joe: you looked didn't you Joe: I can feel you looking You: You showed them the ring Joe: I showed them the ring You: JOE Joe: I know Joe: I know I know I know Joe: but I kept thinking about you at home with your ring on a chain or in a drawer or wherever you hide it when I can't wear mine and I just Joe: I wanted to wear mine where it belongs Joe: and if I was going to do that I had to explain why Joe: so, I explained

You read the texts three times. Four. Your hands are shaking now, dish towel dropped on the floor, forgotten, a white flag of surrender. The video autoplay’s again - someone else's angle, closer this time, close enough to see the sweat on his temple, the tremor in his hand before he raised it. You watch his face in the seconds after he says it. The relief flooding in like high tide. The terror like a riptide beneath. The rightness of it, like a door he'd been leaning against for six months finally giving way, spilling light everywhere.

You: where are you Joe: backstage Joe: my manager is talking very quietly which is worse than yelling Joe: I think I broke my contract Joe: I don't care

You call him. He answers on half a ring, like he was waiting with his thumb hovering, like he'd been holding his breath since the moment you knew what he’d done.

"Hi," he breathes, and he sounds - God, he sounds alive. Like someone who jumped off a cliff and discovered he could fly, like Icarus finally touching the sun and finding it warm instead of burning.

"You held up your ring," you say like a broken record on repeat. You're watching the video again, muted, his hand suspended in the air like a promise made visible, like a secret turned into song.

"I held up my ring." He confirms, you can hear him moving, probably pacing some green room hallway, his footsteps echoing like a heartbeat, probably running his thumb over that silver band like he always does when he's overwhelmed - touching base, finding north, making sure you're still there even when you're not. "I thought, if I'm going to say it, I should show it. Make sure they knew what they were looking at. What they've been looking at all along and not seeing."

"Joe - "

"You're not a secret," he interrupts, and his voice cracks, fierce and frightened and free all at once, a bird breaking through ribs, through cage bars, through every careful wall he'd built. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me and I've been making you live in the spaces between my public life like you're something to be ashamed of. Like you're a footnote instead of the whole story. And I just... I couldn't do another song. I couldn't play another chord knowing you were watching from home with your ring hidden while I hid mine on my index finger like that was enough. Like wearing our promise sideways was fair to either of us."

Your throat closes. You press your palm to your chest, your own ring, still on the chain around your neck. Now you feel the weight of it, the absence of it on your finger like a phantom limb, the parallel he's drawing between your hidden hands, two magnets kept apart, two halves of the same coin never touching.

"Twenty thousand people," you manage, the number too large to hold, a stadium of strangers now carrying a piece of your life in their pockets.

"Twenty thousand people who know I'm married." He laughs, shaky and bright, a candle flame in wind. "Twenty thousand people looking at my hand trying to figure out when, trying to figure out who. My manager says CNN is already running the clip. Says I need to prepare a statement. Says - " he breaks off, and you hear someone speaking in the background, low and urgent, the murmur of machinery trying to contain a wildfire, " - says a lot of things I'm not listening to. I can't hear anything over the sound of finally telling the truth."

"You're going to lose - "

"Nothing," he says firmly, an anchor in storm water. "I'm going to lose nothing. The people who matter already know. The people who don't..." He pauses, and you can picture him shrugging, that particular lift of his shoulders that means what can you do, the world will turn regardless, "They'll adjust. They'll find something new to wonder about next week. But I'll still be married to you. That doesn't change. This - " you hear a rustle, picture him holding up that finger again in some fluorescent hallway, looking at it like he's looking at you, like it's a photograph he can't stop studying, " - this is still true. Truer now actually and exactly where everyone can see”

Your doorbell rings, sharp and insistent as a reporter's question. You ignore it. Let them knock. Let the world wait outside while you gather the pieces of this moment, this threshold you're both crossing.

"I’m going to the airport. Soon. I told them I'm going home to my wife, and they can get me a flight or I'll walk." A pause, filled with bustling sounds of backstage and his breathing and the distant chaos of a life detonating in real time, beautiful and terrifying as fireworks. "Can I come home? I didn't ask, I just - I need to see you. I need to put this ring back where it belongs and hold you while the world figures out what to do with us. I need to hold up my hand and have you hold up yours and know that we match. That we finally match."

"Joe." Your voice breaks, but you're smiling, crying, both at once, salt and joy mixing on your tongue. "You never need an excuse to come home."

While he's still talking - about the car to the airport, the flight that leaves in an hour, the way his bandmates looked at him afterward, shocked then grinning then raising their drinks in salute like soldiers to a comrade - you unclasp the chain at your neck. The ring slides into your palm, warm from your skin, warm as a held breath, and you slide it onto your left ring finger where it's always belonged.

It fits perfectly. It always has, like it was forged for this exact moment, this exact hand, this exact yes.

You take a photo of your hand - just your hand, the silver ring catching the afternoon light through your kitchen window, a small sun finally risen - and send it to him. He stops talking mid-sentence, the silence sudden and heavy with meaning.

"You're wearing it," he breathes, and you can hear the smile breaking across his face like dawn, can picture him staring at his screen in some love-struck idiot and at his own ring finally, finally matched, two mirrors facing each other, infinite reflection.

"Hurry home," you say. "I'm wearing our secret in plain sight now too."

"Four hours," he whispers, reverent as prayer. "Three hundred and forty minutes. I'll count everyone like rosary beads."

"I'll be here. With my hand where everyone can see it."

He laughs, bright and warm and entirely yours, no longer traveling through fibre optic cables but right here, immediate, home in his voice even from thousands of miles away, a thread connecting you across distance, across time zones, across the sudden vastness of public knowledge. "Mrs. Keery," he tries out, and it sounds different now, spoken in a public hallway, claimed in front of the world, attached to that raised finger like a flag, like a promise, like a name written in permanent ink.

"Mr. Keery," you reply, and it sounds like the beginning of something, like the next chapter, like the beautiful brave choice to stop hiding and start living out loud.

The call drops as he sits in a taxi, the silence sudden as snowfall. You sit in the silence of your apartment, your left hand foreign and familiar all at once, the weight of public knowledge settling over you like a blanket you didn't know you needed. You don't open Twitter. You don't need to - you've seen the moment that matters, his finger raised in declaration, his voice rough with honesty. The rest is just noise, static, the hum of a world adjusting to a truth you already knew.

But your sister calls. And your mother. And three numbers you don't recognise that you send to voicemail without listening, their curiosity a tide you don't have to answer to. The doorbell rings again, persistent as a heartbeat. You pull Joe's stolen sweater over your head - the one that smells like him, like home, like safety - and wait.

Four hours. Three hundred and forty minutes. Twenty thousand seconds of the world knowing what you've known all along: that Joe Keery is in love, that he's married, that somewhere in his life there exists a person who makes him brave enough to raise his hand and say there, that, mine, like a gardener finally pointing to his favourite bloom and saying I grew this, I tend this, this is mine to care for.

When his key turns in the lock, you don't wait in the hallway. You're right there, pulling the door open before he can finish turning it, and he stumbles through with his bag half-sliding off his shoulder like an afterthought, his eyes finding yours immediately, always, like a compass finding north.

"Hi," he breathes, the word carrying six months of secret and one monumental hour of truth.

"Hi."

He drops the bag. Doesn't care where it lands, the sound of it hitting the floor like punctuation, like the end of one sentence and the start of another. His hands find your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like he's reading braille, like you're a language he's still learning, will always be learning, and he's looking at you like he's trying to memorise you after weeks apart instead of hours, like you're a dream he's afraid to wake from.

"You're not mad," he says. It isn't a question, but his voice tilts upward anyway, searching for confirmation like a ship searching for shore.

"I'm not mad." You lean into his palm, turn your head to kiss the centre of his hand, the lifeline there, the heart line, every ridge and whorl that makes him him. "How could I be mad? You pointed at the truth and named it beautiful."

"I didn't ask. I just - " his thumb traces your jaw, your temple, like he's mapping you back into existence after too long apart, like you're a country he's been exiled from and is finally returning to, " - I just told them the truth, and I didn't ask if you were ready for it to be loud. If you were ready for the noise, the questions, the - "

"I was already ready," you tell him, and your voice is the shore he's been searching for, solid and waiting. "I was just waiting for you to be. I've been wearing your promise on a chain, on my finger, in my heart. I was always ready to wear it in the light."

Something breaks open in his expression, some last tension draining away like water finding its level. He makes a sound - not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, but something born of both, something new - and pulls you into him, arms wrapping around you like he's drowning and you're the shore, like you're the oxygen he's been holding his breath for.

His face buries in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, a secret told in the hollow of your throat, and he just holds you. You feel his heart hammering against your chest, a bird against glass, then finding the window open, flying free. You feel his ribs expanding with each breath, the tremor running through him that he probably doesn't know is there, earthquake and aftershock, the ground settling into new shapes.

"Don't let go," he mumbles into your shoulder, the words half-prayer, half-demand, all need.

"Never."

"I mean it." His arms tighten, crushing you closer, and you don't mind the pressure, the weight, the absolute certainty of being held. You'd crawl inside him if you could, make yourself small enough to carry in his pocket, anywhere he goes, everywhere. "I need - " he breaks off, swallows hard, his throat working against your collarbone, " - I need to not let go yet. I need to hold you until I remember what home feels like - " he squeezes tighter, " - until this is the only thing I know."

You pull back just enough to see his face, his eyes bright and overwhelmed and so completely yours, constellations you could navigate by. "Joe," you say softly, and his name settles him, you can see it, the way his shoulders drop, the way his breathing steadies, the way the tremor stills, "You can hold me as long as you want. I'm not going anywhere. I'm anchored here, with you."

You reach for his right hand, still wrapped around your waist, and he lets you take it, pliant as water, strong as current. His ring is still there on his index finger, the finger that carried your secret for six months like a message in a bottle, the finger that finally spoke it out loud like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog. You touch the silver band, warm from his skin, still bearing the faint indentation from its journey, a road map of hiding and hoping and finally, finally, showing.

"Can I?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, a question and an answer both.

He nods. Doesn't speak. Just watches you with that particular softness that belongs only to you, the one he doesn't show cameras, the one he saves for fluorescent-lit courthouses and dumpling restaurants and moments like this, when it's just you and him and the weight of promises kept.

You slide the ring from his index finger. It moves easily, like it was always waiting for this, like a bird waiting for the cage door to open. You hold it for a moment in your palm, this small silver thing that has spent six months of hiding in plain sight, six months of sideways glances and secret touches and love letters written in metal and skin. Then you take his left hand - his real hand, his honest hand, the one that will carry your promise forward - and slide the ring onto his ring finger where it's always belonged.

It fits perfectly. It always has, like two puzzle pieces, like lock and key, like the last note of a song finally resolving into chord.

"Now we match," you say, and thread your fingers through his, both silver bands gleaming side by side, two moons in the same sky, two promises finally speaking the same language.

He stares at your joined hands, wonderstruck, then looks up at you with that crooked smile. The one that’s for your eyes only behind closed doors.

"We match," he repeats, and pulls you back in, tucking his face against your neck again, breathing you in like your oxygen after drowning, like he's memorizing your scent for the next time they try to take him away, like he's planting roots. "I like that. I like that so much I can't find better words."

"Then don't find words," you murmur into his hair. "Just keep holding me."

You walk him backward toward the couch, still tangled together, a single organism, a knot that can't be untied, and collapse onto it in a heap of limbs and relief and the particular weight of coming home, of finally, finally being in the same room, the same breath, the same moment. He pulls you with him until you're half in his lap, his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt, like a promise, like he's keeping you safe from a world that suddenly knows your name, his face pressed to your collarbone, your joined hands resting on his chest where both rings catch the lamplight, twin stars, twin beacons.

"You're shaking," you murmur, running your free hand through his hair, still damp from travel, from adrenaline, from the storm of the day.

"Adrenaline." He turns his head, presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, your pulse point, the place where your heart beats closest to the surface. "Panic. Joy. You. Always you, the one thing that makes the rest of it matter."

"Me?"

He brings your joined hands to his mouth, kisses your ring, his ring, the space between them where your fingers intertwine, inseparable now. "I was so scared after I realised what I'd done, that I may lose you, I - I couldn't handle it. And now, that I know I'm not. I just want to hold your hand. For hours. For days. Until the world stops spinning so fast, until the noise fades, until it's just us again, just us and the truth we finally told."

"That might take a while."

"Good." He settles deeper into the couch, taking you with him, his thumb tracing endless circles on your palm, a message in code, a love letter written in touch. "I have time. I have nothing but time, as long as you're here, as long as this - " he squeezes your hand, gentle but fierce, " - as long as this is real."

You stay there, curled together like quotation marks around a secret, while the world adjusts outside. The trending topic rises and falls like breath. The speculation swirls and fades like weather, like seasons, like everything that changes while you remain. None of it matters. What matters is his heartbeat under your ear, steady now, a drum finding its rhythm. What matters is his whispered "I love you" into your hair every few minutes like he needs to say it, like he needs you to hear it, like he's making up for every time he couldn't say it loud enough before, every time he had to whisper it in darkened rooms, in stolen moments, in the spaces between.

"I love you too," you whisper back, each time. And you do. You love him in the quiet and in the noise, in secrets and in spotlights, in index fingers and ring fingers and every way he's ever found to carry your promise, to keep it close, to finally, finally, let it shine.

And you stay there, tangled together, while the world spins on without you. Two silver bands gleaming in the lamplight, finally where they belong, finally speaking the same language. Two hearts beating in time, a rhythm you could dance to forever. One promise, properly, beautifully, loudly, bravely worn - out loud, in the open, for everyone to see.

[dolliscent333]

he’s so bf coded. i NEED to bite him

© ‧₊˚ DOLLISCENT333

[wendichester]

⋆˚꩜｡ thirty-something & sunrise,

summary. you give dean’s birthday a hell of a start!

pairing. dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 1237 genre. smut !!

warnings. explicit sexual content (oral m!receiving, p in v, riding, dirty talk), morning sex, adult language and moaning/whimpering descriptions

<𝟑 .ᐟ consider supporting my work on ko-fi 🩷

You wake before the alarm you’d secretly set for 6:47 a.m.—early enough that the motel room is still dark except for the thin stripe of sodium light sneaking through the blackout curtains.

Dean’s birthday.

Thirty-something.

He’d grumbled last night about another trip around the sun, but you caught the way his eyes softened when you kissed his temple and whispered, “I’ve got plans, birthday boy.”

Right now those plans start with him sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open, chest rising slow and steady. He looks younger when he sleeps—freckles stark against pale skin, lashes fanned long, the perpetual tension in his jaw finally gone slack. You love him like this. Unguarded. Yours.

You roll toward him carefully, mattress dipping. The sheet has ridden low on his hips during the night; only thin cotton boxers cling to him now. You start at his shoulder—soft kiss, barely there—then his collarbone, the hollow of his throat. He doesn’t stir yet, just sighs, a sleepy sound that vibrates under your lips.

Your hand follows. Flat palm gliding down the warm centerline of his chest, feeling the sparse hair, the steady thump of his heart. Lower. Over the ridges of his ribs, the dip of his navel, the faint happy trail that disappears under elastic. You pause there, fingertips brushing the waistband, and press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Mmmph,” he mumbles, still mostly asleep. One green eye cracks open, bleary. “What’re you doin’?”

“Happy birthday,” you whisper against his lips, then kiss him properly—slow, lazy, tasting sleep and last night’s whiskey on his tongue.

He hums into it, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You smile against his mouth and let your fingers slip beneath the band of his boxers.

Dean sucks in a breath the second your hand wraps around him—half-hard already, thickening fast under your grip. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep. “Warn a guy.”

You stroke him once, slow from base to tip, thumb circling the head where he’s already leaking. “Thought surprises were your thing.”

He laughs, low and rough, the sound cutting off into a groan when you squeeze just right. His hips twitch up into your fist. “You’re gonna kill me before coffee.”

“Not yet.” You duck under the sheet, kissing a trail down his sternum, his stomach, feeling the muscles jump. When you tug his boxers down enough to free him, he’s fully hard—thick, flushed, veins standing out. You lick a broad stripe from root to tip and his whole body jerks.

“Jesus—baby—” His hand finds your hair, not pushing, just holding. Fingers trembling a little. You take him into your mouth, slow at first, letting him feel every inch of wet heat. His thighs tense under you; a broken whimper slips out—soft, surprised, so unlike the cocky hunter everyone else sees.

You hollow your cheeks, bob your head, tongue swirling. He’s noisy already—little gasps, curses under his breath, hips canting like he can’t help it. “Goddamn, your mouth… so fuckin’ good… yeah, just like that—”

You pull off with a wet pop, grinning up at him through the dim light. “You’re whimpering, Dean.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it—only flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. “C’mere.”

You crawl back up his body, straddling his hips. He’s still sleepy-eyed, hair a mess, looking at you like you hung the moon. You reach between your legs, guide him to your entrance—already slick from the sounds he was making, from the way he looked wrecked under your mouth.

You sink down slowly.

Dean’s head tips back into the pillow. A long, low moan drags out of him as you take him inch by inch. “Fuck… so tight… warm… holy shit—” His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Not guiding yet—just holding on.

You pause when he’s fully seated, letting yourself adjust, letting him feel every flutter around him. Your hands brace on his chest; his heartbeat hammers under your palms.

“Happy birthday,” you say again, softer this time, rocking your hips in a slow circle.

His eyes snap to yours. Something raw flickers there—love, lust, gratitude, all tangled up. “Best fuckin’ present I’ve ever had,” he breathes. Then, quieter, almost shy: “Love you.”

Your chest squeezes. You lean down, kiss him deep while you start to move—lifting and sinking, slow rolls at first that make you both gasp. He whimpers again when you clench deliberately around him; his grip tightens, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hipbones.

“Ride me, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “Use me. Please.”

The please does something to you. You sit up straighter, hands on his pecs for leverage, and pick up the pace. Harder. Faster. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, obscene and perfect. Dean’s hands roam—grabbing your ass, squeezing your breasts, thumbs brushing over nipples until you whine.

“Look at you,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fuckin’ gorgeous… takin’ me so good… my girl… my babygirl—” He’s babbling now, words tumbling out between moans. “Gonna come so hard inside you… wanna feel you soak me… c’mon, sweetheart, give it to me—”

You’re close already—have been since you tasted him. The angle hits just right; every downward stroke grinds your clit against his pelvis. You brace one hand on his thigh behind you, arching, chasing it.

“Dean—” Your voice breaks on his name.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, thrusting up to meet you now—shallow, desperate snaps. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Been dreamin’ about this tight little—”

You shatter.

The orgasm rips through you, sharp and blinding. You cry out, nails digging into his chest, walls pulsing hard around him. Dean swears, loud and wrecked—“Fuck—fuck—yes—” His hips stutter, then slam up once, twice. He comes with a guttural moan, spilling hot and deep, fingers bruising your hips as he holds you down on him.

You collapse forward onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat, breathing hard. He wraps both arms around you, one hand stroking your spine in long, shaky sweeps.

“Jesus,” he mutters after a minute, voice hoarse. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack on my birthday?”

You huff a laugh against his neck. “Thought you’d like the cardio.”

He snorts, then kisses the top of your head.

Silence settles, comfortable and sticky. His heartbeat slows under your cheek.

After a while he speaks again, quieter. “You know I don’t need anything fancy. Just… this. You.”

You turn your face, press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I know. But you deserve to be spoiled. At least once a year.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through you both. His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together over his heart.

“Guess I’m keepin’ you forever then,” he says, half-joking, half-serious. “Can’t go back to regular birthdays after this.”

You squeeze his hand.

The room is brighter now—sunrise creeping in. You can hear birds outside, cars starting in the lot. Normal life moving on.

But right here, tangled up in sheets, time feels suspended.

You close your eyes, listen to his breathing even out again.

And you think—maybe you’ll let him sleep another ten minutes.

Just ten.

Because the day’s only just started, and you’ve still got plenty of ways left to remind him he’s loved.

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