“You’re getting a vasectomy.” Those are the first words you say when John answers the phone, your tone firm.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling over the line. “Well, hello to you too, love,” he says, leaning back in his desk chair, lifting his feet up to rest on his desk. You can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks again. “Any particular reason you want me to have the chop, or are you just mad I left my socks on the floor again, darling?”
You normally would laugh at that little joke, but not today. Today you roll your eyes, your grip tightening on the phone as you think about all the reasons you need him to have a vasectomy.
All five reasons, to be exact.
Your two eldest children are currently at school. Your middle child, the toddler, is clinging to your legs. The youngest is napping in the nursery. And you’re staring down at yet another positive pregnancy test.
“It’s not the socks, my love. It’s because you’ve knocked me up. Again,” you reply, through gritted teeth and a tight smile. “And in case you can’t work it out, that’s number five.” You can practically hear his jaw snap shut on the other side of the phone. You can imagine how the smirk drops from his face.
John’s feet fall from the desk to the floor as he runs a hand down his face. Jesus christ. How is this possible? “…fuckin’ hell,” he rasps out, his tone a mix of disbelief and… pride. There’s something about knowing you’re pregnant with another of his children that makes him just a little feral… but he quickly pushes that thought aside.
“Sorry, love. I’ll call the doctors,” he mumbles, causing you to smile and hum to yourself.
“And you can pick up the kids from school today. And bring home a takeaway for dinner,” you say, the smugness evident in your voice. This whole situation is a mess, but that won’t stop you from using your pregnancy privileges.
John sighs, grinning to himself. “Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”
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John gets up from the table and walks out of sight to answer the door.
"Hey, John," you hear a woman say. John says something back to her that you can't make out from the low grumble of his voice. You try to listen harder when you see Soap's arm come over to you out of the corner of your eye. He grabs your plate and pauses with it.
"All done?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. He takes it along with his own and goes to the kitchen where he starts to clean up a bit.
Simon comes back from the hallway, an old brick of a phone in his hand, clunky from the massive case on it. He brings it over and hands it to you.
"Here. It's unlocked." You thank him and take the phone as two pairs of footsteps come further in the house.
Following John is a woman wearing a grey button down shirt under a dark forest green coat. Her dark hair is wrapped in a braided bun that pokes out from the wide brimmed hat she wears. On her coat is the arrowhead shaped badge of the national park symbol and a badge with the name "Lambert" engraved on it.
John says your name then points to her. "This is officer Lambert, she's a warden of the park Simon found you in."
Lambert gives you a warm smile that crinkles the lines around her eyes. "Nice to meet you. You can call me Hannah."
"We'll let you two talk," John says.
"We can go in Kyle's room," you say, not wanting to kick them all out of their own space.
"Either works," Hannah affirms, putting the ball in your court. You put the phone in the hoodie's pocket and stand.
"It's down here," you tell her, crutches thumping with every step. Hannah follows you down the hallway and into Kyle's room. You hurry over to the window and pull back the blackout curtain, flooding the room with light. Hannah closes the door as you stand facing her.
"It's alright, you can take a seat," she gestures to the bed. You swing yourself onto it, feet dangling on the end as she stays standing. She pulls out a large phone (also in a heavy duty case) and starts scrolling through some of the notes on it.
"So," she says your first and last name. "Is that correct?"At your nod she continues. "At around 4:30 last Thursday we had a man by the name of Nathan Collier file a missing persons report after coming back from a hike."
"Yeah, that's my boyfriend. Is he okay?"
She blinks at you. "He's fine. Can you tell me how the two of you got separated on the trail?"
"I fell. We got to one of the peaks and I guess I was standing on the wrong part too close to the edge." She hums.
"Must've landed a long ways from the top."
The memory of your fall and landing is not one you want to think too hard on this soon after eating. "Must have."
"So after you fell from the trail, that's when one of John's boys found you?"
"Simon did. He brought me to a hunter's cabin until him and John could bring me here."
Hannah nods then looks at something else in her notes. "How long were you at the cabin for?"
"I don't know," you say, the time spent there fuzzy in your memory already, "a day or two? We just got here last night."
She nods again, a sympathetic look on her face as she turns off her phone and hides it away in a holster on her belt.
"Sounds like you've had a hell of a time, hon. I'm glad to see you've came out of it in one piece."
The sudden kindness makes tears want to well up in your eyes but you hold them through sheer willpower.
"Yeah," you chuckle humourlessly, "me too."
Hannah reaches into a pocket inside her jacket and pulls out a little paperstock card. "Here," she hands it to you, "my number and station information. John'll help you get back on your feet but don't hesitate to call if you need anything, alright?"
"Thanks." You look down at the card with its numbers and address. "I lost all my things, like my ID and phone, and I don't really know how to go about fixing that."
"That's not a problem. You can come down to the station and file a report. See if you can reach out to a family member and have them send you a copy of some other kind of identification until you get back home."
Her competence makes the whole situation a lot less stressful, the things she's offering making it all seem a lot more doable.
"Alright," she says, straightening out, "I'll get out of your hair and let you rest. Don't forget to call me if you need anything." She points to the card in your hand and gives you another smile. "Have a good one." She doesn't make you get back up and leaves with a little wave, closing the door behind her.
You hear her heavy footsteps retreat to the front of the house where her muffled voice talks with John's. It's not too long after that that the front door opens and closes again.
You stay sitting on the bed, fiddling with the card. Your mind goes to a different number, however, and you pull out the phone in your pocket.
It rings. And rings and rings and goes to voicemail, just like you thought it would calling from an unknown number. The voicemail says its speech, then beeps.
"Hey, Nate, it's me," you say, feeling as awkward as you always do leaving voice messages. "Just calling to let you know I'm okay. I lost my phone so I'm borrowing one." You stutter in silence. "Anyways, so. Yeah, if you could just call back at this number until I get my own back. Alright, love you, talk to you soon. Bye."
You hang up, cringing at yourself. You swallow down the embarrassment like you always do and shove the phone back in your pocket. You slide off the bed and leave the bedroom.
Kyle and Soap are gone but John and Simon still stand in the kitchen. Both of them look to you as you approach the table.
"All right?" Simon asks.
"Yeah."
"Lambert said she gave you her number and station," John says.
"She did." You pat the card in your pocket. "Oh," you pull out the phone and hold it out to Simon, "here. Thanks for letting me use it." He walks to you so you don't have to move and takes the phone from you.
"Not a problem." He puts in his back pocket. "Did you still want to see that doctor?"
You look down to you leg. "Probably should."
"It's an hour and some drive from 'ere. If we leave now it won't be that late when we get back. Could also pick up some things for you that'll need." You would appreciate a toothbrush. And some underwear.
You give him a smile and a nod. "Sounds like a plan."
Synopsis: She never had an ordinary life. Her dreams aren't made of hopes and beginnings, but of endings. She witnesses the deaths of strangers, acquaintances, and loved ones—some peaceful, others terrifying. And worse: a simple touch reveals how each person will meet their end. No matter how hard she tries, she has never been able to change what she sees. Until she meets Dean Winchester.
Warnings: death; suicide (not involving main characters); Death (the Horseman of the Apocalypse); plus-size!Reader; use of Y/N (I try to avoid it); platonic relationship with Sam Winchester; enemies-to-friends dynamic with Castiel; future romantic involvement with Dean Winchester; a touch of "weirdo!Reader" (it’s just who I am); visions of death; plot twist (though maybe not much of one if you pay close attention); smut; strong language; slow burn; enemies to friends; Jack appears; things of God; reunion with a deceased relative; birthdays;
Chapter 12
The next morning arrived with a long, satisfying stretch. The smell of coffee and bacon hung in the air like an invitation.
Dean wasn't by her side in bed, which already explained the delicious smell in the air.
She had never been one to sleep. Maybe because she could never rest properly. Or because she had visions of strangers' deaths in every second of her dreams. But now? Now that she'd discovered that sleeping next to Dean kept those terrible visions away? Now sleep was incredible.
She got up still sleepy, walking slowly to the kitchen before finding Sam and Castiel sitting at the table. Sam was drinking a strange green juice while eating eggs and bacon. The angel had a cup of coffee between his hands.
"Good morning, sweetheart!" Dean's voice made her turn toward the stove. He was wearing an apron that covered his abdomen and thighs, but didn't hide the jeans or dark shirt he was wearing that morning.
"Good morning," she replied, approaching the table and taking a seat.
"Here," Dean placed a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. "To help you recover your energy from yesterday."
"Dean!" both she and Sam said at the same time. Sam in a disgusted tone—after all, he certainly didn't want to hear about his brother's sexual experiences. And she in an embarrassed tone that everyone heard.
Dean responded with just a laugh, returning to the stove only to grab his own plate and sit beside her.
Silence settled for a moment, comfortable and homey. Sam ate and drank his strange juice. She and Dean ate that hearty breakfast. And Castiel just kept looking at the black liquid.
"Castiel," she called, breaking the silence. "About my mother…"
"You want to visit her," he completed, remembering their brief previous conversation well.
"I do," she replied, looking deep into the angel's blue eyes. "Think of it as the final part of your forgiveness." He smiled briefly, before looking at Dean.
"Visiting heaven right now wouldn't be a good time," he said with a hint of regret in his tone.
"You said you could arrange it," she continued, her voice firm. "I want to see her. In heaven."
Castiel stared at her for a long moment. Then his gaze fell to Dean. Then Sam. Both remained silent.
"The angels are still afraid of you."
"I can handle them," she said with confidence in her voice. "They won't hurt me."
"Sweetheart—"
"I need to see my mother. I need to tell her that… That I'm finally okay. That I understood who I am," she left her fork on the plate and sighed heavily. "I need to tell her I met my father. I need this, Dean." Her eyes were lined with water blurring her vision, just as her voice trembled.
"Cas, can you take her?" Dean asked. The angel looked at Sam, who nodded.
"Both of you?"
"We're not letting you face heaven alone," Sam said, standing up and taking his dirty dishes to the sink.
"I can arrange that," Castiel finally replied.
The entrance to heaven wasn't what she could have ever imagined. An empty children's playground with a large sandbox.
She saw Sam and Dean looking around as if that wasn't right either.
"The angels are afraid," Castiel replied to their silent question.
"And they just abandoned the guard?!" Dean questioned. He was ready to fight the angels—certainly none showing up left him disappointed.
"They're afraid of me," she replied, looking at her own gloved hands. "The angels are afraid of what I can do if I feel threatened, aren't they?" she questioned, looking at Castiel. He nodded.
"Great, so heaven's going to be wonderful," Dean celebrated, walking over to the sandbox.
If the entrance to heaven wasn't what she expected, then heaven itself…
There were no clouds. Golden gates. Angels playing harps.
It was just corridors stretching into infinity, full of doors with names in alphabetical order.
"This is heaven?" she whispered to Dean.
"Expecting something different?" he whispered back.
"Well… Yes," she said as if it were obvious. "Where's the sound of harps? The cherubs flying around naked?" he laughed.
"Oh sweetheart… Heaven is full of sons of bitches with inflated egos. Hate to break it to you," he said, intertwining his fingers with hers, feeling the velvet of her glove against his hand.
They walked through the infinite corridors for only a few minutes before stopping in front of a door with a name she knew well.
Her mother.
"This is it," Castiel said. "Your mother is inside. Living her happiest memory."
"Her happiest memory?" she asked back. Which one would it be?
With a slightly trembling hand, she turned the doorknob and immediately knew which memory it was.
It was her old house. There were birthday balloons everywhere. Colorful ribbons and the house smelled deliciously sweet.
It was her sixth birthday party.
When she and her mother had a party just for the two of them. They ate cake all night. Cookies and brigadeiros until the sun rose on the horizon. She remembered the neighbors complaining about the karaoke noise, but they didn't care.
It was one of the most incredible days of her life. And apparently of her mother's too.
"My love? I hope you're ready to blow out the candles!" just her voice made tears stream down her face. Dean gave a gentle squeeze to her hand, as if to say: go. I'm here if you need me.
She went. Walking toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was exactly as she remembered. The old stove, the wooden table, the floral curtains. And there, standing in front of the oven, was her mother.
She was lighting the six candles.
"Mom?" her voice came out as a trembling whisper.
The woman turned slowly. Her face was the same as she remembered—the gentle eyes, the warm smile, the hair with streaks of gray.
"My love?" the mother dropped the lighter on the counter. "My daughter?"
"Mom!"
They ran to each other. The hug was tight, warm, full of tears and laughter.
"My God, you've grown so much," the mother said, holding her daughter's face between her hands. "Look at you. So beautiful."
"I miss you so much," she sobbed. "So much."
"I miss you too, my love. So much."
The mother looked beyond her daughter's shoulder and saw the three men standing there, looking around as if trying to find somewhere to look.
"And who are these?" she asked, and her daughter laughed, wiping her tears.
"Mom, these are my… Friends. This is Sam, this is Castiel, and this…" she looked at Dean, and her face lit up. "This is Dean."
Her mother watched her for a moment, her eyes tracing her daughter's face, then Dean's. A knowing smile formed on her lips.
"Oh, daughter. I know that look."
"Mom!"
"What? I had that look once too," she turned to Dean. "So… Dean…"
Dean seemed slightly disconcerted.
"Yes, ma'am?" he said in a more formal tone than necessary.
"I hope you're treating my daughter well."
"Mom!" she hid her face against her mother's lap, trying not to let her embarrassment show.
"What? I didn't even tell him that you told me he was the 'most handsome man you've ever seen'!" the older woman defended herself, teasing her daughter even more. She remembered saying that—not in person, of course, but in those conversations she'd imagined with those who had passed.
Dean looked at Sam with a proud smile, puffing out his chest as if to appear bigger.
"Come… Let's have cake. I want to hear everything about… About your life," she pulled her daughter into the kitchen. "You're all invited too!" she said louder so the three of them could hear.
They sat around the wooden table, the birthday cake in the center. She couldn't stop looking at her mother, as if afraid she'd disappear if she looked away.
She told her mother about everything. About graduating. About her old house. How she found Dean and Sam. Everything.
"Why did you never tell me about my father?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Why did you hide everything?"
Her mother was silent for a moment, her eyes lost in some distant memory.
"Because I wanted to protect you, my love. I knew that if you knew the truth, you'd be in danger. The world wasn't ready for someone like you. And I didn't want you to carry that burden so soon."
"But I carried it anyway," she felt tears streaming down. "I saw the death of everyone I loved. I saw your death."
"I know, daughter. And I'm so sorry for that," her mother held her hand. "But look at you now. You're so strong. So brave. And you found people who love you for who you are."
"I miss you so much," she confessed, and her mother pulled her into another hug. She looked at Dean, who was watching the scene with a soft smile.
"He loves you," her mother whispered to her. "I can see it in his eyes. It's the same look your father had for me."
"Mom…"
"Don't be afraid to love, daughter. Love is the most powerful thing there is. More powerful than death. More powerful than the Empty. It's what keeps us alive," she looked at Dean, and felt love overflowing in her chest.
"I know, Mom. I know."
The conversation flowed for hours. She continued telling her mother about her life, about the visions, about the escape, about the bunker. She told her about Dean, about how he'd searched for her, about how he never gave up.
Her mother smiled, her eyes shining.
"You deserve to be happy, daughter. You deserve all the love in the world."
That's when they heard the house door open again. Dean and Sam immediately looked at each other.
Dean set the cake aside—his tenth slice, taking advantage that heavenly cakes were eternal—and stood up, pulling a kind of mini-sword from his waist. Sam did the same.
She stood up, positioning herself in front of her own mother. Now that she knew who she truly was, she would protect those she loved. Even if her mother, technically, was dead.
Castiel was the last to rise, but he also brandished that strange blade.
The footsteps on the old wooden floor announced that it was close.
Just a small turn and she saw who it was.
A young man, with a friendly smile and blue eyes like Castiel's. His hair was light, with a long fringe that partially covered his face. He wasn't wearing anything specific—it was as if he'd woken up and chosen something comfortable for the day. Casual, like light pants, sneakers, and a light shirt.
"Jack," Castiel immediately dropped his weapon and ran to meet the young man.
"Jack!" Sam ran to the young man too, joining the hug.
She looked at Dean, waiting for his reaction before deciding what to do.
"Good to see you, kiddo," Dean said, also walking to meet Jack.
"Finally showed up! I thought you weren't coming today," her mother said as if she knew him.
"You know him?" she asked, looking at her mother with curiosity.
"Oh, of course! He comes at least once a day! He said he's the new God," she replied as if it weren't anything strange.
"The new God?" Sam and Dean had already told her that a nephilim was the new God. Would it be him?
"You can call me Jack," he replied. "Hello," he said, raising one of his hands as if in greeting.
She looked at Dean, who gave a slight nod before approaching her.
"What are you doing here? Not that we're not happy to see you, but we thought we'd never see you again," Sam said, joining his brother and friend.
"The angels called me. I was in another universe, fixing some things, when I heard the calls."
"The angels called daddy," Dean teased, receiving a small slap on his chest from the woman beside him.
"You're really God?" she asked, feeling a chill down her spine.
"Yes," Jack walked toward her, stopping a few steps away. "And you are Death's daughter. The one against the Empty."
"How do you know?"
"We need to talk," Jack raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
In the blink of an eye, she was no longer at her sixth birthday party. Her mother wasn't nearby, nor Dean or Sam. Much less Castiel.
She was in a strange place to describe.
It was like an eternal void, but with golden threads running through the horizon and everything else you could see.
"Don't worry, they won't notice we left," Jack said, moving one of his hands in the air, pulling a golden thread to look at it more closely. "I paused things in this universe."
"In this universe?"
"Each one of these lines is a universe. I take care of each one of them," Jack showed, pulling another, making a zoom-in motion with his fingers and showing an image of Earth, but with rings like Saturn. "Cool, right?"
"You didn't bring me here just to show me other universes, did you?" she asked, not in a rude tone, but more apprehensively.
"Oh! Don't worry! It's not what you're thinking! I don't want to hurt you or… Or anything," he said, moving the line—or rather, the universe—away and approaching. "Did Dean tell you about Chuck?"
"Chuck?"
"He was God before… Before he became nothing," he took a deep breath. "He wasn't a good God. He abandoned his creation. His own children. Wrote terrible instructions and left every universe he created adrift without support."
"Jack, what do you want from me?"
"But Chuck had one thing: balance. He and his sister—"
"God had a sister?"
"Amara. She ruled the darkness while he ruled the light," Jack explained briefly. "See where I'm going with this?"
"Jack, you want me to work with you? Why?" she asked, not hiding her surprise. Jack smiled.
"Because you're important," Jack stared at her with his bright blue eyes. "The universe needs balance. And you are the key to that balance."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Every light needs darkness to exist. It's the balance of everything. Yin and Yang," Jack touched her hand carefully, removing her glove and letting their skins touch. She felt the tingling of something new. Power. "Together, we can balance the universes that Chuck left adrift. You take the souls that need to go. You let the Empty dominate where there is nothing but mercy." She pulled her hand away from his, crossing her arms as if trying to protect herself. Jack understood that, and stepped back a little.
"And if I don't want to? If I want to stay with Sam and Dean?" She had just found herself. Just learned what it meant to love and be loved. Just learned what the pleasure of living was, and how she wanted to stay there. How unfair it was for Jack to appear and ask her to leave her life behind and go with him to fix others' mistakes?
"I'm not going to force you," Jack said. "If you want to live the rest of your life on this Earth, I'll let you. No angel will ever bother you again. You'll learn to hunt and you'll use your powers to save the souls here. You'll live a long life alongside Dean and Sam," he completed, saying with a certainty she knew was real.
"But?" she couldn't help but feel there was more.
"Unfortunately, without balance… Many universes will… Die," Jack showed already some golden threads breaking and disappearing. "I can't save them," he said with regret. "I wish I could, but alone I can't."
"So I need to choose between living my life with who I love… Or… Or saving the universes," her words were disbelieving. Heavy and incredulous.
"I'm so sorry," Jack said, seeing the anguish she was feeling. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Can I think about it?" It wasn't an easy decision. Not even a simple one to make.
"When you're ready, just call me," Jack replied, snapping his fingers and then they were back at the birthday party.
Synopsis: 5 times Brendon makes you smile and the one time you make him smile.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: implied sexual encounters, referenced fatophobia
Pairing: Brendon Park x Chubby!Named!Reader
Word Count: 1.16
Ao3 Link
Part of Augustrope Month. Divider created by @saradika-graphics
A/N: Please do not copy my writing and feed it into AI programs.
Brendon always jokes it's easy to get you to smile. No one believed him of course. You only really smiled at patients when they came in for their surgeries. Very rarely did your co-workers earn such a gift.
Then again Brendon got to see you outside of work. Mainly in his clothes.
The first time he realizes how easy it is to get you to smile is the first morning you spend the night at his place.
He had cooked breakfast and was setting the table when you walked in. "Good morning, Rose." Brendon says walking over to you.
You hum as he kisses your head. He watches as you look over the table as a smile slowly climbs on your lips. "You made me breakfast?"
"I have to keep my girl fed." He whispers nuzzling your neck, holding you close.
"You girl, huh?" You ask relaxing into him.
"Yea, he says nipping at your skin. "My girl."
The next time Brendon makes you smile, it's after a patient disparages you for your size.
He ushers you into his office as he sees you fighting off tears. You sit on his couch and cover your face with your hands.
Brendon watches as your body shakes, broken breathes coming from you.
"Rose," he says finally sitting next to you.
"I'm fine." Your voice cracks.
He carefully takes your hands from your face to see your eyes red rimmed. "He's an idiot."
You give a dry laugh and shake your head. "You're only saying that cause I'm sleeping with you."
You yelp as Brendon pulls you to straddle him. You look at him to see his lips pressed into a firm line.
"Your weight and build have nothing to do with your skill as a nurse."
"But-"
"No, he's an idiot and he's lucky I'm not his doctor." He watches you try to fight a smile.
"He would be lucky." You say.
"Not after he insults my girl. I'd give him a fucking student to work on him."
You can't help smiling, forcing you to nuzzle his neck to hide it. "You're horrible, Dr. Park."
He kisses your head and strokes your hair back. "Only when needed nurse Callaghan."
You trudge into your apartment, the double shift weighing on you. You offered to cover your night shift colleague, needing the extra pay with Brendon planning a vacation for your one year anniversary. Even though he wasn't very happy when you told him about the double.
As you pull your shoes off, you notice Brendon's work bag on the couch.
"Brendon?" You yell.
"Bathroom." You hear before following his voice.
You let your hair fall from its ponytail and run your fingers through your hair.
You stop in the door way into the bathroom. The tub is filled with petals, steam coming off the water. There's gentle music playing with a mood light to look like live water.
And standing in the middle is Brendon.
"What..?" You ask feeling your throat tighten up.
"I know you are tired after work. I figured," he walks over and wraps his arms around your waist. "You could use some relaxation after a double."
You smile up at him. "You really are pulling a Roy Kent now."
"I… don't know who that is." He says as you start to laugh.
"I really need to have you watch more TV." You say smiling as he starts to strip you of your clothes.
Once you're stripped Brendon helps you into the water. "Now, I'm going to check on your breakfast then head to work."
You nod then pull him into a kiss. He grunts and grips the back of your head.
You pull back pecking his lips a few more times. "Thank you," you whisper.
"Anything for my girl." He whispers back standing up.
Brendon is in a department head meeting, bored out of his mind. He taps his phone to check the time, your smiling face greeting him.
"When did you take that?" Robby asks sipping from his travel mug.
Brendon knew you got along with Robby outside the hospital. You never explained why, but it worked.
"We went apple picking last week." He thinks about how he got you to smile in the first place.
You had spotted a bright red apple too high for you to reach. Brendon jumped grabbing a branch close by and pulled himself up plucking the apple. He drops back in front of you holding the apple up.
"You didn't have to do that." You smile taking the apple from him.
"If it means seeing you smile, it's worth it."
You didn't stop smiling, so Brendon decided he needed a new lock screen.
"She's lucky to have someone like you, Park." Robby says.
"I feel like the lucky one." Brendon says as a notification comes through letting him know his order was ready for pick up.
Brendon tangles his fingers in your hair, tilting your head back to kiss along your neck.
You moan as he nips at your pulse point. "Bren." You whine as he moves back.
"I'll give you what you want in a minute, baby." He takes a few steps back and kneels behind you. "Turn around."
You turn around and cover your mouth at the sight. "What are you doing?"
He holds the ring box out to you. "Will you, Rose Callaghan, be my girl forever?"
When Brendon opens the box inside is a rose-gold ring with a dark pink spinel in the center with branches holding it in place.
You can't fight the smile taking over your face and Brendon has never felt as enchanted by it before as he does in that moment.
You nod, smile still wide. "Yes. Yes, Brendon Park, I'll marry you."
He slips the ring on to your finger before standing and pulling you into a deep kiss, plunging his tongue into your mouth. He's rewarded with a moan and you gripping at his shirt.
The day you get Brendon to smile in a way you know no one had ever seen will live forever in your mind.
"Rose," Brendon yells through the house. He was concerned because while he was in a surgery, you went home sick.
"Living room." You say.
Bran quickly walks over to you and kneels in front of you. Your curled up in basketball shorts and one of Brendon's hoodies.
"Are you okay? Garcia said you left early." He takes your hands in his.
You squeeze his hands. "I'm fine Bren."
His brows knit together, "then why…"
You smile at him and set his hands over your belly. He blinks at you, his eyes going between his hands over your belly and your smiling face.
"You're pregnant?" He asks.
You nod. "It's why I came home; morning sickness."
And you watch as the biggest smile you've ever seen, spread on stoic Park the Shark's face. All before pressing kisses all over your face then kissing over your belly.
Warnings: discussion of some potentially heavy topics; I don’t know how Carnegie Mellon handles SH/SA cases — this is not a statement about CMU, just higher education in general
A/N: continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); consider this your beach episode
Masterlist
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“Oh, look. It’s your posse of lovers.”
You whip your head around to see who Chelsea’s referring to and blanch when you see Everett and Brendon walking into the auditorium.
“Quiet,” you hiss.
“What? I thought it was only a secret at the hospital and-, ow.”
She rubs the spot on her arm where you pinched her and glares at you. You glare right back, but not before taking a quick glance around to see if anyone overheard her. Only when you’re sure no one did do your shoulders drop from up around your ears.
“There are people here from PTMC,” you whisper-shout.
“How was I supposed to know that? No one showed up to my defense except my grandma and some RA hoping there would be free food. It’s not my fault all of Pittsburgh is here.”
She’s exaggerating, but it really is a lot of people. Way more than you were expecting. Dissertation defenses are open to the public, but there’s typically not a ton of people who want to listen to a non-mandatory academic lecture. It’s usually just the person defending and their committee, maybe a close friend or family member.
Right now, you’re still two committee members short, but Chelsea is here, and so is Dr. Nayar. Brendon and Everett just walked in together, much to the former’s distaste and the latter’s glee. Dr. Friede, the current head of PTMC’s Operational Research and Development Department, is talking to his assistant over in the corner, and you’re pretty sure that’s-
“Shit,” you squeak.
Chelsea’s eyes widen in interest.
“That’s only your second curse word this calendar year. I’m marking it down. What’s the date again-“
“That’s Gloria Underwood, the Vice President of Medical Affairs,” you say, only slightly hysterically.
“The who-a-what?”
“She’s really important, okay?”
Why she’s here, you have no idea. Nor do you know why one of the radiology attendings and an internal medicine fellow are sitting in the second to last row. There’s a handful of other CMU people here — Fritz and Harris from biomed, some computer engineering undergrads who are probably here against their will — but you’d expected that. Not all the PTMC personnel. Honestly, you’re surprised Brendon’s even here. It’s Monday, which means he’s supposed to be running consults all day, not trying and failing to get Everett to leave him alone over by the stage.
“Well look at the bright side. All these doctor people being here means it’s not suspicious that your harem is-“
“Chelsea Antoinette Alamilla.”
“How dare you middle name me in public. You’re lucky you present in fifteen minutes, or I would-, Peter! So nice to see you.”
Kavis walks up to the two of you, wearing a Christmas-themed bow tie even though it’s close to eighty degrees outside. He’s vibrating with energy, and he’s beaming at everyone and everything in sight.
“Ah, hello Chelsea! Wonderful day isn’t it? We-“
He continues talking, but you don’t really hear him. The clock is ticking down to 11:00, which means you’re only fourteen minutes away from arguably the most important presentation of your life. Your stomach feels like it’s sitting somewhere around your throat. Despite your social awkwardness, you’ve always kind of enjoyed public speaking, but not now. Right now you think you might puke or pass out. Maybe both.
You make up some excuse about using the bathroom and hightail it out of there. You duck into the back hallway, heart pounding and thoughts racing. The projector is set up, your laptop is connected, and you’ve already run through the slides twice to make sure your clicker works. There’s no reason for you to be panicking like this. You’ve practiced a thousand times, everything is set. So why is it so hard to-
“Breathe, imp.”
Brendon’s voice behind you makes you jump about a foot into the air, and you whirl around to find him smirking at you.
“Bren!”
“Running away? I think I’m parked closer than you if you want my keys.”
You shoot him an unamused look to hide the fact you actually considered it for a second. You’re freaking out in a way you never have before, and your body is locked in fight or flight.
“Very funny,” you mutter.
“Hey.”
His voice turns serious, and you immediately curl in on yourself. You’re being stupid. He performs high-risk surgeries and literally holds people’s lives in his hands, and here you are losing it over a PowerPoint presentation. He’s going to think you’re being ridiculous. He’s going to tell you get it together and-
“Sweetheart.”
Oh. That’s new. Well not technically, but he usually only calls you imp or gremlin or something equally unflattering unless you’re in bed together. It’s startling enough to hit pause on your internal breakdown, and you look at him like a deer caught in headlights.
“Come here.”
You should probably be concerned about how quickly your body obeys, but that’s a crisis for another day. Instead, you just walk straight into his arms and burrow into his chest like you’re trying to disappear. He holds you tight.
“I can hear you overthinking,” he murmurs into your hair.
“Am not.”
He snorts.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I am. But I just…I don’t want to mess up.”
“You won’t.”
He says it with absolute certainty, like he’s going to will it into existence with willpower alone. Honestly, if anyone could do it, it’d be him. But your anxiety and imposter syndrome are more than a match for his iron will, and you start nervously picking invisible lint off of his shirt.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you say so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
His hands, which had been rubbing slow circles over your back, stop. You cringe. You hadn’t meant to say that. But before you can apologize and lobotomize the memory from your brain, he grasps your upper arms and moves you back far enough that he can meet your eyes.
“Imp. You could never disappoint me.”
Said again with that unwavering confidence.
“But what if I fail and you-“
“Y/n.”
You freeze. He’s using that tone. The one that means he expects everyone around him to shut up and listen. The one that scares most other people but only kicks your libido into overdrive. Jerk.
“I don’t love you because you do or don’t have letters after your name.”
One hand comes up to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lip. Your breath catches.
“I love you because you’re kind and patient-“
“Aww-“
“-and really fucking annoying.”
You stick out your tongue at him.
“You apologize too much and ramble when you’re nervous, but you’re smart and stubborn and strong. I don’t care if you pass this defense, even though I know you will.”
“But what if-“
“Even if you don’t, it won’t change anything.”
Your heart goes all gooey for a second. This is the sweetest he’s ever been to you, and it soothes you almost as much as it freaks you out. It’s obvious how much being nice costs him — he looks like he swallowed a lemon. Like a robot who’s reached the limits of its programming or a prisoner confessing under torture. You melt a little more at the thought of him going against every instinct he has to try and comfort you. Sweet man. Still, you can’t help it when you look at him and say-
“So are you saying you think I won’t pa-“
“For fuck’s sake, gremlin. Get inside.”
He pinches your side and shoots you a scowl that would likely make his residents cry. But a smile blooms across your face, and you feel your nerves settle. You might be panicked and nauseous and shaky, but it’s okay. Brendon can be steady enough for the both of you.
You take a deep breath and step back into the auditorium.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“You rocked that shit.”
“Chelsea, the kids.”
Chelsea glances glances over to where nine-year-old Patrick and three-year-old Paige have been playing trains on the carpet and shrugs.
“If your parents ask, you learned that word from Dr. Park, okay?”
Both children, who have met Chelsea before but never Brendon, nod easily and return to their toys. You groan. Patrick likely won’t say anything, but Paige is in her parroting phase. Her absolute favorite words are the ones that upset her parents, so there is a one thousand percent chance that she will be running around the house saying shit by the end of the night. You shake your head and drag Chelsea out of hearing range of the kids.
“Brendon’s going to kill you,” you mutter.
“Nah. That would upset you, and the man is so whipped I’m surprised he can pick out socks without consulting you first.”
You glance around frantically to make sure Brendon’s isn’t nearby. No matter what Chelsea thinks, you know down in your soul that he’s capable of murder. You also know that even if he wasn’t, he would make an exception for her.
“You promised to behave,” you hiss.
She looks half-repentant for half a second.
“You’re right, this is your night. I will resume tormenting the stick in the mud tomorrow.”
You shake your head, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’d meant it when you told Brendon you thought the two of them were extremely similar. Both of them had strong opinions about basically everything and everyone, and both said exactly what they thought no matter the consequences. It was probably a good thing they were like water and oil — if they worked together, they would be unstoppable.
“I’m going to see if Eileen needs help with anything,” you say. “You want to come?”
“Nope, but I will.”
You sigh fondly and start leading the way to the kitchen.
After your defense this morning, which you had apparently passed — you were so dazed, they could have taken you to the moon, and you wouldn’t have noticed — you’d spent the afternoon doing administrative things for your degree. But it’s evening now, and Peter is throwing you another one of his bird-themed celebration parties. His house is decorated with little paper birds and random throws of confetti his children insist are birdseed. It’s cute, ridiculous, and everything you need after the stress of the last few weeks.
Besides preparing for your dissertation, you’d spent the last almost month dealing with Jeremy and the fallout from the research gala. Meetings with Peter and Nayar and Yarrich, the department chair. Then Jeremy’s PI and HR and the Title IX Office. You’d been questioned and scrutinized to within an inch of your life, and at times it felt like you were the one who did something wrong.
You’d reported it to Peter immediately after it happened. Everett had witnessed it and submitted a written account that made it very clear he expected the university to take action. Then there was the fact that Jeremy was on PTMC’s visitor log multiple times when he had no academic or medical reason to be there. It should have been an open and shut case, but you were completely unsurprised when it wasn’t.
There were questions about your mental state and Everett’s — Were either of you drunk? Are you sure the two of you are remembering things correctly? Then there were the expected questions about Jeremy’s accusations — What is your relationship with Dr. Edwards and Dr. Park? Are you sure you’re not acting in a retaliatory manner against Dr. Hayes for brining to light your own actions? That last question had nearly given Brendon an aneurysm when you told him about it.
Your saving grace was Jack’s medical report. There was no way to he-said-she-said physical bruises on your wrist. Still, someone had dared ask if you were sure it was Jeremy who grabbed you, implying it was Everett instead. Everett, predictably, had been less than thrilled by the accusation. He was normally all smiles and charm, but he’d shown up at CMU in person and ripped the offending HR rep to shreds, complete with threats of a defamation lawsuit.
In the end, the university had been left with little choice. Jeremy had been given a no-contact order and was no longer allowed direct interaction with students. His classes had been handed to his TA, and he could no longer supervise the RA’s in his lab. He wasn’t being fired though. He’d been told his position would likely not be renewed the following year, but he would be allowed to finish out his current contract. Brendon’s response when you told him was I can still kill him if you want. Everett had offered to sue Jeremy into destitution. Peter had been livid and made a speech about the decline of moral rectitude in America. All of them were incensed that the consequences hadn’t been more severe. You, on the other hand, had expected it.
Jeremy was handsome, well-liked, and a man in a male-dominated field. It made you want to cry or scream or vomit, but you knew the only reason anything had gone your way at all was because three powerful men had backed you. Peter’s support was the reason your complaint had made it to HR. Everett was the reason HR hadn’t dismissed you outright. Jack was the reason they’d been forced to believe you. Without the three of them, you’d have gotten nowhere.
You’d spent your fair share of time alternately moping and seething over it. You’d even gotten drunk one evening with Chelsea and thrown darts at a picture of Jeremy‘s face. Brendon had had to pick you up that night, and he had been both surprisingly patient with you and unsurprisingly livid with Chelsea. The next morning, after your first — and last, you swore — hangover, you’d decided stewing on the situation wasn’t going to change anything.
The one good thing that had come out of all of it is that you can genuinely call Everett your friend now, and maybe Jack, to a lesser degree. But the way Everett had supported you and gone above and beyond in his defense of you had secured him a special place in your heart forever. Even Brendon, who still claims to hate Everett every chance he gets, secretly likes him.
Like your thoughts have summoned him, Everett chooses that moment to walk through the front door.
He’s dressed more casually than you’ve ever seen him — tan chinos and a white polo, with a pair of aviators pushing his inky waves back. He still looks unfairly good though. He spots you immediately and shoots you a megawatt smile before his eyes slide over to Chelsea, and his smile turns significantly more vulpine. Your immediate thought is oh no.
“Hey, doc,” he greets as he makes his way over to you. “Told you you’d pass.”
You thank him and accept his hug, even though what you’re really waiting for is-
“And you must be Chelsea. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
He offers her his hand, along with the most lethal grin on the eastern seaboard. Nine point nine out of ten women would crumble immediately. Chelsea does not.
“You must be Dr. Edwards,” she returns, completely nonplussed as she shakes his hand.
“Everett, please. Y/n tells me you’re a professor at Chatham — I would love to grab a coffee with you sometime, discuss-“
“Pass.”
Your jaw drops.
“Chelsea,” you hiss. “Be nice.”
“What? I’m just saving us all the trouble.”
Everett doesn’t even bat an eye.
“It’s alright, doc. Although I hope you’ll reconsider at some point,” he says, the second part aimed at Chelsea. “I’m told I can be pretty good company, even great on occasion.”
“Please. You look like you belong on the cover of one of those romance novels my grandma reads, the ones where they only fuck missionary, and the guy cries when he comes.”
“Chelsea.”
“Right, kids, sorry. Where they only engage in intercourse in the missionary position, and he cries when he ejaculates.”
Three things happen in rapid succession. One, you choke on absolutely nothing and start coughing your lungs up. Two, Chelsea offers to get you water and walks away without sparing Everett a glance. And three, Everett stares after her like a man staring after water in the desert. Like he just discovered religion or the meaning of life.
“Y/n,” he says faintly.
You’re coughing too hard to answer, but he continues anyways.
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⤷ // content: college! brendon park, introduction into medicine. //
he laid there on his bed, the phone still dangling from his hand, watching as the sun soon dipped and bathed his room in an ephemeral shade of red.
the pain in his leg was still present, tender. enough that it made him wince whenever it was stretched or was arched in the most minute but harshly incorrect of movements.
but thankfully, if not miraculously, it was still strong to at least carry half of his weight. allowing him to walk when needed.
and after receiving two sets of the most devastating of news, brendon decided he was in need of a walk.
to do something—anything—that would ease the pain that was his thoughts.
the reminder of what he had so clearly lost.
his scholarship. his sport. his girlfriend.
and decidedly, with his crutches in hand, he left his room and ventured for the library.
stopping only once when he was at those double, wooden doors.
now inside, he then seated himself in some lonesome corner with only a lampshade to keep him company.
and there, he read.
books about medicine, about anatomy—wondering to himself about a life as a doctor.
away from all that was now his previous life.
of football. of finance.
“found those books you wanted.”
he heard a voice said from ahead. a stack of books now balancing from your steadied arms as you approached.
and at that pleasant voice, brendon then looked up from his book and smiled.
the expression itself almost unnatural when shaped from his sharpened face: all rugged and weathered into something so jagged yet handsome.
but to him, the expression came to him so easily—as easy as it was to breathe.
“thank you.”
and as you handed him the book that was last on your arm.
your fingers then brushed along the inside of his wrist. a tantalizing, exciting path. enough to elicit a sudden, little shiver from down his still hurting spine.
and quietly, as you always have done in his company, you nodded with that same gentle smile.
walking back to your station as though nothing at all had happened. as though you had not just set his entire body on breathtaking fire.
and suddenly, it seemed as though something aligned in his new life. that no matter the hardships that were thrusted upon him—the sudden loss of his scholarship, the crushing reality that he will never play football again, and his girlfriend’s heartless and sudden absence.
brendon realized then that he could still make something of himself.
perhaps not as how he had envisioned it as before, but just as fulfilling as it could have been. if not more.
and when you returned once more, with another book he had asked for just to have an excuse to see you again.
he smiled.
asking if you would be willing to sit there with him for a moment. just a minute or two.
and to his surprise, you said yes.
wrote this sometime before midnight while i was talking with @fawnsweetie ! an absolutely amazing human being as well as an amazing writer! this was her original post.
I'm Not a Problem for You to Solve
—Baran Al-Hashimi
Summary: Known as one of the best nurses in the ED, despite your chaotic nature, you think everything will continue to be smooth sailing. That is, until you meet the new attending physician and find that she likes order above all else. And you don't quite fit into that. What builds over time is a love story that defies expectations. (7.6k)
Pairing: Baran Al-Hashimi x fem!nurse!reader
TW: Reader has found family with the Evans (I wrote in a best friend for the reader which is Dana's trans masc son because I wanted to); Some angst; hurt-comfort; happy ending; allusions to sex but no sex depicted; age-gap; I think this is it and it's my first time writing for Baran Al-Hashimi so I hope it did her justice and I hope the story is good.
Credits & Tags: GIF by @detailspecialist; Written for my best friend, @mp3-seraph who has a huge crush on this beautiful doctor. (I meant every word in this story, bestie! I'm with you, a hundred percent. Always)
You’re late.
Completely and totally, horribly late. The kind of late that means that Dana is going to rip you a new one, but maybe she’ll grant some leniency since you’re late because you were helping her son who just so happens to be your best friend.
Maybe, possibly, some leniency. Probably not, but it doesn’t hurt to hope. That’s what you’ve always had—hope. Something to cling to when the days are short and the nights are long, the darkness seeming stronger always, the darkness clinging longer and longer. Hope that the sun will rise. Hope that the light will come again.
The clock reminds you that Dana will most definitely not grant leniency, the time already reflecting 6:50 when you should have been in around thirty minutes ago. You stumble, shoes half-on, eyes darting every which way through the entrance hall, scanning for your bag, attention falling on the seated figure by the door, looking at you with one arched brow and a packed bag dangling from one hand.
“What would I do without you, Le,” you say, your voice dramatic, verging on a groan as you lift one foot, slipping the other shoe on, walking towards him and he looks at you, tilting his head, an analytical gaze taking over.
“Probably…drive over a cliff, starve or forget everything to Minecraft,” he replies and you can feel that familiar bubble of no shit, Sherlock inside of you, the one that only your best friend can ever bring up when they say literality, instead of recognizing rhetorics.
“It was a rhetorical question,” you return, lifting the bag from his hand, tossing it over your shoulder, more than a bit of acid in your tone.
“You asked, I answered,” Levi says, pulling back on his wheels and turning to the kitchen, the one right by the entryway thanks to the open layout of the apartment, the one you and he signed the lease on together, five years ago. Watching Levi hurts you because he wasn’t always like this, as withdrawn as he is, as sad as he is, as jaded. There used to be a version of Levi that smiled and laughed with ease, but the accident took that from him. “By the way,” Levi continues, “Mum says that new attending started today and she seems pretty strict.”
“You already talked with Dana?” you ask, your hand on the doorknob, the smooth metal that separates this world from the rest of the complex.
“Yeah,” Levi says, his tone slow and even, talking like you’re stupid for not realizing what should be obvious, but a truth between you and Le is that something obvious to one of you is not always obvious in the entire scheme of things. Rather obvious only on your unique frequencies. “She checked in after PT. She knows you’ll be late too.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” you cry and Levi snorts, spinning round in his chair, one dark brow arched.
“I’ve been called worse,” he replies and you can’t help but snort, one hand adjusting the strap of the backpack on your shoulder. “Be careful today, okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” you reply, twisting the knob and pulling the door open, “always am.”
The last thing you hear as you step into the complex, closing the door behind you is Levi yelling, “only because I keep pulling you back from the cliffs!”
And isn’t that the truth?
The ED is busy, full, bustling and breathing, alive in a way that is stronger than literally anyone who works there, but you don’t pay much attention to that, rather running in through the automatic doors of the ambulance bay, skidding on the shiny, slippery linoleum floor, the polish sliding along your smoothed sole shoes. You can feel that cant, that tilt of your body as it’s shifting, readying to go down, but you grab the doorframe of the security building, shooting Ahmad a smile, a small breathy laugh slipping through your lips when all he does is roll his eyes. Because…it’s you.
“Don’t kill anyone,” he calls out after you, just a bit of a sardonic lilt to his voice as you take off again, slipping past everyone to the locker room, sliding to a stop before your locker, the one on the bottom which was honestly so unfair because you have to bend over or kneel down every day because the locks are so close to the ground. You’re a nurse, this should be a crime making a nurse who’s on her feet all day bend down or kneel down on knees that are young yet creak like they’re decades older. But what can you do?
You kneel down, your hands punching in your code, the lock beeping, flashing green, flicking open and you pull the door towards you, throwing your bag in, pulling the already filled bottle free from its mesh holder, the metal clinking, belaying the fact that Levi must have put ice in it, knowing that it’s summer, it’s hot and you don’t get a break.
Always pulling you back from cliffs, indeed.
A cough sounds behind you, not one that is rattling and painful and ill, but rather annoyed and controlled and very, very familiar.
“Sorry, sorry!” you call out, rising from the ground, your knees creaking the way they always do, the way that sounds like you’re eighty rather than merely in your twenties.
“Uh-huh, hon,” Dana says, her voice that familiar rasp, the one that came from years of yelling and smoking, often in the same moment, but that rasp is familiar, one you grew up with beside Levi. “Now come one, you missed meeting the new attending.”
“They cool? Levi didn’t say much,” you say, closing the door to your locker, water bottle in one hand, the other slipping into the pockets of your scrub pants. Dana’s expression is twisted in that wry way she has, her hair once a golden blonde now greying and whitening. Stress of the job she says, something you’re not looking forward to. Her blue eyes are narrowed, watching and seeing and assessing as you walk towards her, ice hitting the metal walls of your water bottle, your own personal chorus.
“We’ll see, kiddo,” she says, her face softening as you reach her, her hand coming out to ghost along your cheek. A surrogate mother to you, someone you’ve known since you were a kid yourself, running along the streets with her kids, staying the nights at her house. You were sixteen the first time she called you a daughter. And it meant everything. “Now…let’s go! Go, go, go!” She claps her hands, her Boston accent thick and you shoot her a smile, the one you have that promises chaos and trouble and humour. Mischievousness in perfection.
You step out of the locker room, shoes squeaking in the way that rubber does when it closes around something polished without ever really closing around it. The centre of the ED, the nurse’s station, (or as you call it, the bullpen) is busy, buzzing and humming its own chorus like a creature that’s alive but not quite. Something alive because others are. You should ask Levi what that’s called, maybe it’s some kind of symbiotic relationship.
The board is flashing, the display reflecting the banal truth of your reality: people needing help.
The problem is, is that you never wanted to be a nurse. You didn’t entirely know what you wanted except to make everyone around you proud and so you chose what you thought they wanted. It was a hard road to this moment, one where you often felt like you were clawing your way out of a dark abyss with only your hands and the shredding, bleeding nails for tools. Only your thoughts for company. You were used to a wealth of teasing from your friends, when they said oh never be a whatever nurse, but it left you with more questions than you had answers. It took Levi and Dana one day, sitting round to a takeout dinner of pizza, a classic movie loading on the TV to set you right. It took a single sentence.
“You know, Y/n,” Levi had said, looking at you with their piercing stare, “you’re a good nurse. And as much as I give you shit about it…I think you have something special. Something that puts people at ease. Something that makes them feel safe. So, whatever you do…just know, I’m with you. A hundred percent.”
It was that last bit, that hundred percent thing, that stuck with you the most. The idea that no matter what, you had someone by you. Someone you didn’t need to impress or make proud because they just were. They were there for you. Always.
It was how you found yourself in the ED, asking Dana how she did it, what it took and her looking at you and answering, faith. It took faith in people and that was something that you had always had. And you wanted that faith, that unwavering bit, to matter. So, here you were, looking up at a board that just meant pain, just meant illness. Just meant someone who needed you and your faith.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, bouncing just a bit on the balls of your feet, lifting, preparing that step forwards, that step towards the desk, towards everything you’ve been doing for so long as a hand extends in your periphery. You glance over your shoulder, expecting a patient or someone who needs something, not expecting what is actually there. The hand, an admittedly pretty hand with elegant fingers and trimmed nails, wrist and fingers devoid of jewelry even when silver would probably look quite good, belongs to a…well, a goddess.
That’s the best way to describe the woman who the hand belongs to, the one with curly brown hair and the kind of eyes that seem to melt to liquid gold, warm and inviting, a mouth that’s curved in the prettiest, softest smile. And my god, is it hot in here, or is it just you? You swallow hard, fighting back the insane urge to giggle, that kind of giggle you have when you’re nervous, when you’re feeling feelings.
You reach and take the hand offered, the skin smooth and soft and oh my god, it’s perfect and it feels so good against yours and omigod, it kind of fits to yours, doesn’t it? You’re going crazy, you are, you’re fer sure going crazy.
“Hi,” the goddess says, her voice just as perfect as the rest of her, smooth and soft and precious with an undertone of power and power has never been sexy to you until now. If you didn’t already know you were gay, you would say she was your gay awakening, but…too little, too late. “I’m Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, the new attending.”
Her name is as pretty as the rest of her and you’re only slightly aware of introducing yourself, your attention still mainly fixed on her and her smile and the way she shifts on her feet, the movements graceful like the goddess she is.
“…but everyone calls me Nurse Chaos though because…I’m unique,” you finish, hoping she laughs. You’d like to know what her laugh sounds like, if it’s the sound of silver bells like you think it would be. Should be. Just pretty and perfect and powerful like her.
The goddess, Dr. Al-Hashimi, lets out a small hmm before the smile freezes on her face, growing kind of cold, kind of plastic and you wonder what you did wrong, what made her not like you. Did you come off creepy? You’re staring, too much aren’t you?
“In the future,” she says, her voice cutting through your spiral of self-deprecation, “I would appreciate my staff present on time. I don’t know how Dr. Robinavitch ran this floor, but I’m changing it. Have a good day, Y/n.” She smiles the real smile, the soft smile before turning on her heel, hands clasping behind her back as she walks away, steps even and graceful and fuck why is this happening now?!
You weren’t ready for an enemies-to-friends-(maybe, possibly, potentially, lovers) now! You were supposed be like Dana’s age before that happened in the workplace. And where does she get off! You’re not her staff, you’re Dana’s.
“Let’s go, kiddo!” Dana calls, her voice loud and clear and strong, her hand waving you off. “We’ve got a kit to do.”
“You know!” you cry, slamming the dry measuring cup onto the counter, flour sprinkling like falling snow onto the granite.
“Know what?” Levi asks you, his voice a sigh as he turns, the counters lowered for him and his chair, his hands stilling their motion of kneading the dough.
“I am a wonderful nurse and so what if one day I was late! Where does she get off on this shit?! I’m not her staff, I’m Dana’s,” you cry, your arms crossing as you look around the mess of the kitchen, at the bits of dough stuck to floured countertops, the bowls sitting in the water in the sink. Levi’s been, well Levi, and organized almost to a fault, his side clean and neat, but yours…well, it’s not the worst. It’s just…you’ve been ranting and rants take precedence.
“Yo, my chaos gremlin,” he calls and you glance at him, taking in the furrow of his dark eyebrows, the natural black a contrast to the golden blonde hair on his head.
“What?”
“You like her,” he says and you freeze for just a moment, breath hitching, chest constricting, that familiar feeling of oh shit, there’s someone who knows me.
“That has no relevan—” you start, but Levi cuts you off, a familiar glimmer in his eye.
“—It has all the relevance,” he interrupts and you stop, eyes narrowing at him and lips pursing. “It has relevance because you’re about to do exactly what she wants and be the nurse she wants even when that isn’t you. You are a people-pleaser to a fault and I fucking love that of you, but I’m not watching you mold yourself into something else for a crush.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Levi continues over you, his hands transferring the bread to his pan, setting it on his lap and wheeling over to you. “Because my friend, my dear, sweet, selectively blind friend…you need to be you. Not your chaotic act but you. I know you and you need to be you. Believe in yourself like I do, okay?” He shoves the pan of bread into your chest and wheels backwards like there’s nothing but open-space behind him, the layout of the house memorized.
You look down at the bread, the one pummelled by your best friend’s fist and wonder just how much truth is in what he said.
And how many times you’ve disappeared for someone else.
“I bring bread!” you call out, stepping into the breakroom, Langdon and Dana at the counter, stirring coffee, looking back over their shoulders at you, eyes already tired even though it’s morning, 6:30 AM to be precise.
“How are you so chipper?” Langdon asks you, his voice husky in the way that no sleep and constant worry and fear cause.
“Because it’s who I am,” you tell him, forcing the ends of your lips up into a smile, but it’s a struggle. It’s always a struggle, but one you push through for everyone else because they need it. They need you and that’s what you give them, every piece of you even when it breaks you into smaller and smaller pieces every time.
Isn’t that the cost of making everyone happy?
“Good morning,” a familiar, perfect (annoyingly perfect) voice calls behind you, the sound that of a goddess granting her followers the comfort of her presence. Of her reality. God, Levi was right, you really do have it bad.
“Mornin’,” Dana says, her voice raspy in the way it always is when she’s been smoking before coffee. That’s always the marker of whether it’s going to be a good morning or a bad one, a good morning means that she’s been drinking coffee before her first cigarette and a bad one means that only nicotine can save her meaning nothing can save the rest of you.
“We’re very busy at this present moment,” Dr. Al-Hashimi says, her voice soft yet an undercurrent of strength that is really sexy runs through it, steel underneath silk is the only way you can think to quantify it. “So, I would prefer if everyone were out and handling the cases…” she pauses, the words falling like a scythe, like the executioner’s axe over your head and you can feel that urge, that pull, to flee, to do whatever she wants to make her happy, have her smile at you, but Levi asked you to be you. Not the people pleaser, not whatever nurse she wants you to be but you and you owe it to your best friend to try. “Dr. Langon,” she finishes, the words sounding like she intended them all along, but a part of you knows that she wanted that pause for everyone to pick up on it.
She’s very good, you must admit. A very good leader, skilled and confident in quiet ways, but you just came in and you’re carrying two Tupperware containers, one for your focaccia and one for Levi’s precious sourdough, his science experiment of single celled organisms as he puts it. Which honestly, just means that you don’t want to eat it, but everyone else loves it. So…you will not leave until you’ve set the containers down and poured your own breakroom sludge—you mean, coffee, not really.
“Hey, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you say, watching as Langon’s face flushes a deep red and he sets his mug in the sink, hands fiddling with his stethoscope as he darts from the room, head down, “I brought some bread, do you want some?” You lift the two containers out to her, her expression drawn and surprised and slightly startled as if she’s someone who never expects to have something offered to her, rather someone used to doors closing in her face.
“I..I..” she pauses, her face drawing tight together, a slight irritation on her face, but one that’s not directed at you, you can tell it’s at her own hesitation. “Maybe later, thank you, Y/n.” She smiles once, a different smile than yesterday, a softer one, a sadder one. A gentler one.
One that melts that little pit of irritation. Everyone is entitled to a bad day. An off day. You can’t judge based on one interaction alone. You know this logically and now you know this period.
“Well, it’ll be here,” you tell her, returning the smile and setting the bread containers on the table, turning from her to the coffee maker.
When you turn back around, she and Dana both are gone and the containers are open, one piece of sourdough gone (Dana, always Dana) and one piece of focaccia.
You can’t help the smile that curls on your lips as you step out of the breakroom, to the nurse’s station, your mind on one thing: the starfish story.
It makes a difference for this one.
You feel that same bit of dangerous exhaustion, bone deep tiredness, the beeping of the monitors in the trauma bay still echoing in your own heartbeat, a metronome in your own mind. It was a child, one of five, with closed eyes and a slowing heartbeat and pain, so much pain. Too much for that small of a kid, yet it was real.
It never gets easier this job, watching the worst days of people’s lives flash one after another, after another, echoing longer than it lasted. But who would do this job if you didn’t? Who would keep coming back?
“You did a phenomenal job in there,” the voice of the ED Goddess (as you like to think of Dr. Al-Hashimi because come on, man, she is a goddess) says from behind you and you turn, taking in a deep and shuddering breath, forcing a plastic, wavering, winnowing smile onto your face.
“I didn’t know you paid much attention to the nurses,” you whisper, your voice thick in the way it always is when dealing with cases like this. The children, the helpless, the defenseless.
“I pay attention to everyone who works in this department,” she whispers, her face tired in the same way that yours is, her lips still curving up in a slight smile. “And you are one of the best.” You swallow hard at her words, that insane urge to giggle that only she has ever brought out in you rising up, something you have to fight back down. But she thinks you’re one of the best. It was just a singular day.
“Thank you, Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you whisper and she smiles a bit stronger at you, turning on her heel, hands clasped behind her back in a way that you’ve come to realize is just her. It’s not a power move or habit drilled in, it’s just her.
“Oh,” she says, glancing back at you over her shoulder, “and you should take a few minutes before getting back to work. That case wasn’t easy.” And then she’s gone, only that image of her looking back at you, lingering like a mirage.
“What is that?” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out as you step into the ED, a cardboard box filled with the donuts you convinced Levi to make with you last weekend even as he complained about the smell of the deep frier and threw an oven mitt at your head.
“Donuts,” you reply, turning to face her, knowing instinctively where she is like she’s the sun and you’re a sunflower, tilting into her light no matter what. “Do you want one? They’re jam filled, but no gelatin or whey and were fried in vegetable oil.” A smile is on your face already, not your real one, but the one you always have because everyone needs a smile.
“Maybe later,” she says, her lips curving into a smile to match yours. “And you know,” she continues, walking with you through to the breakroom, “people like you no matter what. You don’t need to win them over with food.”
“But sometimes…” you pause, swallowing hard and looking over at her, “sometimes it just takes one thing to make people happy. I like to think this might be that one thing.”
“But what does it take from you to make people happy, I wonder,” she says, her one eyebrow arching as she begins to walk away from you, calling over her shoulder, “just something to ponder.”
It lingers with you for the rest of the day: what does it take from you?
You hate your locker. Absolutely hate it because you hate that at the end of a long shift you have to crouch down, your back and knees creaking and cracking in an out of tune chorus yelling out ageing, ageing, ageing even when you’re still young, young, young. You fear that you’re going to be like Dana soon, already having pulled out your first grey hairs. Personally, you don’t think you’ll look as good as Dana does, but you also can’t remember Dana without the lighter hair even though you’ve seen the pictures of her yellow blonde hair before.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out and you jerk back from your locker, the back of your head slamming against the top of it, a whispered curse slipping from your lips as you grab your bag even as your vision blurs, tears stinging your eyes.
“Oh yeah,” you squeak, coughing once to try and mask the sound of pain and surprise, “sure, I have a minute. I have a ride coming so like one minute but yeah.” You stand, knees squeaking as you kick your locker closed, backpack up and over your shoulder as you turn to face her, her beauty slightly less intimidating now that you can’t see her clearly from the tears gathering in your eyes.
“I want to apologize,” she says, her voice still even and contained as she walks towards you, steps even, her form less blurry now as she stands before you, perfect face creased with sympathy. “For the first day.”
“Oh! Don’t it’s fi—” she cuts you off with a shake of her head.
“It’s not fine,” she says, her eyebrows knitting together, lips pursing as she lets out a sigh, one quiet and steady just like she is. “I was stressed on my first day as much as it may not have seemed like it. It was new and I reacted badly. I am aware that days are off, time isn’t infinite. I do have a son that I have to take care of and time isn’t always on one’s side and I know, I do, that we have been getting along, but it still felt right to me to apologize. So, can you forgive me?”
“I already did,” you tell her, shrugging once, even as your shoulders protest at the motion. “I get that people have bad days. It’s normal. There’s nothing to apologize for, but…thanks.” You can feel your eyebrows drawing together, confusion warring with a kind of pain as you nod once at her, her lips curving into a smile that is real and bright and omigod you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like it before.
She looks at you for a long moment, her gaze not assessing, rather something you can’t quite understand and then she opens her mouth, looking on the verge of saying something. Asking something.
“Hey!” a voice cuts through, one that you know, one that yells at you every chance they get (affectionately of course). “Mum’s going to go off the rails if you take up much more time, gremlin!” You look over, look away, towards where Levi is, his shaved golden blonde head catching the light, eyebrows up in the way they are when he’s not being dramatic.
“Sorry,” you whisper, looking back at Dr. Al-Hashimi, at the way her face has fallen, drawn together even as she forces a smile, whispering, “I best let you go. Goodnight, Nurse Chaos” before walking away, walking past you, past Levi and out back towards the bullpen.
“Well, well, well,” Levi says, his lips curving up into what can only be described as a smirk. “Doesn’t look so one-sided to me.”
The dining table is a chaotic mess of papers and plates and forks and glasses and it’s okay because it works. Levi’s across from you, Dana’s at the head of the table which is technically beside you but not really and it’s just another Friday night. Just another Friday dinner, Levi’s dad busy with work like…well, normal.
“You know,” Dana says, her fork making a twing sound on the porcelain of the good plate, the plates that are only used on Friday nights because Dana and Levi said years ago that they would pull a Gilmore Girls and you were the unwitting guest every time. Although, not really a guest now because they take place at your place, but whatever. “I like Dr. Al-Hashimi, I really do, but it irks me still what she said that first day.”
“Chill out, Mum,” Levi says, lifting his head from where it’s been bent over some neurology report. “But, in all fairness, I would have shown up late everyday just to make a point.” You snort, fork held aloft, partway to your mouth, the motion shaking the utensil, grains of the takeout rice slipping from it.
“You wouldn’t have,” Dana says, her tone fond yet annoyed at the same time and you laugh harder, the kind of laugh that rumbles through your entire body.
“Oh, yes, he would have! Remember the professor?” you ask, the memory causing your lips to curve up wider and brighter than before. A dress code set for one lecture, one Levi broke every day.
“Hey!” Levi cries, pointing his fork at you, slate grey eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what to wear to a lecture! Just not cool!” The three of you laugh, the sound echoing off the walls of your apartment, the good kind of echo, the good kind of sound. A lightness in your bones. “And…my friend,” Levi says when the laughter has died down, his lips pursed in the look he has when he’s planning chaos in the most ordered of ways, “what was that moment with Dr. Al-Hashimi today?” His face is positively gleeful. “It looked like she was gonna say something. Any idea what?” The tone is leading. The tone is leading in a way that is never good.
“No…” you reply, tone hesitant as you pause, unsure of what Levi’s leading up too, kind of scared when you see his grin deepen, become even more gleeful.
“Looked like she liked you, if you know what I mean,” he says and it’s like the floor has bottomed out, like the world has flipped upside down. Like the entire fucking world is different and altered and not yours because in what world would that absolute goddess like you?!
Could it be?
You think Levi’s broken your brain.
“You know,” you hear Dr. Al-Hashimi call out as she steps into the ED, night shift still working, the time reflecting 5:50 AM. You’ve been in since four, unable to sleep after the bomb your best friend dropped on you, the bomb that seems to reignite, re-explode now that you’re hearing the voice that belongs to the goddess who may or may not like you. And omigod has life ever been this complicated before? “I didn’t mean this early.”
“I’m actually almost always early unless my best friend needs my help with PT,” you tell her, muscles rigid, tone tense as you refuse to turn, to look at those eyes like liquid gold, those eyes that make you feel like the richest woman in the world when they’re looking at you.
“Ah,” you hear her say, stepping up beside you, leaning on the nurse’s station in a mimic of your pose, your posture. “I take it that’s what happened my first day then.”
“Yeah,” you tell her, still resolutely fixing your gaze on the horizon, on the image of Shen moving from room to room even as you want to turn and look and look at her because the entire right side of your body is buzzing from her proximity.
“I did have a question for you,” she says and you can’t help it because she is the sun and you are a flower, constantly turning towards her god help you.
“Okay, shoot,” you tell her and she smiles, a crooked kind of smile, yet another new one that sets your body alight, blood boiling and it most definitely is hot in here. You’re sure of it.
“Do you want to be…friends?” she asks her, her question hesitant, unsure and you know it’s because most of the ED still doesn’t like her, still gets annoyed, turning aside and you nod, the movement vigorous and excited and foreign because you’ve never been like this in your life before. Not even with your ex-girlfriend back in college.
“Yes,” you tell her and she laughs a bit at that and you were right, her laugh is like silver bells, pretty and perfect and strong, exactly like you always thought it would be. You’d like to bottle that sound up, really. It’s kind of addictive. “Hey, why don’t you come over for a movie tonight? My best friend, Levi, is off to a mandatory Evans Family Dinnertonight and I bailed on him so…yes?”
“Yes,” Dr. Al-Hashimi says, her smile lightening and brightening and it’s like a shot of cocaine to your system because you made her smile like that, laugh like that. “My son’s with his father so yes. I would love that.”
“It’s a date then,” you say, holding out your hand to her, one she simply takes even as your own words hit you like a replay button and you stutter, “n-not a date, but like…it’s a…it’s a time set you know, like—”
“I knew what you meant, Y/n,” she says, cutting you off, her voice enough to calm you down, her presence making you feel at peace. She’s magical really. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Your body is buzzing and honestly, you have idea what movie is playing anymore because Baran (she insisted that you call her that now that you’re friends and how could you not? She has such a pretty name, while she’s pretty and maybe her name is only pretty because she’s pretty and it suits her. Maybe. You don’t know know.) is sitting right beside you.
Like right beside you. As in her shoulder to your shoulder and honestly you don’t think you’ve ever felt this way before, your body alight in ways it’s never been before.
But friends, just friends, remember that, you tell yourself as you swallow hard, your mouth dry. You lean forwards towards where your drink sits on the coffee table, a glass of iced tea beside her glass of green tea, but as you lean forwards so does she, your hands brushing as you each reach for your glasses, fingers grazing fingers, soft skin against soft skin, electricity crackling like a physical thing between you.
You look up and over at her, preparing to say sorry but everything seems to drop away at the way she’s looking at you, her golden gaze dropping, falling to your lips. It’s like she’s tracing them with her eyes, her gaze almost a physical thing as if she were dragging her finger over them. You swallow hard, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin, shifting closer to her and she responds, her head leaning towards yours as if she’s going to kiss you and you wonder what her lips will feel like against yours.
Are they as soft as they look? What will she taste like? Will you mess it up? Oh my god, what if you do mess it up? Will she hate you? Will sh—
“I hate my family!” you hear, the yell accompanied by the sound of the front door slamming, of wheels squeaking on hardwood floors. “Like my sisters are such bitches! Can you believe that Kath was like oh I’m sure you can find someone to like you despite all your…faults?! She’s such a bitch!” Levi appears around the corner, his elven face pinched and flushed, chest heaving, eyes slightly glassy before they widen, eyebrows rising, taking in your position. “Oh shit. I’m sorry,” he says, wheeling himself backwards, waving once at Baran, before wiggling his brows at you in the way that you hate. “I’m gonna spend the night at Mum’s! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” And then the front door slams and you know that you probably shouldn’t let him do that, should probably follow them and make sure he’s okay, but when you glance back at Baran, preparing to say you have to do something, have to follow them, you see her golden eyes are black, pupils flared.
“Where were we?” she whispers and you swallow hard again as she leans in, pressing her lips against yours in a kiss that is sweet and soft and dangerous in how perfect it is, her hands on you, one on your cheek, one on your hip and yours around her neck.
And you forget everything for just a little bit except the slide of her lips against yours and the feel of her body against you.
This thing between you and Baran hasn’t been given a label, rather it just is. It’s late night phone calls and sitting on living room floors, sharing takeout and kisses and more. It’s early mornings and showers and coffee and carpool. It’s weekend farmer’s market and meeting her son, being introduced as someone special to Darius.
It’s going to movies with Levi and inviting Baran to movie nights. It’s having a person even without a label.
It’s kind of everything to you because she fits in your world. It’s her helping Levi, recommending doctors that won’t make comments based on his identity and disability and a surgeon that she knows who does top surgery very well. It’s her listening to Dana as she speaks of the golden days, of your childhood and the chaos that you and Levi used to get up to.
It’s her being there for you.
And you can’t imagine anything ever changing that. Breaking that.
But of course…just because you can’t imagine it, doesn’t mean it can’t happen.
You like times like this the most, times when you and Baran are curled up on the couch, curled into each other, talking about everything and nothing, Levi having taken Darius out to a movie and then ice cream, relegated to, as he states, the glorified babysitter. The unpaid labour. But Levi likes Darius, calls him a good kid.
“I’ve having trouble with my latest Master’s project thing,” you complain, your head on Baran’s shoulder. Your one hand is in one of hers and she squeezes it sympathetically, the touch grounding.
“What about it?” she asks and it’s not the annoyed ask of someone who doesn’t really care and is only asking in that cursory way, it’s the way of someone who genuinely cares. And you’ve rarely had that in your life. You’ve mostly had yourself and it’s hard to genuinely care for yourself when other people don’t care for you because what can you find in yourself that they didn’t?
“Motivation,” you sigh, the words the kind of sigh that run through your entire body, that leave your entire body in one breath.
“Well,” Baran says, sitting up, her tone becoming agitated, excited. “What if we changed your schedule? Increase your sleep time and extend your waking hours. We can bracket in time for activity and work and then dedicated time for your Master’s project. We can also cut out certain things from your diet such as the copious amounts of caffeine you consu—”
“Baran, stop!” you cry, your throat thickening as you pull away from her, pull yourself almost off the couch, stumbling to your feet, eyes stinging with tears. “I’m not a problem for you to solve! I’m your partner! Not a puzzle!” The words are screams torn from your throat and vibrating in the air with the force of your pain, her face falling, but it doesn’t matter. You thought she understood that sometimes you can complain, that sometimes you don’t need someone coming in and acting like you are something that should be fixed.
“But Levi does schedules all the time for you,” she whispers and you scoff, your hand coming to rest on the back of your neck, worrying the skin between your fingers.
“Levi makes schedules from whatever information I supply him with! He’s my friend and he doesn’t act like I need to be fixed!” you cry and Baran’s face cracks, a single silvered tear slipping from her eye, trailing down her cheek. A mirror of yours.
“Perhaps you…” Baran trails off, swallowing hard, her throat bobbing with the motion, golden eyes casting downwards away from your gaze. Away from the pain there.
“I didn’t mishear you, B,” you whisper, voice cracking and breaking in the way one is when already broken. “Please just get out.” She listens even when you wish she wouldn’t, when you wish she would stay and demand more. When she would stay and say that there was more to this relationship. That it was worth saving.
But as the door closes behind her, soft and steady and final, you know it’s not because what is to save from something that never had a title at all?
You don’t know how much time has passed since she left, only that you’re sitting on the floor, curled up, dazed and startled and confused, looking down at your knees, hands around your legs when the door opens again and you look up, hoping beyond hope that it is Baran, saying that you need to talk.
That it can’t end like that.
But it’s not her, it’s Levi, rolling in, face grim, dark brows set in a firm line, the planes of his face catching the light as he wheels to you, hurried. He looks like some messenger of Death with the gaunt angles of his cheeks, the hollows time has worn into the smoothness of his skin, testosterone stubble on his chin.
“Don’t you do that,” he hisses as you smile at him despite the tears in your eyes, the tears stinging your eyes relentlessly and have since Baran left.
“Do what?” you ask, your voice breaking as you strive for brightness. Levi glares at you, slate eyes narrowed in a caring way, nostrils flaring as he opens his arms for you to fall into which you do because he doesn’t like touch, doesn’t like being held, so when he opens his arms, it’s because he knows you need it or he needs it.
And this time might be a little bit of both.
“Don’t you put on a happy face even when inside you’re dying,” he whispers into your hair, his touch soothing and grounding and familiar. “I need you to scream and cry and let it out because I watched you all our lives do this: put on a smile even as you were dying inside and saying you were fine. So, no more. Come on! Let it all out and then we’re going to put everything back together, together, okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper into his shoulder, the word swallowed by the thick fabric of his sweatshirt.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because even when you think you have no one, you have me. Always.”
You hate this shift.
Mainly because Baran is working the same day as you are and it’s really hard trying to avoid your not-ex, yet ex the day after the not breakup yet breakup. It’s hard because she keeps shooting you glances all day which are longing and precious and make your heart flutter even as they come crashing down around you because you remember the way she started spouting solutions to a problem you didn’t know you had or were or whatever!
Last night hurt. It hurt when Levi hugged you, when he told you that he was always there. It hurt when Levi handed you the pillow and let you scream into it until there was nothing left inside of you to scream. It hurt when Levi just let you talk. It hurt when you cried and yelled and pleaded with whatever god would listen.
It just hurt because you listened to your heart break over and over.
So, you’re more than happy to be going home, your bag heavy on your back as you walk into the dimly lit parking lot, your car flashing as you click the unlock button, comfort so close and yet so far.
“WAIT!” Baran yells out, her voice high-pitched and cracking, aching in a way if a sound can ever really ache and hers does. You pause, stilling and you’re not sure why, you’re not sure why you bother to listen except that you don’t want this to be over and let’s be honest: couples fight and make up, right? So, why can’t you two?
“What, B?” you ask as she runs to you, her curly hair frizzing the way it always does at the end of shift when she’s stressed, when she’s pained.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers in that voice that is aching and pained and you want to just hold her until it stops, but you’re aching too. You’re aching so much.
“I forgive you. Whatever,” you say, pushing past her, but her hands come to rest on your shoulders, holding you place as the streetlights flicker overhead casting the parking lot in a stranger golden glow like a liminal picture.
“I don’t know what to do when I’m in love,” she blurts out, her golden eyes turning liquid, glassy from the tears in them. “It’s what ruined my marriage because I want to help when I’m in love, but it…it comes across all wrong and I’m sorry but I didn’t mean it the way you took it.”
“In love?” you whisper, your voice scratching against the walls of your throat as you arch an eyebrow at her.
“Yes,” she whispers in reply. “I’m in love with you.”
“Okay,” you say, drawing in a deep breath, one that smells like diesel exhaust and rain and citrus like her. “Okay because I love you too, but I need you to promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” Baran whispers.
“Promise me that you’ll never treat me like a problem to be solved again.”
“I promise.”
Baran looks breathtaking in her light blue dress, the A-line cut fitting just right, her cheeks stained with just a few tear tracks from when she watched you walk the aisle towards her. You had wanted to walk with her, but she said she’d already done the white-dress-walk-down-the-aisle-thing before and she wanted to know what it was like to watch the one you love walk to you.
“…and I vow, like I promised all those years ago, to never treat you like a problem to be solved,” she finishes, folding her paper back up, the one on which she’d written her vows, slipping it back into the pocket in her dress, her hands finding yours again as Levi clears his throat. He wanted to officiate and you weren’t going to fight him on it.
“Then, with the power invested in me by the State of Pennsylvania and the internet, I now pronounce you woman and wife. You may now kiss one another!”
And when Baran presses her lips against yours it’s a kiss that just feels right, that feels like it was always meant to be, to belong.
Summary: The first time Steve Rogers saves your life, you hate him for it. The second time, you kiss him. As a relentless stalker closes in and your world becomes smaller and smaller, the one person you can rely on is the bodyguard who’s sworn to keep his distance. But the closer the danger gets, the harder it becomes to ignore the growing attraction between protector and protected.
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): this is not an exact replica of the absolutely masterpiece film. it's more like a scrapbook of it! A lot of similar scenes and dynamic but I cut them up and rearranged them a bit
Word Count: 15.5k (a week late because I couldn’t stfu)
Warnings: fem!reader, no use of y/n, violence, gun violence, a gun is shot at a crowded event/concert and triggers mass panic, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, choking (not kinky), blood, sex, unprotected p in v, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, brat! reader, gratuitous use italics, if i missed anything please let me know, this one's is a doozy.
DT: Once again my sweet Maddie! @epiphanyrogers I had so much fun with this collab and playing with this concep, it's some of my favorite writing in a long time and I can't thank you enough for letting me be apart of it, love you forever and ever
You can't make out what they're saying.
The crowd, the absolute mob packed outside your recording studio. There's more of them than you can count, certainly more of them than you.
They're lined up against a barricade, temporary metal posts creating a pathway from the building to the car. It's twenty steps, door to door.
Every single square inch of it is filled.
"Nat?" You call out behind you, "do you have a pen or something I can use to sign stuff when we get out there?"'
You can hear the click of her heels behind you, rapid fire on the tile as she rushes to catch up.
"Here." She passes you a black sharpie, then without asking tucks a second one into the back pocket of your pants. "Just to be safe."
You give her a grateful smile. "What would I do without you."
A throat clears behind you, like a grey storm cloud descending.
Ugh. You almost forgot he was there.
"You understand that these people could be dangerous? They are complete strangers who had nothing better to do but wait outside all day to see you."
Steve's voice is a never ending monologue, constantly droning on about all the things you do that are 'dangerous.'
"You understand ninety percent of them are teenage girls?" You mean it in a kind way, as if to catch him in an aha! moment. You love your fans. You love their spirit, their passion. If you had to choose a demographic to go to war with it would be teenage girls.
"There's almost two-hundred people out there." Steve's voice is beyond serious, his body positioned between you and the door. "Even if ninety percent of them are harmless, that's still twenty people who aren't."
You turn your head away from him, glancing toward Natasha for help.
Help she does not give, offering you a sympathetic smile and shrug instead.
She never picks a side between you and Steve. You should know better.
Besides she was the one who actually found Steve in the first place.
"Former Secret Service." She'd told you, reading off his resume with nothing short of awe. "Plus he's a vet, special forces. His track record is impeccable."
That had been enough for you at the time. After all he was just a bodyguard, just another layer in your ever growing ecosystem. It's not like you would be interacting a lot, not like your life would change. You just needed a little more protection, just for a bit.
In hindsight you should have asked for questions.
Questions like: "If you don't understand the relationship between artists and fans, why the fuck did you take this job?"
Or maybe: "How many cameras do you plan on installing in my house? And if I say no to getting more- will you just install them anyway?"
Perhaps: "If this is just 'you doing your job,' why do I think you get a little hard every time you tell me I can't go somewhere?"
Most important: "How did you get that stick so far up your ass? Did you need lube?"
You'd also like to know what he benches but that's neither here nor there.
Unfortunately though, you asked none of these questions. So instead of a bodyguard, you gained a six foot tall baby sitter.
It hasn't brought out the best side in you quite honestly.
"Well then." You do you best to give Steve a look that screams nonchalant, putting on your sunglasses and uncapping the sharpie from Nat. "Guess you better do your job."
The crowds eats up every moment you give them, being sure to take your time going to each individual person. One at a time you signed CD's, vinyls, pictures and even someone's forehead.
It's your favorite part. This whole stupid, messy, sometimes put-a-bomb-in-your-dressing-room-scary job is worth it when you make just one person happy.
There's no better feeling.
It's almost a full half hour later when you get in the car, black door sliding shut behind you and sealing your fate. Just you and Steve in the backseat, the rest of your team following in a second car.
He's pissed, you can practically feel it vibrating off of him as he speaks.
"I can't protect you like this."
You pull your sunglasses off, tucking them into your purse as you answer. "I'm sorry?"
Steve huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. "I can't protect you when you are constantly putting yourself in harms way."
"Oh my god!" You roll your eyes, voice incredulous. "I would hardly call signing a couple of autographs harms way."
Okay maybe it was more than a couple. Maybe you purposely stopped by every single fan you could reach. Leaned over the barricade more than you should and smiled for every selfie.
"Someone wants you dead." He flat lines, mouth set in a grimace. "Or did you forget that?"
Bile threatens your throat at the mention, the memory flooding back to you.
Smoke filling the hallway of the venue you were playing, backstage an absolute mess. The heat of fire and the boom of an explosion.
The source? A gift basket in your dressing room. Buried under Champagne and complimentary snacks was a bomb just big enough to kill you.
If you'd been in the room.
Thankfully you hadn't. You'd been twenty feet away on the other side of the wall.
The smoke inhalation had you on bed rest for a week, your team in utter chaos as they tried to track down the source. Then the first note came.
If I can't have you no one can.
Written in messy scrawl on top of your latest magazine cover. The one where you talked about your dating life, the one were you fed the interviewer some half-baked lie about a make-believe boyfriend.
It was supposed to get the tabloids off your back, not attract a crazed stalker.
Then came the break-in. Sometime after one A.M. he managed to get inside your house. It was sheer luck you weren't home. Even more so that your daughter, Sarah was at your mother's.
He left rose petals on every inch of your bedroom, the broken thorny stems scattered over the duvet. A heart drawn in fake blood staining the carpet.
Steve was hired three days later.
Another letter came, this time with a picture of you out on a run. 'Can't run from me' etched across it in red marker.
Steve moved into the pool house, just to be safe.
"I didn't forget." You voice is smaller than you meant for it to be, more sheepish.
Steve softens, his posture loosening as he continues. "All I'm trying to do is keep you safe, but I need you to listen to me."
You nod, his voice has gone soothing, the same tone you'd use on a child. It makes you blood boil and tears prick your vision. It's not that he's being unreasonable, you know that. It just hits you differently, being treated like you can't manage your own life, no matter how big it's gotten.
"It's not forever," he promises. "Once we find this person you'll be back to business as usual. But until we do, you need to be careful, pick and choose your exposures."
"Like New York?" You ask.
New York is a pop-up show, an intimate venue with cheap tickets. You've been looking forward to it for months and Steve has been trying to talk you out of it.
He nods, "like New York."
You sigh, pulling your shoulders in as if it might help your shrink.
"You still don't think it's a good idea."
"I know it's not a good idea."
Your brain ticks, too stubborn to give it up.
"What do I need to do to convince you it's safe?" You know, in your gut that it will be fine. It will just be you and the fans and they would never hurt you.
"Your team is only big enough to properly handle one event at a time." He explains, "with the awards so close to the concert, we'd need a few people to stay here and handle preparations for that."
The decision is easy, honestly he should have lead with that.
"Wait, so if I skip the Grammy's they can come to New York with us?"
Steve nods, expression grim as if he expects you to fight him on it.
"So I won't go."
His eyebrows shoot up, shock evident. "Really?"
You nod, the weight on your chest easing. "Yeah, I mean I'm only presenting this year. I'd rather have the chance to perform and connect with my fans."
Steve nods, surprise still etched in the furrow of his brow.
"Okay. I'll let them team know."
For the first time since he started, the tension between you eases. The constant burn of frustration dampening to a low simmer.
"Does this mean I can go out to dinner later?"
Steve answers immediately. "Absolutely not."
Despite his answer you feel yourself smile, maybe, just maybe you can make this work.
Radio crackles have become an all too familiar sound.
Over the past month they've basically become white noise.
The popping of static in the background of every room, courtesy of Steve's insistence that your entire security team use walkie-talkies.
When you leave a room, when you enter a room, when you go to the kitchen and make a sandwich. There it is, that coiling speaker-
"Robin has entered the media room, secure southern window."
There's always at least one in the house with you, usually two. Always reporting back to the rest about your whereabouts. Meanwhile the rest of the team secures the outside,
Robin. That's you. A bird with fragile little legs and hollow bones.
Really makes a girl feel special.
"Blue is entering the front gate in car four. Be ready to meet her at the main garage."
Blue. Sarah. Her name makes even less sense.
Surely Steve picked them.
He'd pressed one into your palm on his first day, told you to keep it close at all times.
It's been sitting on your dresser ever since.
You took the batteries out in the first night, defiant and probably just a little immature.
"Channel one is the entire team's main line. Channel two is anyone currently assigned to Sarah. Channel six is my private frequency, completely secure, only yours to use." He'd explained it all like it was rocket science, taking careful time to show you how each button worked and assuring you that he would always answer.
It's late, later than you'd like to still be awake. Books aren't cutting it, your eyes just skimming over the page without grabbing any of the words. There's nothing to find on TV, reruns of sitcoms and The Hangover. Even your phone offers no good, your social media accounts locked by your team because of the threats, precautions taken to make sure your mind is as protected as the rest of you.
Except now you're bored.
The batteries snap back into place with a beep, the walkie coming to life in your hands.
It crackles for a moment, your confidence faltering as it finds the signal. Static passes through the speaker, uneven and spastic until finally it goes quiet in your hands. The little screen blinks up at you, pixel display glowing that weird yellow green all old tech has.
Your fingers find the dial, navigating between frequencies until you finally find the right one.
The speaker clicks under your thumb. "Rogers?"
It's barely half a second, maybe two, before it crackles to life in your hand. "Everything okay?" Steve's voice is garbled on the other end, blended with static and probably exhaustion.
You smile, delighted he answered. "Yeah I'm fine, sorry." You assure him, "just realized I never actually tried this thing. Thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."
Steve is quiet on the other end for a moment, probably catching his breath after a near heart-attack. You almost feel bad for a moment, the panic in his voice still in your ears. Almost.
"What are you still doing up?" He asks.
You move over to bed, laying flat on your back in the center of it with the walkie on your chest.
"Can't sleep."
Steve doesn't answer, letting yours linger between you instead.
It's been awkward, ever since you left the studio the other day. Like you're each waiting for the other to burst. A constant blanket of tension between you. Both too stubborn to pull at it.
"What are you still doing up?"
The antenna twists in your hands, nervous fidgeting as you wait for a response.
"Watching a movie." Steve answers, "I don't think I've ever seen a TV with this many channels."
That surprises a laugh out of you, the image of him sitting on the couch by himself clicking through every station.
"Are you saying I have better cable than the White House?" You ask.
"Yes." Steve answers immediately, only this time you can hear an edge in his voice. Almost like a smile. "You have more channels than the President. I mean seriously when are you even home to watch this much TV."
"Says the man who literally has me on house arrest."
The joke falls flat, at least you're pretty sure it does. Steve sounds completely unamused when his voice crackles through again.
"If there's nothing you need-"
"No Steve wait! I'm sorry okay, bad joke." You interrupt, frequency riding over his. You sigh, deep and heavy as you try to find the words.
Steve lets the line be quiet, waiting for you to pick it back up. Offering no lifeline in terms of conversation pivots.
"I wanted to thank you." You finally relent, feeling your throat seize as the words leave you. "For what you did with Sarah today."
Sarah, your sweet, stubborn, incredibly spoiled girl. She threw a tantrum the size of Texas when you told her that you couldn't go for ice cream.
It had become a tradition, whenever you were lucky enough to be in the same place for more than a night you'd get ice cream. Which means when you're home for extended periods, well- you eat a lot of ice cream.
Something Sarah has apparently become accustomed too.
"Sweetheart." You breathed, desperately trying to calm her. "We have ice cream in the freezer, the rainbow kind you like, doesn't that sound good?"
Her following wail was a resounding no.
You'd already followed her outside, standing in the backyard while the sun and its judgment beams down on you.
"Not the same!" She whined, stomping her foot between each word. "Always get ice cream."
Her reasoning was solid, unfortunately it was no fault of her own that this single tradition was being ripped from her. And much too big a problem for you to ever want to try and explain to her. Besides, you can't really reason with a three year old, no matter how hard you try.
She screamed, hot tears pouring down her face. "No ice cream means you leave!"
You wondered if everyone else could hear your heart splintering, the same way they surely heard her words.
Shame boiled in your gut, guilt right next to it. A crackle of a radio behind a bush doesn't go unnoticed either, irritation creating room for itself as well.
"Look can we just have like five min-"
The rustling reveals itself, a suit clad Steve holding an all too familiar brown bag in his hand.
"Is there anyone over here who likes ice cream?" He asked, pulling his sunglasses off and holding them by the arm in this freehand.
Sarah quieted, her head turning toward him with the saddest sniffle.
She clocked the bag in his hand immediately, her lip puckering out, cheeks still wet with tears. Suddenly shy, she buried her head into your shoulder.
Your heart couldn't help but melt, any frustration disappearing as she clutched onto you.
"It's okay." You whispered into her hair. Looking up at Steve with a grateful smile. You cleared your throat, cupping Sarah's face in your hands and wiping her tears as you spoke. "Y'know Sarah here loves ice cream." You answer him, nodding at her as you speak.
Steve crouched down beside you, putting himself at her eye level as he opens the bag.
"Really?" He said, pulling out a cup of ice cream and a spoon. "I was getting lunch and they accidentally gave me ice cream. I was hoping I could find someone who would eat it."
Sarah sniffled again, looking at the container conspiratorially. "What flavor?" She muttered, still refusing to meet Steve's gaze.
You had to suppress your giggle, still in fear of setting her off again.
"Chocolate." Steve answered, heaving a sigh as he played the part for her. "With rainbow sprinkles."
Her eyebrows shot up, head snapping toward you with excitement.
"Think you could help me?" Steve held the cup and spoon out to her.
Sarah waited until you gave her a reassuring nod before taking it from his hands. "Thank you." She beamed, smiling so bright no one would never think she was the same child who was screeching like a banshee just minuted before.
The memory does something weird to your heart, squeezing around it like a hand.
"It was nothing." Steve answers over the line, voice sounding tight.
"No," you argue, ignoring his dismissal. "You stopped a category three tantrum, thank you."
You can almost hear his sigh from here, the resigned way huff he gives whenever you manage to catch him. "Anytime."
"It's hard you know?" You can't seem to stop the words from tumbling out. "I'm trying so hard with her, to give her some kind of normal childhood."
"Why?"
It's not the answer you expected.
"I'm sorry?"
"No I mean, why are you worried about her having a normal childhood? Look at your life, at your sheer number of TV channels, her childhood will never be normal." The words sink in your gut like a stone, painfully true. "That doesn't make it bad."
It hits you differently, no one has ever put it like that. You're used to questions, rude jabs about prioritizing your career over her. Expectations that you should give it all up to be home. Borderline horror when you reveal her father has no part in her life.
"Thanks." You whisper, the word feeling entirely too small for the feeling in your chest. "No one else really thinks of it like that."
"Well," Steve starts, and you can hear him move as he speaks, the rustling of the couch as he shifts. "I know I've only been around a few weeks, but all I see is a little girl with a Mom who would do anything for her. That's all any of us can ask for."
There's a weight to his voice, like he knows more about the subject that he's saying. More than you have any right to ask about. So you find a different question instead.
"Why'd you take this job Steve?"
There's no accusation behind it, just genuine curiosity.
"Would you believe me if I said it's because I like your music?"
That elicits a big laugh from you, a chuckle from your toes.
"No." You manage to say between breaths, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.
Steve chuckles on the other end too, the sound sending a tingle up the arm holding the walkie.
"Maybe I'm just a glutton for punishment."
You let silence fill the radio once again. your eyelids getting heavier as you listen to the sound of Steve's breathing on the other end.
"You should go to sleep." Steve crackles after a few minutes.
A yawn comes and you don't have the energy to fight it, nodding even though he can't see you.
"Probably." You agree, even though part of you wishes you wouldn't, holding the radio just a little tighter as you whisper, "Good night Steve."
"Good night Robin."
For the first time you don't bristle at the nickname.
The rest of your routine happens slowly, movements lingering with exhaustion. The walkie gets placed back on your dresser, makeup scrubbed from your lashes and lights dimmed. Just as you're ready to get back into bed something catches your eye from the window.
Lights are still shining through the windows of pool house, made brighter by the darkness in your room.
You can see Steve's silhouette, his outline sitting on the couch cast in the glow of the TV.
You're already thinking about grabbing the walkie again, trying to think up a smart ass comment about practicing what you preach when you notice what he's watching.
It's your face on the screen, a close up of your lashes and cheeks as the camera slowly pans down your face and over your collarbones, just low enough that it's obvious you're not wearing anything.
You know that video. Filmed three years ago for a single you did on a movie soundtrack. One of those sexy dramas with the conflict and miscommunication and a kiss in the rain. Naturally your video had to match that vibe.
The angle shifts, showing you lying on your stomach with your back exposed. A blanket thrown over your bottom half, made to look like it's freshly mussed. In reality the prop designer had spent five minutes arranging it, pins to keeping it in place for that perfect 'post-sex' look as she called it.
Your gaze flickers back to Steve, his hunched position coming clear. Elbows on his knees as he leans forward toward the TV.
You have a dozen questions, and a dozen follow-up questions for them. He looks so intense, not like he's watching the video, but like he's studying you.
The moment freezes, your feet stuck to the floor as you stare. The video plays in it's entirety, vignettes of your singing intercut with scenes of pillow talk and legs tangled together beneath sheets.
It ends without ceremony, Steve's position unchanged.
He's holding the remote, you wait for him to shut the TV off but it never comes.
Instead you watch the screen bounce, before another video begins to play. This one older, from your debut album. A little dress and the picture of innocence, back when your team was trying to pitch you as America's next sweetheart.
Steve stays enraptured, eyes fixed on the screen.
Somehow you pull yourself away, tucking yourself under the covers with more questions about your body guard than ever before.
Even more wide awake than when you started.
New York comes fast.
A blur of days, a short flight and your mic is being pressed into your hand backstage.
"Try and stay back from the edge." Steve mutters, arms crossed and eyes narrowing like the disapproving father he seems to think he has any right to act like. "No contact, there's no barrier between you and the fans so you need to be careful."
You scoff, heels clicking as you walk ahead of him toward the stage.
"You realize the whole point of playing smaller venues is to getting close to the fans right?" You counter. You press your headset into your ear, shaking it back and forth a few times to make sure it's secure.
"Really?" Steve deadpans, "I thought it was to make my job harder."
Your laugh is genuine, delight at the genuine hint of misery in his voice. "That's just a fun bonus."
You're feet away from the lights, the crowd only getting louder as your band starts to enter ahead of you.
A hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you from stepping out.
Your head snaps back toward Steve, armed with a glare and a curse already half off your tongue.
"I'm serious." He insists. "You're completely unprotected up there. I need you to be careful."
You rip your wrist out of his grip, making a show of rubbing where he'd grabbed you. "These are my fans." You remind him. "If I'm not safe with them than what's the point."
You step out of the curtain before he can say anything else.
The crowd erupts, their screams almost deafening. The lights are hot on your skin, like sunlight on a July afternoon. The bass thumbs beneath your feet, grounding you to the stage. Nearly a hundred fans are packed along the edge of the stage, their smiles so bright they nearly outdo the lights.
They're all reaching out, arms stretched up in your direction as your name rolls off their tongues.
It all disappears.
The echo of Steve's voice vanishes by the time you lift the mic to your lips.
The fatigue of the plan ride is a memory by the third song.
The threats are long forgotten after the fifth.
So is Steve's warning.
You drift toward the edge, running your hand along the crowd and smiling at each fan you pass. Their joy is contagious, excitement bubbling into your own veins like an IV drip.
Your band takes over for the bridge, a long instrumental. Usually you take it for a water break, a change to rest your throat, fix your hair, on really rough nights it's your only chance to pee.
Your ego would never let it be that simple though. Not after the way he talked to you. The way he looked at you. Like a child, like a brat. No. It burns in your throat, resentment rising like bile.
You're fine, you're safe as safe can be.
You pass your mic to your bassist, not bothering to answer her questioning look. Instead you take one last look at the adoring crowd, and jump.
Dozens of hands catch you, supporting your weight in an instant. Not an ounce of hesitation amongst them, all of you caught in a mutual high of the music. Your music.
They start to pass you around, a slow travel across the floor as you laugh above them. It's incredible, like absolutely no other feeling in the world. Nothing you can even try to compare it too. No amount of drinking, or drugs or even sex can capture it. It's pure unfiltered adoration.
Bang!
The moment turns sour faster than you can process it.
A gunshot echoes loud above the music and cheers, bouncing off the venue walls.
In an instant you're on the ground, screams surrounding you like a hellish cacophony. There's movement on every side of you, people trying to scatter and getting nowhere with how tightly they're packed in. The confusion, the fear. It all soaks into your skin like moisturizer, guilt the most potent of all.
You try and stand and fail, no where to put your hands to stand up, nothing to grab for purchase. You're distantly aware of an ache in your back, what will surely be a bruise from how you landed.
Panic starts to climb up your throat, white hot and unmistakable. No one even seems to notice you, too consumed to remember you're still down there.
Your vision starts to go blurry, dark spots dancing at the edges as your breathing picks up.
Then it's all gone.
The floor disappears below you, the crowd parts on either side.
There's arms around you, lifting you with one below your knees and the other behind your back. One swift move and suddenly your cradled against a familiar chest.
Steve.
Your relief overwhelms you.
It's clarity, crystal clear and healing. Like when you're driving in the pouring rain and then go under an overpass, everything stops.
"I got you." Murmured into your ear, voice rumbling against your shoulder as he speaks.
Then the crowd roars back in, screaming and running in panic.
You can't help but shrink, curling your head into Steve's chest and wrapping your arms tight around him. Your eyes squeeze shut, panicked tears stuck to your lash line. Your hands form claws in his jacket, tucked in his collar and tangled in his lapel.
There's nothing over the blood rushing in your ears. You can feel yourself being jostled, Steve's steady grip unfaltering.
Then there's a dip, the slam of a door until finally quiet.
The smell of leather finds you first, then the cool breeze of air conditioning.
"It's okay." Steve murmurs above you, his hand running in a soothing line down your back. "We're in the car. You're safe."
It takes your body a minute to process his words, every muscle taut. Slowly your head lifts, eyes blinking open to confirm his words.
Sure enough, you're in the back of the van, half on the familiar seats and half in Steve's lap. The driver's partition in pulled up, but you can feel the engine beneath you, already moving.
You're still not sure how to breathe, lungs only taking shallow pulls as you de-tangle yourself, shifting into your own seat before finally letting go. It feels like glass in your throat, muscles raw from screams you didn't even feel yourself let out.
There's pain in your ankle, you must have twisted it when you fell. It's only when you reach down to undo the strap of your heel that you realize your hands are shaking.
"Let me." Steve says, voice softer than you thought he knew how to be. He takes your foot in his hand, carefully freeing you from the shoe before repeating the same thing with the other one.
It's quiet between you for a minute, only the hum of the engine and muffled traffic around you.
When you speak it hurts, voice hoarse and unfamiliar. "What happened?"
Steve freezes, hand hovering over your ankle. He pulls back slowly, letting you shift your feet back to the floor. He pulls the wire from his ear, letting it hang limp over his collar.
"I don't know." He says, not meeting your eyes. "They must have camped out or hidden the it inside the venue-" he cuts himself off with a sigh, heavy and tortured as he drags a hand over his face.
"Was anyone hurt?" You follow up.
Steve shakes his head, "no." He says. "At least not that we know of, I asked the rest of the team to stay back and help with crowd control. they'll make sure everyone's okay. I think it was just an attempt to cause panic, get you vulnerable."
The tears finally spill, eyes burning as they rolls down your cheeks. "Shit." You whisper, not bothering to wipe them away. It's a fucking nightmare, one you never thought would come for you.
Steve leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and raking his hands through his hair.
"I'm sorry." He murmurs, voice nothing short of defeated. "I should have been thorough, I don't know how I missed this."
You shake your head, swallowing around the knot in your throat. "No, Steve this isn't your fault." You try your best to sound firm, but your voice shakes anyway.
He finally looks at you, blue eyes glassy and full of anger.
"My job is to protect you." His voice is deadly serious as he says it, like a man who swore an oath. "I didn't do that tonight."
You want to argue, insist he couldn't have been more thorough, that they'd have to invent a new word for it if he wads. His look leaves you no room for it though, expression turning to stone. You wonder if he ever cracks under his own pressure.
You want to apologize and take back every bitter word you said before the show, but the words turn to dust on your tongue.
"How far are we from the airport?" Ends up being what comes out.
Steve shifts uncomfortably in his seat, pulling at the knot of his tie until it loosens.
"We're not going back to the airport."
"I'm sorry?"
Steve clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. "I cancelled the flight. I think it's better if we lay low for a few days."
"And I can't do that in L.A.?" You ask, but despite the question it lacks all your usual bite.
"Not safely." Steve answers. He's lacking bite too, no self-righteous or condescending undertone. "I have a cabin, its remote, private. Would give you a few days to recoup while we figure out how this happened."
"Private except for the six security guards right?" You don't mean to be petulant, but right now all you want is your house, with your bed and your daughter- "What about Sarah?"
"I already had word sent for her and your mom, they're on their way to a private rental outside the city."
"She's not coming?" Your voice breaks on the last word, realization hitting you like a gut punch.
"No. She's safer there, the rest of the team is going to be with them."
"She's safer away from me is what you mean." The tears start again, wet and hot as you sink as far into the leather as you can.
"It's just for a few days." Steve promises, "until they find who did this."
You nod even though you hate it. Even though it feels like your entire chest is going to cave in. Even though every cell in your body screams that it's wrong, you know he's right.
"Who's coming with us?"
Steve runs his palms over his thighs, as if wiping them off. You watch him glance at you, a quiet buzz of nerves under his skin as he answers.
"No one."
Your shock must be obvious.
"I thought you might want a few days away from the circus." He pulls his radio out of his pocket as he says it, flicking it off as he continues. "It's completely off the grid, no one will know where we are."
It sends a shiver up your spine, alone. You haven't been alone in God knows how long.
Then another thought creeps in, just as you cast a sideways glance to the man beside you.
You've never been alone with Steve.
"You still trust me right?" He asks, despite the smile he forces you know he's only have joking.
"Of course." You promise. Despite whatever fault he thinks he bears, that was never in doubt.
"Then relax." He nods. "We have a few hours before we get there, why don't you try and close your eyes."
You hum in agreement, and even with all the adrenaline, you feel your eyelids getting heavy.
Steve mutters something else, a few short words just barely audible. "I got you."
"This place is like one of those cheesy TV movies." You muse, taking in the wood paneling and cracked leather booths. All of it's probably older than you are, but every inch reeks with love.
Steve laughs, good humored and surprisingly deep. "Yeah it kinda is." He agrees, waving to the waitress behind the bar as he follows you to a booth. "Everyone knows everyone."
Turns out when Steve said private, he meant it. Tucked in the corner of upstate New York is a little town on a little lake with one little bar.
Steve was actually the one who suggested you go out.
"They're all good people, discreet." He promises, nodding around the room to where no one had taken note of your presence. "No one will say anything or take photos. I promise."
You look around for yourself, the friends packed into one too small booth. The couple at the bar eating off one plate. The handful of guys around the pool table in the far corner. Not one spares you a glance.
"Thanks." You tell him, truly meaning it. "How'd you find this place anyway?"
Steve hums, waving to one of the servers for menus. "My parents brought me up here a lot as a kid." He shrugs, "We couldn't afford much but we'd sneak away at least once a summer for a few days. I got hurt on the job a few years ago and needed to take some time off. So I came here and bought the place we used to rent. Fixed it up instead of going to physical therapy."
A young man walks over with two menus, smile a little too sunny even for what might as well be the set of Cheers.
"How are you folks doing tonight?" He asks, "can I get you started with something to drink?"
"I'll have whatever is on draft and a water." Steve says, looking up from his menu to give the kid a half-smile.
"Same." You say, opening the menu to flip through it. It's your normal fare, greasy bar food and thick burgers. Your stomach growls just reading the names, you can't remember the last time you actually sat down and ate at a place like this.
The kid smiles, then disappears back behind the bar.
You feel Steve's eyes on you, and when you look up sure enough there he is, not even bothering to hide it.
"What?" You laugh, almost startled by the in his gaze.
Steve just shakes his head, "Didn't peg you for a beer drinker."
You shrug, "I contain multitudes."
Steve hums, turning his attention to the menu.
"I didn't know you owned something other than suits." You tease back.
"I contain multitudes." He parrots, a grin breaking on his lips. "Besides, I'm not your bodyguard right now."
You smile and try to hide it behind the menu. Even though you know it's not true, there's still a thrill that runs through you. You can't help but sink into the fantasy of a pretend world where your name isn't in the jukebox, and Steve's not being paid to sit across the table from you. An alternate universe where you're just a woman and a man together in a shitty dive bar.
"Ah yes, you're-" you make a show of dragging your eyes over his flannel, "-a lumberjack?"
Your drinks arrive, placed on the table without ceremony. You both order.
Steve smiles, a real one. He doesn't fight it the way he normally does, cheeks dusting themselves pink under your gaze. As he takes a sip realization hits you right between the ribs.
He's relaxed.
For the first time since you've met him, his shoulders aren't up to his ears. There's no underlying tension, no quick scans of the room. If it weren't for the fact that he's sitting facing the door, you'd think he'd forgotten his training all together.
There's something about him like this. It turns over in your stomach, builds a warmth in the base of your gut.
You like it.
The easy demeanor, the way his lips curl around a smile. The section of chest hair peeking out above between the undone buttons at the top of his shirt. It's intimate, domestic, and soft. Three things you didn't think Steve Rogers even knew of, let alone knew how to be.
How rare must it be to see this side of him? How few people probably have.
The knowledge that you're one of them makes the green eyed monster in your chest purr with delight. Possessive of his loose-limbed movements and relaxed posture.
"The flannel look suits you too." Steve nods at your shirt, well his shirt. With nothing packed you've spent the last two days borrowing things from Steve's closet. Rewashing a random pair of pants you'd been lucky enough to have in your bag at the concert.
It swims on you, the shoulders drooping down your arms and the cuffs rolled nearly three times to free your hands.
"I have a confession." You whisper, "I had no idea they were this comfortable."
Steve grins, giving you one more appreciative look.
You falter under his gaze, it's usual intensity paired with something else that makes you squirm. Makes you nervous enough to keep trying to fill the silence.
"Don't get me started on the pockets, I mean seriously I might start performing in these."
"Would have to change your stage name to Lumber Jane."
You fake a shudder, "maybe not."
You take a sip, letting the taste sit on your tongue as you wait for him to speak.
"How are you holding up?" Steve asks, voice dropping.
You take your time answering, swallowing a deep breath. "I'm okay." You tell him, "I think I am at least."
Steve nods, "Another few days and we should be able to head home, the house has been quiet and no new letters."
Your heart stutters at the mention of the letters they way they didn't use to. Since the show your fear has multiplied, stacked on top of itself and laid underneath your stream of consciousness. A constant knot in your stomach.
"Think I can call Sarah tonight?" You ask.
Phone calls have been off limits, every precaution taken. Besides, she's three and absolutely in love with her grandmother, you might as well not even exist when they're together.
"Yeah of course." Steve says without thinking.
Any further conversation stopped by the appearance of a couple at the end of your booth. The same one you'd seen at the bar, both easily twenty-years your senior.
"Stevie!" The woman squeals, squeezing her husbands arm with her excitement. "Oh Sweetheart it is so good to see you!"
Steve flushes, bright red painting his cheeks as he watches the nickname hit you.
Stevie? You mouth at him, delight tangible.
"Been too long kid." The man says, his voice as gruff as his beard and calloused hands would suggest.
"I know." Steve surrenders, "How have you guys been?"
The woman shakes her head, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand. "Oh who cares about us? Who is this lovely lady?" She gestures to you, her face beaming with joy.
You panic, mind going utterly blank, but it's okay. She immediately jumps into introducing herself instead, "I'm Dottie and this is my husband James, we're Stevie's neighbors."
Your heart jumps at the nickname again, curling around it with possession and a plan to certainly use it against him.
"So nice to meet you." You smile, voice dripping with a genuine fondness.
"We're just in town for a few days." Steve explains.
The woman coos, clapping her hands in delight, "A romantic getaway huh?"
Steve balks again.
"Oh leave the poor kid alone Dot." Her husband reels her in, flashing you both an apologetic grin. "It good to see ya Steve."
Your poor, poor bodyguard just nods.
Dottie's not done though, "You better call next time, I want to have you both over for dinner!" She turns to you with a wink. "Stevie's never brought a girl here before, oh my heart is so happy!"
You watch Steve somehow turn even redder across the table, the mountain of a man reduced to a small hill of embarrassment.
The radio catches you attention, a slow song beginning to hum through the speakers. "I'm so sorry Dottie," You start,already scooting out of the booth, "But I have to steal Stevie, this is my favorite song and he promised me a dance."
Understanding crosses over her face, as if the situation has much more gravity than it actuality. "Oh of course, don't let us keep you!" She all but shoos Steve out of his seat.
Steve shoots you a look something between grateful and mortified, but goes along with it, walking you over to a small clearing by the pool table.
His arms come around you like it's the most natural thing in the world. They feel just as safe as they did in New York, wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest.
"Thank you." He mutters.
You hum, lifting your arms up over his shoulders and knotting your hands behind his neck. "Nice to be the one saving you for a change," you joke, "Stevie."
Steve groans into your hairline, his chest vibrating against yours. "You're never gonna let me live that one down are you?"
"Nope." You whisper, popping the 'p'.
The rhythm comes easier than it has any right too, your bodies swaying in time with music. Steve's warm against you, his broad shoulders firm and unmoving under your touch.
It feels natural, instinctual. Like touching him is something your body already knows.
Steve's eye lock with yours and the room shrinks.
You should move, back away, create some distance and yet you can't.
And neither does he.
You're caught in each other's orbit, close without any excuse. No shots fired, no ice cream peace offering. Just a man and a woman in a shitty dive bar.
You're not sure which of you leans in first, your weight pushes up onto your toes and Steve's neck dips. Just an inch away, you can feel him exhale over your lips.
"Uh excuse ma'am- sir." You're interrupted by some familiar bumbling. "I just wanted to let you know your food is here." Your waiter says, completely oblivious to what he was interrupting.
What was he interrupting?
Steve clears his throat, detaching himself from you with an awkward step back.
"Thanks." He says, looking back to you with a stilted smile. It's almost visible the way his guard retracts, mask pulling back over his expression. "Let's eat."
The sound of glass shattering is what wakes you.
Loud enough to have you sitting upright in your bed, heart already racing as if your body knew to panic before your mind.
The clock on the end table blinks some absurd time, nearly four A.M.
And apparently you have a visitor.
You should stay put, you know that. It's what Steve would say, he actually had said it when you first pulled into the driveway.
"If anything happens. Do not leave your room."
Your hands grip your sheets, fear spreading through to your very last nerve.
Everything is downstairs, your phone, your pepper spray, your pager for Steve.
Steve.
He has to be awake, right? That man could be dead asleep and he'd feel a feather land on the roof. No way he missed that.
Yet you don't hear anything, no sound from the walkway outside. No footsteps, no radio crackle as he calls for backup. No way to know where he is, whether or not he's even okay.
A bone chilling thought rocks through you.
What if they got to him first?
The floor boards creak outside your door, an uneven distribution of weight. It's paired with heavy footsteps careless stomps.
Definitely not Steve.
Your vision spins, fear capturing every one of your nerves.
You press yourself against the door, desperately listening for any sign of your protector.
None come.
The footsteps continue, twice past your door. They know you're here.
Your heart is in your throat, your door is locked but wouldn't that just tell them it's where you are? The house is old, the door frame surely would crumble with enough force. Then what can you do?
You need a distraction. You need to get out.
Stalling your nerves, you make a plan.
In the corner furthest from the door sits a desk, littered with papers and dust covered books.
There's a closet on the far side across from it, just a few feet from the door. It's easy practically empty, just enough space for you to slide into its shadow.
Grabbing the heaviest boom you can find, you make tracks. Unlocking the door you count your breath and snap into action.
The book slams into the floor with a loud thump, covering your footsteps as you run to the closet.
The foot steps stop in the hallway stop, stalling for a moment before they come right where you want them.
Your hand closes around the closet door knob, holding it shut against you as you watch out the slats.
Whoever it is, is big.
A hulking figure dressed in all black, just as tall and broad as Steve. A ski mask obscures their face, nothing to give a hint as to who it is. They stand in the door way for a moment, illuminated by only the moonlight coming through the windows.
There's still no sign of Steve, no noise or second shadow appearing in the hall.
You can't over power him, one look at him and that much is clear. he could crush your window pipe between two fingers.
You could however, outrun him.
You wait until he walks further into the room, slow steps toward the fallen book. It looks half-hazard, like it fell off the bed and open on the floor. Just conspicuous enough to draw him in closer.
He bends over, leaning to pick it up and that's when you make your move.
Quiet as you can, you slide out of the closet and tip-toe the few steps into the hall.
Then you bolt.
As fast as your legs will carry you, you run down the stairs toward the front door. Your heart is hammering in your ears, blooding rushing as your adrenaline fuels you.
You're so close, only a few feet away.
They're right on top of you though, heavy boots hitting the floor so hard it nearly rattles.
You're so close, hand wrapping around the handle when- it's locked.
Panic creeps back up, hands fumbling with the door knob as you desperately try to get it open before-
A hand grabs you. Covered in a leather glove it spins you around with one harsh tug, throwing your back into the door.
"Ah!" You cry out from the force, body screaming in protest from the movement.
They crowd you in, hand wrapping around your throat and pressing on your windpipe.
Their face is covered, the only thing visible through a ski mask is their eyes. You lock on them, desperately trying to plead for mercy. Your legs thrash, kicking at their stomach as they lift you up higher on the door, until your toes can't touch the ground.
Grabbing at his forearms you dig your nails into his skin, fighting desperately for any purchase as the grip on your throat tightens. You can hear yourself trying to talk, pleas gasped from your lips.
Your vision starts to dot, black dancing around it and pulling at the edges. It draws heavy on your eyelids, turning the rest of your body to lead.
Then it's gone, the weight, the pressure, the hand.
You hit the floor and crumble, legs giving out as you gasp for air.
Your vision is still blurry, the entire scene out of focus. All you can see is shadows, the outlines of two figures fighting. The sound of punches flying, flesh smacking flesh. Dull thumps that echo through your brain as you try to process what's happening.
Only one coherent thought wins, Steve.
Words don't come either, try as you might nothing comes out. Just garbled gasps as your throat tries to recover.
One loud thump ends the noise, powerful and reverberating. One of the figures falls to the ground, collapsing under their own weight.
You blink, once, twice, desperate to know which one it is.
The winner climbs over top, straddling the fallen ones chest and continuing his assault. Hit after hit even as they lay their unconscious.
That's when lights appear, red and blue shining through the window and illuminating the pair.
Steve on top, your assailant bloody beneath him.
"Steve." You gasp, it's airy, hardly audible, but dripping in relief.
His eyes snap to yours, pupils blown and wild. There's almost no blue left, just a thick sheen of anger.
He's at your side in second, face softening back in your Steve. He scoops you up, the same way he did in New York and this time he holds you even tighter. You wonder if this how Lois Lane feels when Superman shows up.
He carries you outside without sparing the man on the floor another glance, eyes staring straight ahead as he carries you toward the paramedics.
"He's inside." He grunts, adjusting his hold on you.
The cops say something in response but you don't catch it, the entire world still hazy around you.
Steve refuses to leave your side, unmoving even after he sets you down on the edge of the ambulance and the paramedics begin to exam you. He stands there like a gargoyle, face set in stone with a gaze just an intense.
You try your best to ignore him, answer the everyone else's questions as they fire them off. But every time you can, your gaze shifts back to him, on edge when you spend too long outside of it.
His blue eyes drape over you like a blanket, a soothing layer of protection. Without thinking your hand reaches out, stretching off your lap and toward him.
Steve steps forward without hesitation, taking it in his own and giving you it a firm squeeze.
He nods, as if affirming the one thing you've been afraid to think for fear of jinxing it.
It's over.
You spend the rest of the night like that, your hand locked with Steve as you give multiple statements, even as the sun begins to rise and even after your stalker has long been hauled away in the back of a cab.
"We really would like to take you to the hospital." One of the medics repeats, "get a proper workup done."
You shake your head for the umpteenth time, giving them the best smile you can muster.
"I really just want to go to sleep, I'll be okay."
Steve nods, helping you stand up from the foot of the rig. "I promise I'll keep an eye on her."
The medic nods, giving you both a thin smile, "I have no doubt."
Then they pack up and disappear down the road too, you and Steve standing outside and watching them drive away until they're no bigger than a quarter.
When you turn to look at Steve he's already staring at you, an expression you've never seen before in his gaze. Something like fear, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he looks away.
There's something else though, something more unhinged, what ever it was that kept him hovering at your side, ready to jump like a guard dog.
He nods back toward the house, "C'mon," his warm hand still around yours. "Let's try and get some sleep."
You follow him inside, past the entryway and scene of the massacre. Back up the stairs and beyond the door of your guest room.
"You can sleep in my room." Steve says, guiding you toward the door at the end of the hallway. "I'll take the floor."
You're thankful for his offer, for the way he already knows you won't be able to sleep alone after that. You have no idea if you ever will, you'll probably be climbing into Sarah's bed for the rest of your life.
Sarah. Relief cascades over you, washing you like a tsunami. You don't know what you would have done if she was here, you don't know how to thank Steve for making sure she wasn't. You can't even begin to imagine what that man would have done if she was.
That's when the tears finally come, just as you step over the threshold into Steve's bedroom.
White hot, they leave scalping lines down your cheeks. A broken sob leaves your lips and Steve whips around to face you.
"Hey," he whispers, bringing his hands up to cup your face, "hey, hey, hey." Your hands shoot up to hold his wrists, keeping him in place as you nuzzle into the warmth of his palm. "You're okay."
You sob again, struggling around everything you want to say.
"I'm sorry." You gasp, "I'm so so sorry,"
Your entire body is shaking it with, the weight of the entire night landing all at once. The adrenaline rush finally quits, leaving nothing behind but an utterly destroyed host.
"Oh Sweetheart." Steve breathes, pressing his forehead into yours. His voice is wet, you wonder if you opened your eyes would you see him holding back tears. "This is not your fault."
You shake your head, a gurgle passing your lips as you try to catch your breath and speak at the same time. "It is!" You cry, "I should never have left my room and now you-" Your hand comes up to his face thumb swiping over where a bruise is already blossoming on his cheekbone. "I should have just listened."
"Stop it." Steve's voice is firm, his hands holding you steady until you meet his eyes. "You did good, okay? You hear me?"
You nod, even if you only half believe him.
Steve must sense it, because he continues anyway. "You were trapped, he was going to get in that room one way or another. You needed to get out and that was what you did, and you did it beautifully. I am so proud of you." His nose nudges against yours, his eyes shutting as he speaks. "If any one should be sorry it's me."
Your eyes snap open, appalled that the though even crossed his mind.
"What? No Steve, how can you think that?" You try to convince him, yours squeezing his wrists with emphasis.
Steve shakes his head, forehead still pressed to yours. "It's my fault he ever got that close to you." He laments. "He should never have been able to-" he chokes on the word, spitting it out like the memory alone offends him, "-to touch you."
That look in his eyes flashes through your memories again, the one he wore while punches flew.
"Steve." You speak, voice slow and careful. Your hands move from his wrists to his face, matching his own hold on you. "You saved my life."
His eyelashes flutter open slowly, revealing every emotion he hide inside him.
He's so beautiful.
The thought hits you the way a lot of things have the past few days, completely out of left field. Yet you can't help but agree with it.
After all this is Steve, protective, overzealous, extremely qualified, devoted, Steve. Somehow when you looks at him a different title claims it's place.
Your Steve.
Your heart hammers at the closeness, pounding so loud in your ears you wonder if he can hear it.
After a night like this, when you've already been stripped bare, what else can you do but give in?
The kiss is unlike any other you've had in your life time.
It's hesitant at first, shy like all new lovers are. Your lips brush his and Steve freezes. His entire body goes rigid where it's pressed against your, and you're pretty sure he stops breathing completely.
You just rest against them for a moment, letting him feel the pressure of your mouth before you pull back.
Then there's quiet, something small blossoming in the space between you. Steve stares at you, long and hard. It's like a million emotions pass through his eyes, each one more intense than the last.
He closes the distance then. His hands stay on your face and use the leverage the kiss you with so much intensity it threatens to buckle your knees.
His body gives off so much heat, you can feel it radiating in waves as your hands roam over his shoulders, clutching his arms and his shirt and anything you can take hold of.
Anything that can ground you.
It doesn't work, every greedy grab just sends you higher into the clouds. Steve crowds you, neck craning down as he caves in around your body. His grip leaves you no place to turn, nothing you can be but pliant in his arms.
You can move your lips though, molding them to his and matching his hunger with every breath. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, your tongue following behind to soothe it.
Steve groans against your mouth, the sound pulled from the depth of his chest, uttered as if he's unconscious it even escaped.
He doesn't give an inch, doesn't even think about air until you pull on his roots, eliciting a delicious gasp.
"Steve?" You whisper.
"Yeah?" He mutters, just barely making eye contact through his blown pupils and hooded gaze.
"I want you." You promise, pushing your nose against his. "Please."
Steve's arms finally leave your face, reaching down to the back of your thighs. Without warning he grabs them in his hands and lifts.
"I'm yours." He promises, pressing another long kiss to your lips. "All yours."
Your back finds his bed, the soft mattress dipping below you as Steve lays you out. He kisses you for a while like that, with just the weight of him over you. He opens your lips with skilled precision, licking into your mouth like he's trying to consume you.
When he pulls back, he looks half-way to wrecked. Blonde hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen and kiss bitten. His cheeks are dusted pink, rosy and perfect.
Your shirt disappears, pulled over your head and exposing every inch of bare skin underneath. A tortured sound escapes from Steve's throat, something between a groan and a gasp. Your pants follow, tossed onto the floor until all that's left is the thin cotton over where you want him most.
Greedily, you pull away his layers too. Marveling at his sculpture, the way his body is carved from strength and how it reacts to your touch. The twitch of his abdomen when you splay your hand over it, fingers dancing just under the waistband of his sweatpants.
You try to slide further, hand just breaking past the elastic when Steve stops it.
He laces his fingers through yours, placing it next to your head and pulling it into the mattress. A silent instruction. Stay.
"I don't want you to perform, okay?" Steve murmurs, his lips ghosting over your neck as he speaks. "Don't think. Don't act. Just feel. I'll worry about everything else." The words are said between kisses, each one place lower than the last. Collarbone, sternum, between your breasts, just above your belly button.
"You always worry about everything else." You whisper, a half-hearted protest as you watch his descent.
Steve hums, pressing one last kiss to the waist band of your panties before hooking his fingers into the elastic. "Then you know I'm very good at it."
"You ever gonna let me worry about you?" You hum, lifting your hips for him to pull the cotton down. Your implication is obvious, a groan stirring in Steve's throat.
"Trust me." He mutters into your thigh, nosing at the juncture where it meets your cunt. "This does more for me than you even know."
Tilting your head up you can see that he isn't exaggerating. Fighting the material of his sweats sits a heavy bulge, the material doing nothing to hide what you've done to him. A thick outline, big enough to cast a shadow.
His hips roll against the mattress, hypnotizing you with the movement. It's his tongue that breaks the spell.
A hand on either thigh Steve pushes them apart, lifting one onto his shoulder and holding it there while the other is pushed up towards your hip. It leaves you completely exposed, vulnerable to his mouth.
He noses at your heat, pressing over the hood of your clit and listening for your response. Pleased with your whine, he goes further. Laving his tongue through your folds, spreading them until he can taste you from the source.
He rests it there, laid flat over your quivering entrance. He gives you no friction, no poking or exploration. He just waits, letting your flavor drip onto his tongue. He holds until your whines grow, restless and pathetic. Your heel digs in between his shoulder blades, hips canting against his mouth as you try desperately to encourage him to move.
The movement pushes his nose against your clit, bumping the underside of your nerves without any purpose. It's enough for your to chase. Another roll of you hips against his face, your hands knotting in the sheets beside your head as you try to heed his earlier instructions.
"Please-" You beg, voice wretched and airy. "Please Steve!"
He hums in approval against you, the vibrations sending tingles up your spine. His hand comes down off your thigh on his shoulder, snaking underneath to where his mouth had sat.
"All you had to do was ask." He mumbles, and you can hear that stupid, smug, sexy smirk in his voice.
His opens you up with one finger first, testing just how much you can take. You're wetter than ever, body crying out for him to do something, anything.
His middle finger joins, sliding in along side his index and it's just enough of a stretch to make your body sing.
Steve has no intention of leaving his mouth unoccupied, placing one chaste kiss at the told of your folds before closing his lips over clit.
White explodes behind your vision, the contact hot and sinful. It sends you to the moon, curving your spine with pleasure.
You babble nonsense, voice breaking around his name and interrupting every lick of praise with a moan
Steve touches you proper, like a woman. Other men, boys you've been with have always treated you like something to have, theirs to use. Like a doll meant for posing and humping, your pleasure simply a secondary matter.
Steve touches like it's his purpose. He reacts to your movements instead of pushing you into what he wants. As if he's just the artist bowing down the to the muse.
His fingers curl inside you, exploratory and confident. His tongue works over your clit in tandem with every movement. His lips move around it, his chest rumbling with happy little hums as he makes out with your cunt. His fingers graze a spot inside you, one you weren't even sure existed.
Fireworks explode on every single one of your nerves, sending you ablaze and rocketing toward the sky. Your orgasm is violent, an expression of not just pleasure but every pent up emotion you've been choking on since this whole mess started.
Steve brings you down slow, removing each sensation one by one until you finally stop shaking. Your thigh falls off of his shoulder, muscles relegated to jello. Just like his descent, Steve kisses his way back to your.
You don't hesitate to meet his lips with your own, too gone to care about the tang of your own taste or the way it smears off his chin and onto yours.
Your hands coming up to cup his face, eyes watching him with nothing short of reverence. Steve speaks before you get the chance, cutting off the compliments you'd been trying to organize.
"You're amazing." He whispers, "incredible."
You shake your head, wanting to direct it back to him. There's still an ache in your chest, the desire to thank him.
"Wanna take care of you." You slur, hand trying once more to touch him. You manage to find his bulge, somehow even more intimidating to touch than it had been to look at. "Wanna thank you."
Drool pools in your mouth as you trace him through the cotton, finding the ridge of his cock head and running your finger along the underside of it. Steve's hips buck against you, doing nothing to hide his own desire.
Nevertheless, he shakes his head. "Not tonight." He whispers. "I won't last a minute in that pretty mouth."
You frown, not caring for his reasoning.
"Need to be inside you. Feel you." He begs, hips still rolling into your palm. "Please."
You could roll your eyes, as if he even needs to ask.
Your hands pivot, moving to push down his sweats instead, hooking into the waist band of his briefs and bringing those down too.
"I'm yours." You whisper, leaning up to place a soft kiss on his lips, entirely too tender for how greedily your hands expose him. "I'm yours." For the first time you say it and you mean it. It's not for a song, or a performance, it's just for him. Your Steve.
The moment quiets as he slides inside, bare with your assurances of birth control. The little frown on your lips and plea to 'feel him' also having a lot to do with the matter. He pushes in slow, letting you adjust to his sheer size, his overwhelming thickness. He's heavy inside you, body adjusting to the weight of his cock and the stretch it forces from you.
Steve's head drops into the crook of your neck, his entire body taut as he lets you adjust. You can feel the restraint radiating off of him, from his shoulders to where he twitches inside you.
It's all too much, you need him to move.
You wiggle your hips, desperately urging him on. "Please." You whine, you don't think you've ever said those six letters so much.
He builds a pace slowly, drawing almost completely out of you before sinking back in.
"I've been thinking about this since we met." He grunts, forehead pressed tight to yours as his hips roll, driving himself further inside you. "Tried so hard not to but I can't."
You gasp, locking your ankles behind his back and using. them to pull him closer.
"Wonderin' what it would take to get you to fall apart." His lips close over your bottom one, tugging on it until you whimper. "What kind of sounds you make for me."
"Steve…" You whisper, hands searching for purchase across the expanse of his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. Any other coherent thoughts are lost, twisted into a moan on your tongue as Steve finds that spot inside you, the one he found before that makes you writhe.
"That's it baby." He groans. "My songbird. My Robin."
You're making noises you didn't even know were possible, like he's turned you inside out and rights side out all in the same breath.
Your hands capture his face, pressing against his cheeks as you force him to meet your eyes. "My bodyguard." You whisper, "My Steve."
He groans, kissing you so hard your teeth click together. It's messy, almost painful and it's utterly perfect. Even in the heat of it he's careful of you, avoiding rough touches or any places you'd been manhandled in the attack.
It feels like another life time ago already, like your life has been split into two chapters. One before this moment and one after it.
"I know you're close." You whisper, pulling on his roots and feeling his cock jump inside you. "Give it to me, just give in."
Steve shakes his head, ever the fighter. "No," He grunts. "You almost died." He murmurs, "I almost lost you."
His voice is heavy, thick with emotion. You can see his eyes turn glossy, as if broken at the most base part of his soul.
"Need this to last." He begs.
You want to give him that, want to let him take as long as he needs, but your own orgasm is creeping over the edges of your pleasure. Slowly building until it starts to crest. An avoidable, unstoppable end.
You clench around him, pull on his hair one more time and force him to match you on the precipice.
"We have all the time in the world." You promise him. "I need you to cum in me now."
Still a soldier, Steve succumbs to your orders.
He launches you into your own orgasm, careening you both over the edge in a free fall. You grasp onto each other the whole time, desperately clinging to the other's anchor.
Steve loses himself in you, whispering praises, curses, and your name all in the same breath. You come down like a feather floating on a breeze, drifting slowly back into your body.
He collapses on top of you, rolling to the side so his weight lands on the mattress. Just his protective arm around your waist as he slides out of your cunt.
The sound of tandem breathing fills the room, leaving you both glowing in the aftermath. Tangled in mussed sheets and your mixed sweat.
Steve's breathing evens out first, his entire body melting into yours with complete abandon. You try to stay awake, to listen to him sleep and bask in the presence he's wrapped around you.
You only last a few minutes. With eyelids too heavy to ignore you fall asleep, utterly sated, overwhelmed with relief, and feeling not just protected, but something deeper.
Loved.
Morning comes with a vengeance.
Light filters through curtains so bright it nearly blinds you when your eyes finally peel open.
It takes a moment for it all to come back to you, the cabin, the break-in, the fight, then finally-
Steve's bed is the most picturesque version of a morning after.
Fluffy sheets pulled up over your chest even though you're sure you fell asleep on top of them. A glass of water with two painkillers next to it, prepared to soothe aches you are sure exist but aren't even aware of yet. Your skin feels clean, like you'd been wiped down with a washcloth in your sleep. It makes you smile, a school girl giggle escaping at the notion.
You have an entire team of people that work for you and yet this is the first time in years you feel actually cared for.
At the foot of the bed is another flannel, unbuttoned and waiting for you to slide it on.
You follow Steve's carefully laid steps. Swallow the pills. Put on the flannel. Pit stop to pee in the bathroom. Down the stairs where you can hear the rumble of his voice on the phone.
You don't have to look far, finding him in the kitchen with the phone pressed to his ear. His voice is it's usual serious. The same tone you once found so frustrating suddenly endeared. A wrong step has the floor boards creaking beneath you, enough for Steve's head to snap up and see you.
"I'll call you later." He's hanging up in the next breath, setting his phone face down.
You walk over, standing behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his back.
"Morning." You hum, still glowing.
Steve is quiet, hands braced on the counter top in front of him.
You wait for his response, for him to spin around and kiss your forehead. A glimpse of the man from last night.
Except it never comes.
Steve's hands rest over yours, and gently pull them away, side stepping out of your grasp.
"Steve?" You question, half-concern and half-amusement. "What's going on?"
Steve is quiet, a dark storm raging on his face as he takes another step away from you.
"It wasn't him."
"What?" Any post-sex euphoria is abruptly halted, coming to a stop with screeching breaks like a freight train.
"The man from last night." Steve sighs, refusing to meet your eyes. "He was a hired gun, the police found messages with an anonymous buyer on his computer. They're going to interrogate him as soon as possible, but they don't have much hope for leads."
"How much?" You whisper. "How much to kill me?"
"Don't go there." Steve encourages you, dodging the question completely. "That isn't important. We need to focus on the fact that the person trying to do this is still out there."
Your stomach drops, dread and every other emotion swirling like a hurricane inside you. A lump builds in your throat, the fear you finally thought was over coming back tenfold.
"It's okay." You whisper, swallowing around it all. You reach your hand out to Steve, desperate for his grounding touch. "Because I have you."
You hardly brush his fingers when he snatches it away.
"I can't protect you like this." He whispers.
The sentence stirs panic inside you, disappointment and rage welling hand in hand.
"What?"
"I can't protect you like-" Steve finally looks up at you, face reading something tortured. "Like this." He gestures to the space between you.
"I heard you the first time." You say, struggling to keep your voice calm, to keep everything in check. "What are you trying to say Steve?"
"I've worked for presidents, politicians and diplomats. Millionaires, billionaires, any one with enough money to be scared." Steve explains, something heavy in his voice. "None of them have ever scared me the way you do."
You feel bile turn over your stomach, that sick, childish, insecure part of you rising to the surface. The girl who can't stand the sound of her own voice, who doesn't know how to trust.
Who can't believe someone might love her.
She's been proved right again.
"None of them ever made me so jumpy, so afraid of failing." Steve continues, each word like another stab. "It's like I can't think straight, every minute of everyday I'm wondering if you're safe. I can't breathe unless you're in my eye sight."
You think back to last night, the intense look in his eyes as he stared at you in the ambulance. Your mind flutters just as easy to the moments between the sheets, when tears threatened his lash line.
"So you can't be with me, because you care too much?" You clarify, unable to hide the stone in your voice. Even as you stand in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, still fucking dripping with him. "I don't understand what that has to do with being able to keep me safe?"
"It's unhealthy." He counters. "I can't work because I can't see the whole picture." He shakes his head, running a hand over his face. "I can't see anything but you."
Your anger bubbles over. "So I'll get another fucking bodyguard!" You insist. You're not sure when the tears started to fall, rolling hot down your cheeks. "Jesus Christ. Steve I care about you too!"
"We both know you won't find someone as good." He promises.
Your heart shatters, you actually feel it break apart inside your chest. The pain even more potent than last night's panic.
"So that's it?" You ask, wiping your cheeks with harsh drags of your hands. "You've decided for both of us?"
You hope he feels your anger in the words, feels your teeth in their bite.
If he does, he doesn't make it known.
"It's for the best." He says, completely calm. The picture of collected. The perfect soldier, the unmoved man. Made of marble so he doesn't have to feel. "We're flying back to LA tonight, the team is reinforcing your security system now. Everything will go back to normal."
Normal.
The word rings sour in your ears. Last night, in his arms, in his bed- was the most normal you'd felt in years.
To think that it wasn't as natural to him. It feels like a rejection of the most acute part of you. All his talk about being yourself replaced with insecurity that it must be what's driving him away.
"Fine." You agree, pulling his shirt tighter over your chest, feeling oh so exposed.
Steve hangs his head, if you didn't know better you'd think it was shame. "Thank you." He mutters.
"What time will we get in? I want to make sure my publicist has enough time to get everything ready."
His gaze snaps back up, confusion knitting itself between his brows. "What for?"
You shrug, already making your way back toward the stairs. "I have to let the Academy know I'll be there to present."
Disbelief flashes across Steve's face. "You can't be serious? I thought we agreed you weren't going?"
You nod, gathering all the strength in your body and channeling it into your voice. "We did, but since we're both making big decisions this morning. I've decided I'm going."
Steve's rage catches fire, the flames licking at you from across the room.
"You're being a child." He bites through gritted teeth. "It's not safe."
You can't help but scoff, if he wants childish you can show him childish.
"You said I was safe here and then I almost died." You remind him. "I think I'm done taking your advice."
With that you leave him downstairs, locking yourself into the guest room once more. You just barely manage pull the door shut before the tears start to fall.
Downstairs Steve is equally as stubborn, folding over the counter and burying his face in his hands. Two fools on opposite sides, no bridge in sight.
The dress is… itchy.
You didn't have many options, with the last minute-ness of your attendance your stylist nearly had a heart attack.
'I stayed up until four a.m. making phone calls, so you're gonna wear this and you're gonna look happy about it.'
Pulled from the archives of some designer, the dress is admittedly beautiful. With just some pins and a little shape wear it fits you like a glove. No one would know it had never been the plan to begin with.
Steve has been hovering all night, tuxedo-clad and perfectly pressed. Even with the formal attire he sticks out like a sore thumb, his most noticeable accessory being the glare etched on his stupid, handsome face.
Every minute passes like an hour, seconds dragging longer than possible as the clock ticks closer to your cue.
You do everything to pass the time, painfully ignoring the weight of blue eyes watching your every move. You laugh when the joke calls for it, smile for the camera when it pans to your reaction, clap even when the speeches go on too long.
Then it's time to move, a stage hand collecting you from you seat and guiding you backstage.
It always amazes you how much chaos there is behind the scenes. P.A.'s running around like headless chickens, envelopes being passed back and forth, just to be double then triple checked. The rows of golden statues waiting for triumphant hands to claim them.
You're going out alone. your own perfectly pressed envelope already in hand as you wait in the wings.
Long abandoned by your stage hand, there's nothing left for you to do but walk.
"Don't go out there."
Of course you're not completely alone.
Steve had followed you the whole way, glowering at anyone who looked suspicious. Going as far as to inspect any item that was handed to you before you even dared to touch it.
Even going as far as to try and break the seal on the envelope in your hand, only being stopped by a particularly threatening glare on your end.
Now though, the facade is gone, his voice something akin to desperate, terrified.
You turn around to face him, for the first time since the kitchen you even look into his eyes.
"Enough." You mutter, attention turning back to the stage where the lights are beginning to rise. Only a few seconds now. "I'm tired of being afraid just because you say so."
Steve's expression is grave, jaw clenched so tight you think he could break a tooth.
"I can't protect you up there." He insists, hand wrapping around your wrist. His grip is tight enough to sting, panic evident. "Please."
Your heart aches, chest pulling tight as you look at him. You could fool yourself if you tried, convince yourself that he cares.
You don't.
Instead, you pull yourself out of his grip, hard enough to make Steve stumble. Your voice is wet as you repeat yourself. "Enough."
The lights are hot, coating you in that oppressive, damn-near blinding heat. You can't hear anything over the audience, chest swelling with pride as the applause only grow in volume.
Your heels carry you forward, dress dragging behind you as you walk towards the microphone where it's waiting for you center stage.
The teleprompter waits until they die down, letting you settle into your mark on the stage before it begins to scroll.
"Alright, we've finally made it to the award everyone's been pretending they haven't been thinking about all night." A low chuckle reverberates through the crowd.
"Winning this award last year was one of the most surreal moments of my life... and now it's someone else's turn to have that moment. Here are your nominees for Album of the Year."
The lights dim, the screens behind you lighting up as a pre-recorded voice takes over, listing the artists and their work as clips play. You cast a look toward the side stage, where Steve still stands. His eyes are everywhere, scanning the entire room while his shoulders sit high on his posture.
It's the worst you've ever seen him, completely and utterly wrecked, like there's something he knows and you don't.
For a moment your heart stutters, try as you might to wear a brave face, the tension is still contagious, the memory of a hand around your throat still fresh. No matter how much concealer your makeup team applies, the bruises still mar your skin.
You shake it off, you have too. The moments almost over, too late to back out of your tantrum now.
The lights lift, attention back on you.
"And the winner is…"
The envelope sticks for just a moment, the seal tearing as your nails lift it open.
You hardly spare it a glance, giving the audience an excited smile as you open it to read. Unfolding the thick card stock in your hand and-
Familiar chicken scratch, the handwriting that's been haunting you for the better part of four months.
If I can't have you. No one can. Not even pretty boy.
Your blood runs cold. They're here.
The letter starts to shake in your hands.
They're here. They're here. They're here.
You turn to Steve, panic welling into something uncontrollable.
He's already rushing toward you, but his gaze is somewhere else.
You follow it, all the way to the back of the mezzanine.
The scope of a rifle winks at you, a red laser traveling across the theatre and dotting your chest.
They're here.
Everything unravels, the quiet dignity of the audience flailing into panic as they all rush to duck under their tables. Steve's panicked voice yelling the location of the sniper into his head set, shouting for anyone to secure them.
The ringing of the shot.
They're here.
You brace for the impact, for the pain. Closing your eyes you picture Sarah, you pray that she never sees this.
Then you're on the floor, skidding across and looking up just in time to see Steve take the blow.
It punches into him from behind, knocking him onto his knees.
A screams tears from your throat, something guttural and terrified.
You're not sure when you move, but when Steve falls you're there, pulling him back into chest as you try to push pressure on the wound.
They're a crackle through the headset in his ear, just loud enough for you to hear.
Target secured, weapon is disarmed.
You can't even feel the relief, even as a soft smile breaks onto Steve's face.
There's so much blood.
It floods past your fingers, soaking into your dress and already beginning to pool on the floor. It hit him in the shoulder, right where it meets his chest.
He's lax in your arms, looking up at you like he can't feel the pain at all.
"Steve?" You cup his face with bloody hand, smearing it on his cheek. "Steve can you hear me?"
He covers your hand with own, turning his head to press a kiss into your palm. His voice comes out rough, garbled and dream-like. "You're okay." He says it like it's the only thing that matters, like he's not bleeding out in your arms. "You're okay."
A sob breaks from your throat. "You're not!" You yell back, panic taking over as you look around, only to find an empty stage around you.
"Someone help!" You scream, "Please he needs help!"
Steve shushes you, the sound getting trapped in a cough. Even with your pressure on the wound the puddle around you grows, turning it all into a macabre nightmare.
"Please!" You're still shouting, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. "Please he's my bodyguard!" Your voice cracks on the last word, knowing it's not enough to capture what he actually is.
Steve's hand reaches up to your cheek, pulling your attention back to him.
"My Robin." He whispers, eyes gone glossy and unfocused. "I love you."
The words tear you open, pulling another sob from your lips. "You idiot." You curse. "I love you too."
What fools you both have been.
You press a harsh kiss to his lips, trying to say everything in it. Begging him to hold on. Steve returns it with softness, like he has all the time in the world.
Help finally comes, footsteps surrounding you.
Steve smiles, the same unprotected one you saw at the cabin, his guard finally down. He watches you until you're pulled away, taking two guards to get you off as medics take your place.
The threat it gone, this time, it's finally over.
Now all you can do it wait, and hope that Steve is stubborn enough to pull through.
"Mommy!" Sarah's voice echoes through the plane, yelling despite the small space. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
She comes barreling down the aisle, bouncing with excitement as she as she rushes to stand in front of you.
Her face is painted with a smile ten miles wide as she holds out the source of her enthusiasm for you to see.
"A new coloring book?" You ask her, amping up your own mock-excitement.
"Ice cream!" She squeals, opening the pages for you to see.
"Wow!" You whisper, pretending to lean in for a better look. "Where did you get this?"
She points toward the back of the plane. "Stevie!"
Sure enough, Steve comes walking down the aisle just as she says it, giving you a smile and a small shrug as he takes the seat across from you.
He's been discharged for almost two weeks now, still a little peaked around the edges for your liking, but he's okay. Your heart still seizes a little every time you look at him, the sling on his arm a reminder of just how close you came to losing him.
After nearly a month in the hospital, Steve as eager to get out of L.A. as you.
"Thought she'd need something to do at the cabin." He explains, "I have six more in my bag."
The decision to go back to New York was easy, the peace and seclusion of the cabin all too appealing after the press-frenzy following the Grammy's. Eventually you'll have to fly back for the trial, but for now you'll get as far as you can.
Steve's already offered to convert the attic to a recording studio, you half-think he'd keep you there forever if he'd let you.
You might.
"Six?" You repeat, laughing in disbelief. The mental image of him picking them out for her filling your stomach with warmth. "You're gonna spoil her."
He fixes you with a look, "I think that ship is long sailed."
Sarah clambers into his lap, leaning her back against his chest as he settles. His arm wraps loose around her waist, acting as a seatbelt.
"Besides, I like taking care of my girls."
Pride beams in his words, a protectiveness in his voice that wraps around you like a warm blanket.
"That includes the new guy?" You nod your head to the side, toward where your new bodyguard sits in the back of the plane.
Sam is nice enough, not nearly as uptight as Steve which is a very, very nice change of pace.
He was picked by Steve himself, an old friend from his days in the service.
Steve nods, giving you a light hearted chuckle.
"Well I can't protect you like this." He lifts his sling, except there's a joke in his voice that wasn't there before. "Besides," he bounces his knee, making Sarah giggle in his lap. "Got my hands full with this one."
"Your girls huh?" You relax back into your seat, unable to take your eyes off the scene in front of you. "I think I like that."
The pilots comes over the loudspeaker, letting announcing that you'll be taking off in just a few minutes.
Steve hums, "Me too."
"How long?" Sarah perks up, turning her head to ask Steve the question. She's already well adapted to owning his heart, the transition of his role from bodyguard to something more hardly an adjustment.
"Five hours." He tells her, pressing a kiss to her four head. "Five hours until home."
"Five hours until home." You repeat.
Your entire world in one place, only yours to have. There's no better feeling.
Price who comes home from deployment, and the first thing he does after hugging you is hold you at arms length and narrow his eyes at you "why do you smell like that, love."
"Like what?" You smile, tuck yourself under his arm and attempt to coral him to the bedroom.
"Like garrick," price grunts, mustache turned into a frown. He takes a sniff of your neck then pulls the same disgruntled face "you smell like his cigarettes."
"Hm? Oh, yeah, I've been bumming them off him," you shrug, waving a dismissive hand. You know john trusts you and kyle not to do anything.
"You don't smell like me," john pouts, two large hands settling on your hips to push you against the wall. "I left cigars here, why don't you use them?"
"John, I love you but I'm not gonna pantomime sucking dick when I need a hit," you sigh.
"I–! Wha– it does not–!" Price stutters, astonished.
"It does. Look, it's a good look on you," you tease, hook a finger under his chin "real cute of you, yeah?"
After price got you back twice over for that sucking dick comment, he mumbles something about picking out cigarettes for you. So posessive and territorial it's almost cute.
John shen spouses, since no one never ask him about his love situation they didnt know that hes married, until a very pregnant woman with a tote bag show up in the er asking about john shen
pairing: dr. john shen x f!reader | rating: mature. mdni | wc: 400 | so much fluff
warnings: none, really.
a/n: babe, i really hope you like this one because i don’t really go here on the pregnant trope and i did my best. sorry if it seems a bit awkward! 🤍 (but i do think the moodboard itself is very aesthetically pleasing lol)
jack is in the middle of going through the instructions of how they are going to tackle triage this shift with chantana and mateo, when a very pregnant lady interrupts them.
“hi! umm, could i speak with dr. shen?” you ask.
“i’m dr. jack abbot, sweetheart. dr. shen is attending a trauma right now, how can i help you?”
your smile grows when you realise who you are talking to. you give him your name and continue. “john’s wife. it’s really nice to meet you, dr. abbot.”
“wife?!” jack asks shocked, points the buzzer to chantana, silently asking the receptionist to open the door for you. both her and mateo have surprised expressions on their young faces.
“come here, sweetheart.” he gets the tote bag from your hands, directing you to a free seat on the central hub. “john never mentioned he’s married. let alone a father to be.”
you laugh. “typical john. if he didn’t basically worship the ground i walk on, i would think he was ashamed of me or something.”
jack shakes his head. “are you ok? do you need anything?”
“oh, i’m fine. i know i look like i’m about to burst but there’s still a month and a half to go.” you point to the tote bag. “i’m trying to get john to slow down on the caffeine, but he forgot the lunch i made so i thought ‘why not bring it to him?’”
jack was about to ask you how long you have been together when parker greets you.
“hey, sunshine!” she says as she makes her way out of trauma two, with john right behind her.
“hi, p! haven’t seen you in a while!”
john recognises your voices, sprints past parker to meet you.
“baby, are you ok? are you hurt? is it time?” shen’s hands are all over you as he asks all at once, so fast that you can’t barely understand what he is saying.
it makes you laugh. “i’m fine, handsome. you forgot your lunch and i wanted to bring it to you.”
beside you, jack is nudging parker. “you knew he was married?!”
“only met her because sunshine came to pick him up after a shift, like six months ago.”
“why didn’t you tell us you were married, dude? and that you are expecting?!” jack asks your husband, with the most hurt voice possible.
john shrugs. “you never asked.”
domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated. dividers by @/uzmacchiato
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Pairing/WC/Tags: artist!Leon x vampire!reader / 930 / strangers to lovers(?), flirting, vampire au, re2 Leon
A/N: for day 7 of AU-gust @thepromptfoundry ‘vampire’ I read ‘the painter’ by @kokoluwie and got inspired for this, definitely give that one a read!
You don’t understand why you’re drawn to the painting.
You’ve seen centuries of art. You’ve watched movements rise and fall, watched artists pour their souls into canvases, watched humanity try to capture beauty before time inevitably takes it away.
You’ve seen masterpieces, but this one keeps pulling you back.
The painting hangs quietly among the others, surrounded by crowds of people who glance at it for a few seconds before moving on. Yet you remain frozen in front of it, studying every stroke, every imperfect detail.
There is something about it.
Something familiar, making it feel almost alive.
“You’ve been coming back to this one,”
The voice catches you off guard, not because you didn’t hear him approach, you did. Your senses have never failed you. But there’s something about his presence that makes you forget to pay attention.
You turn slowly. A young man stands beside you, dressed far too casually for someone who somehow manages to look like he belongs in a gallery. His blond hair falls messily over his forehead, his blue eyes bright with curiosity. There’s a softness to him that feels strange in a world where you’ve spent so long learning not to trust anyone.
You don’t know his name yet. All you know is that he smells warm. Your instincts whisper it before your mind can stop them.
“Might I ask what’s so interesting about it?” he asks.
You blink, realizing he’s been speaking to you. “Sorry?”
A small smile pulls at his lips.
“The painting.” He gestures toward it. “You seem pretty captivated.”
You look back at the artwork before sneaking a look at his name tag. “I was just wondering what makes it special.”
His expression changes slightly, like he’s pleased you asked.
“Well…” He steps closer, looking at the piece with genuine admiration. “The artist used his own blood for the red ink.”
Your eyes snap toward him. “His blood?”
Leon nods. “Yeah. Apparently, he wanted the piece to feel more personal. Like he was putting a literal part of himself into it.”
You stare at the painting again, the red suddenly looking different.
“That’s extraordinary,” you whisper.
Leon smiles. “I’ll tell him you think so.”
“You know the artist?”
He gives a small shrug. “Something like that.”
There’s something about his answer that feels intentionally vague, but you don’t press. Instead, you find yourself talking.
You don’t mean to. Usually, you’re careful. You’ve had hundreds of years to perfect the art of blending in, of keeping people at arm’s length. Leon listens, his eyes staying on you, not the painting, not the crowd around you. You expect boredom or polite nodding. Instead, he looks fascinated.
“Though…” you say, glancing back at the canvas, “I do think the color choice is interesting.”
Leon raises his eyebrows.
“You do?” You immediately regret it, because you think you might’ve insulted him. “Never mind. I shouldn’t criticized-“
“No, no.” A quiet laugh leaves him. “I’m curious.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “You’re not offended?”
“Why would I be?”
“People usually don’t like hearing someone disagree with their interpretation.”
Leon tilts his head, his hair moving with him. He seems incredibly young, then again, almost everyone is young to you.
“Well, I think art is supposed to make people feel something.”
You look at him for a moment too long, and blink slowly. “You’re different.”
His smile grows, lips stretching. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You look away before he notices how much you’re staring.
The two of you remain there longer than you should. Long enough that the exhibit begins to empty, and that you forget you came here for the art. Not him.
Eventually, Leon checks the time and sighs. “Guess I should let you get back to admiring your favorite piece.”
You don’t like the disappointment that settles in your chest. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“You as well.” He replies, and he turns to go but you call out to him.
“What’s your name?”
He turns back, and his eyes seem to shine. “Leon Kennedy.”
The name sits strangely on your tongue, like something you’re meant to remember.
“Nice to meet you, Leon.”
His smile softens. “Likewise.”
He disappears into the crowd, moving faster than you would’ve thought. You stay at the painting for a few more minutes before you place your sunglasses on your head, and make your way to the exit.
Later that night, you return.
Not because you want to see Leon, at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You slip through the empty exhibit halls silently, moving like a shadow through the darkness. The painting waits exactly where you left it, but you stop dead.
Leon sits on the floor in front of the painting, legs crossed, staring at the artwork like he’s been waiting.
Your footsteps are quiet, but not quiet enough, and his head turns. When he looks over his shoulder, there’s no surprise in his expression, only amusement.
“Come to look some more?”
Your eyes narrow. “You knew I would come back?”
Leon grins, and the expression is slightly different this time. It’s more relaxed, as if the smile he wore before was tamed down. It’s then you notice his teeth.
Sharp and pointed. Not human, or not entirely.
They look just like yours.
For the first time in centuries, you’re the one caught off guard. Leon stands slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.
“You know,” he says softly, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
“You’re like me,” you whisper.
Leon’s smile turns almost playful. “Something like that.”
Summary: The first time you and Leo met was as seven year olds on a playground. His first words to you? “You’re gonna be my wife”. Almost two decades later, you’ve heard that phrase leave his mouth more times than you can count. But is there a chance it will ever mean something real?
Pairing: Bestfriend Leo Reilly x Bestfriend Female Reader
Warnings/tags: childhood friends to lovers; heavy pining & lots of yearning; slow burn; quite a few childhood flashbacks; unrequited love (but actually not); codependency; drinking & alcohol abuse (heavily depicted); underage drinking; parental neglect (mentioned); emotional hurt/comfort; lots of fluff; simp Leo Reilly; jealousy; smut; loss of virginity; virgin!Leo; involuntary climax (leo cums in his pants); boob praise & a lot of boob play (leo is really into boobs okay); p in v; unprotected sex (discussed before the act); soft sex; creampie; multiple orgasms; aftercare; happy ending
Word count: 18.3k
Notes: holy fucking shit. truthfully, that's all i have to say. this is without a doubt the longest fic i have ever written, and i poured my whole ass heart into it. worth the headaches, though. i love leo, and i am so glad to have @sheriff-bodecker and @phoenix-in-writing sharing the leo fanclub with me, to the point we decided to dedicate an entire event to him. this is the first fic from the leo season collab and i could not be prouder of this little group <3 long live Leopold Reginald Reilly the Third !
There is a particular kind of feeling when you have someone that has always been a part of your life without ever leaving, one that starts so early you can’t remember its beginning. No single moment you can point to and say there, that’s when it started. It’s just always been there, the way the sky is always there, so constant you forget to look up and really notice it.
You have never known a version of yourself that didn’t have Leo Reilly in it. He’s threaded through every year you can remember, every joke you’ve ever laughed too hard at, every ridiculous, offhanded thing he’s said so many times it stopped sounding like words and it started feeling like weather, just something you live inside of, something you have to adapt to, instead of something you hear. This afternoon, he is sitting cross-legged on your bathroom floor with your left foot in his lap and the concentration of a surgeon, tongue caged between his teeth, holding a little brush of pink nail polish very carefully.
Still in the outfit he wore out earlier, a green button-down with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, collar undone, looking like he rolled out of bed and into a pile of money. He’s twenty-five now, technically an adult, technically a person with an apartment who should be finding a job and having a life that doesn’t orbit yours; yet here he is, on your bathroom floor on a Tuesday afternoon, painting your toenails like this is the most important task he has been assigned all year. He slept here last night. And the night before. If you think far back enough, maybe the entire past seven nights. Your guest bedroom is apparently one of his favorite places in the entire world.
“Hold still,” he says, never taking his eyes off your nails.
“I am holding still, Leo.”
There’s a soft tap on your foot not two seconds later. “You’re wiggling your toes, stop.”
You don’t think you are wiggling your toes, if you are absolutely honest, but the sight of Leo moderately frustrated is something you’ve seen so rarely that you can count it on one hand, maybe, so you take pity and try to still your foot as much as possible. The polish has already been smudged twice and he had to start over each time, and it turns out that a small part of you likes watching him do this, focused like a man defusing a bomb.
“There, perfect. See, I’m very good at this,” he says, finally, dragging the brush in one clean line.
“You’re okay at this,” you correct quickly.
“I’m excellent at this. Should’ve gone to beauty school instead of business school, real waste of a talent.”
“You didn’t go to business school. You went to like… one semester of business school, and maybe three classes in total. ”
“Details.” He caps the polish, blows gently on your toes like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Leo has been doing exactly this since you were both sixteen and you broke your ankle jumping off the Delacroix’s pool house roof on a dare he issued, and you refused to let anyone but him touch your feet afterward, some weird way in your head to impose him a strange sense of guilt. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Flexing your foot to inspect the work, you realize that it really is good. It always is, annoyingly, even though his hands aren’t all that steady, but he makes up for it with an attention to detail he never seems to apply to anything else that actually matters for his own life. “Thank you,” you say.
“Say it like you mean it,” he asks.
“Thank you, Leo, for the pedicure I didn’t ask for.”
“You didn’t have to ask,” is all he says, like it’s obvious, already reaching for your right foot, uncapping the little bottle again. From the outside, most people will think Leo is a lot. Loud, a little much, always the center of whatever room he’s in with his eccentric clothes and taste, the kind of guy your parents’ friends politely refer to as “a character”. But underneath the noise there’s…. this. Devoted acts of service that he does without being asked and never mentions again. Bags carried during shopping sprees, rides given at two in the morning without complaint, an entire Saturday once spent repainting your childhood bedroom because you mentioned once, offhandedly, that you didn’t like the old color anymore, a muted yellow that soon transformed into a happier pink.
Leo might be loud, and fun, an enjoyer of throwing his fortune out at any opportunity if it meant people would stay with him, around him, never really leaving as long as the fountain of money doesn’t run dry. But nobody else gets to see this part of him, the one that allows himself to be vulnerable without the fireworks and theatrics. The same version of him you saw wandering around in your kitchen earlier today, disheveled hair, grabbing an expensive bottle of liquor your father had offered you as part of your graduation gift (that you never touched because you detested the taste of it) and downing a glass of it in one go.
“I saw you this morning. In the kitchen,” you say, watching his face instead of your foot now.
His hand doesn’t stop moving, but something in his jaw does. “Saw me what?”
A few seconds of silence are an attempt at figuring whether or not you want to go down this path today. “Pouring yourself a drink. At eleven in the morning, Leo.”
“It was noon.”
Sigh. “That doesn’t make it any better.”
“It’s a little better.” Leo still doesn’t look up from your toes, all his attention very carefully placed on the brush, on the line of color, life if he just keeps painting you won’t actually make him have this conversation. “It was one drink.”
“It’s always one drink. And then it’s the drink after that, and the one after that, and by the time I find you by a pool somewhere you can’t remember how many it’s been.”
“Unfair, that was one time.”
“That was last Tuesday.”
That gets him to at least move his eyes up and meet yours, a flash of something almost sheepish behind the blue hues gone as fast as it came, replaced by the grin he uses when he wants a conversation to be lighter than it is. It’s a good grin, one that’s gotten him out of more trouble than anyone should reasonably be allowed except, of course, when it comes to you. “In my defense, Tuesday was a very stressful day.”
That’s a new excuse, you think. You’ve heard him spew a few dozen ones before this. “Every day is a stressful day, but if you start doing this it stops being a reason and it becomes a pattern.”
Leo huffs. “You sound like my mother.”
“God, I wish your mother sounded like this.” His mother, for what it’s worth, adores you, has for eighteen years. What she doesn’t do, not nearly enough, is stay. She and Leo’s father have a habit of disappearing, to some resort, a month later to an island, followed by a trip that lasts a month where they take enough photographs to fill an entire album, and Leo gets left behind with the house and the housekeeper and a fridge stocked with expensive food that might be enough to fill the hole in his stomach, but not the one in his chest. No one calls it what it really is, and you’ve stopped waiting for them to.
Eighteen years is enough time for you to watch what that does to a son. The way Leo collects love wherever he can find it, from whoever’s willing to give him a minute of attention, trying to fill something that never was full. You were seven when he decided you would be the one he would rely on to keep it at least half full at all times, even if you didn’t understand it then, or really had any say in the matter. “Look, against my better judgment I do care about you, Leo. I don’t like what you’re doing to yourself.”
Leo sits back on his heels at that, polish brush stopped mid-air, and looks at you with an expression you don’t love. Not hurt, exactly, but closer to bracing for something he has heard before and can see coming again.
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“When do you want to talk about it?”
“Never, ideally.” A ghost of a smile there, an attempt to make it a joke, but it doesn’t reach the rest of his face.
“Leo.”
“I’m fine,” he says, and it comes out sharp, sharp enough that he hears it too and softens on purpose right after, reaching for your foot again, returning to the ask to undo the edge in his voice. “I had a drink. I’m not gonna end up giving a slurred toast at somebody’s funeral.”
“That can’t be your bar. Eleven in the morning, Leo, and I’m standing there trying to figure out whether to say something or let it go because you get weird every time I bring it up, and I don’t know which option actually helps you.”
Something in those words lands. You see it, the joke draining out of his face, a more lost, uncertain version of him that doesn’t match the easy confidence he wears like second skin making its way into the light. Over eighteen years, you have seen it maybe a handful of times.
“I don’t know which one helps, either.” Neither of you seem to have an answer for that. Leo goes back to painting, slow drag of the brush over your nails even though there’s not much else to paint.
“You missed a spot. Pinky toe.”
“Sweetheart, your pinky toe barely has a nail, there’s no spot to miss—” but he’s fixing it anyway, tongue back between his teeth and furrowed brows, shoulders a little looser now that you’ve let the subject go slack, even if it’s not resolved.
Finally, he finishes all the nails and puts the cap back on the polish bottle, and admires his work with pride.
“Ten out of ten. Better than the place on Fifth,” he says.
You arch one eyebrow at him. “Ever so humble, Mister Reilly.”
He sets the polish aside but doesn't let go of your foot, thumb tracing absent circles at your ankle, same way it always does when his hands don't have a job to do anymore and default back to touching you instead. “Marry me.”
You don't even look up from checking the polish. “No.”
“Okay, just checking.” And you hate that you can hear the smile on his lips without even looking up to see it.
“You check a lot.”
“Gotta keep my numbers up.” He says it easy, grinning again, all traces of the last five minutes of conversation tucked neatly away behind it.
“One day I’m gonna say yes, and you’re gonna have no idea what to do with yourself,” you tell him, mostly as a joke, but also to watch what he does with it. Leo takes it like a champion and just shrugs.
“Try me, I’ll figure it out.”
Age 7.
Every rich family had their version of the same summer. Country club pools, garden parties with too many caterers, galas that started before you were old enough to understand what was being celebrated, only that there would be a string quartet and a table of tiny sandwiches shaped like triangles which you always prefered to the most expensive stuff.
Your version of summer, at least when you were seven years old, meant moving across the country. For the first few weeks, the neighborhood was new enough that you don’t know which of the big houses belonged to people worth knowing and which just existed there. You did become quickly familiar with the playground, though. It was the one thing that stayed the same in a week of boxes and a new bedroom and kitchen where you kept opening the wrong cabinets to get your favorite pink mug. There, in that fun corner, there were swings, a slide too hot to touch in direct sun, a sandbox only a few kids used because older ones decided that sand was for babies.
You were on the swings when he found you. Small for his age, with messy blond hair and wearing a blazer he had already shrugged half off because in his seven-year-old opinion blazers were for the big people. He walked straight up to the swing set, hands in his pockets, and stopped directly in front of you so you had to slow your swing down or risk kicking him.
Didn’t say hi or ask your name. Just looked at you for a second, head tilted, staring openly the way only children are allowed to get away with without feeling embarrassed.
“You’re really pretty,” he said, matter-of-fact, same tone he had used last week to tell his teacher that the sky is blue.
You just blinked. “…Uh.”
“Anyway,” he continued, since you made no further interruption, and he moved to your side before sitting on the swing right next to yours. Then he smiled the biggest smile you had ever seen. “You’re gonna be my wife.”
Tips of your feet dragging against the pebbles under, you stopped swinging entirely. “What?”
“My wife,” he repeated, patient, and on top of your seven years of age you did feel slightly offended that he seemed to handle this like you were the one being slow about the entirely new information. “When we’re grown-ups.”
A frown. “… I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Leo,” he informed, an interesting offer if you believed that a first name was all the information anyone could need before agreeing to marry someone. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“Me and my parents just moved.”
“Oh, so we’re gonna see each other a lot!” He said happily, pumping his legs to catch up to a height you were no longer at. “That’s cool. I’m glad I told you that, we can start getting ready.”
Your voice was slightly irritated when you responded the next time, “I’m not marrying you.”
“Okay,” Leo replied, unbothered. You didn’t know this at the time, but he will say it approximately four thousand more times over the next eighteen years, always in the same tone that presents your refusal as a technicality he will get around to solving eventually. “But you will, though.”
Before you can figure out whether that was the strangest thing anyone had ever said to you or just the second strangest, a voice called out from behind him. A man in a linen shirt, sunglasses pushed up into hair that was clearly where Leo got his color from, jogging over.
“Leo. Buddy, you can’t just run off like that—” He stopped short when he saw you, glanced between the two of you like he was trying to work out what he had just walked into. “Sorry, sweetheart, he do something to bother you?”
“He said I’m gonna be his wife.”
Leo’s father laughed right as your own father came around the far side of the play structure, having spotted you from wherever he’d been unloading boxes at the house up the road, calling your name softly.
“There you are. I told you not to wander past the—” He approached and caught sight of Leo’s father, and there was a beat of two grown men sizing each other up before your dad stuck out a hand. “Sorry, we just moved in. Didn’t realize the playground already came with company.”
Leo’s father shook his hand, already smiling the way long time friends did. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Looks like the kids already beat us to the introductions.”
“She’s gonna be my wife,” Leo said again, unprompted, apparently feeling the information bore repeating now that there was a bigger audience.
Both fathers laughed at that, your father ruffled your hair and said something about getting home before dinner, and that was that.
By the time September rolled around, you had mostly forgotten about Leo, even though you occasionally saw him in the playground and he came over every time to say hello and repeat that you were very pretty.
So there was genuine shock in your face when you walked into Miss Green’s second grade classroom on the first day and he was already there, sitting cross-legged on the reading rug like he had been waiting for you specifically, and the second he spotted you across the room his whole face light up like he was opening presents on Christmas morning.
“You go here?” he said, loud enough that half the room turned to look.
“You go here?” You had assumed, somehow, in the innocence of a seven year old that he belonged to the playground and nowhere else. A fixture of that one afternoon, not a person who might show up again with a backpack and a name tag.
“I go here,” he confirmed, delighted, already abandoning whatever he had been doing in favor of crossing the room toward you. “This is so good. This is so good!”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer that directly. Instead he grabbed your hand and towed you toward the teacher’s desk, where a young woman with kind eyes and slightly crooked glasses was holding a pen and writing something down on a notebook.
“Miss Green, this is my wife,” Leo announced.
Miss Green stopped, blinked, looked at you, then at Leo. “That’s… nice, Leo. Why don’t you both find your seats, we’re about to start attendance.”
He didn’t move. “Can I sit next to her?”
With a quiet sigh, Miss Green put down the pen she had been holding. “You already have a seat assigned. And we need to find her a seat since she’s new.”
“Well, she’s my wife. We can’t be apart.”
You wanted to sink through the classroom floor. Instead, you settled for glaring at him with every ounce of seven year old fury you could summon which, you would learn, did not work on him. And Miss Green, against her better judgment, glanced between the two of you, sighed and adapted the seating chart so you two would sit together.
This meant Leo Reilly spent the rest of the year at the desk beside yours.
He passed you notes that were mostly just badly drawn pictures of the two of you. Stick figures, always holding hands, always with a scribbled sun in the corner, sometimes a dog that neither of you owned standing beside them for no reason other than ‘it’s our future dog!’. He informed every substitute teacher of the exact same fact, you’re his wife, even told the volunteer parents running the Halloween party.
For career day, a man came in and talked about being a dentist, and Leo made sure to tell him, too. You’re his wife.
Age 10.
You were at his house that day, which wasn’t unusual anymore, since somewhere in the last three years your two houses pretty much became one continuous property with an inconvenient road in the middle. You slept over, had a toothbrush in the bathroom, and he had a drawer of his favorite snacks stocked at yours, courtesy of your mother.
Some cartoon playing in the background that neither of you were watching with particular attention, a bowl of crackers going stale between you, was a moment interrupted by Leo sitting up so fast he almost knocked the bowl sideways.
“Wait here,” he said, already halfway to the door. “Don’t move, I have something.”
The unique thing about that day was that it was your birthday, and you didn’t want a party that year. Your mother had tried to push for one anyway, even start drafting a guest list, before you wore her down, and it was decided that you would instead spend your day exactly where you ended up spending most afternoons: sprawled on Leo’s bedroom floor.
Leo was gone and came back just as quickly, footsteps thudding down the hall and then back up. One fist closed tight around something, Leo was grinning like he had just pulled off a bank heist, and he approached quickly, kneeling down in front of you on the carpet, suddenly very serious after deciding he was about to say something extremely important. “Happy birthday. Close your eyes.”
Even though you wanted to immediately ask ‘why’, you complied because you’d come to learn that it was easier than arguing. You felt him take your hand, turn it palm-up, place something small but surprisingly heavy into it. When he finally told you to open your eyes, there was a ring sitting in your palm. A real one, one you knew adults use because it’s different from the pink and green ones you get as tiny gifts on your favorite magazines, stone the size of a marble catching the light from the window.
“Leo, what’s this?”
“It’s a ring!,” he replied chirpily, clearly very proud of himself.
You stared at it like it might be dangerous. “Whose ring?”
“Yours,” was his answer before you gave him a look. “Okay. My mom’s.”
“Leo—”
“She has like a hundred of them in her room, I swear!” he said quickly, afraid to be caught doing something he shouldn’t have. “It’s pretty! I wanted to do it like in the cartoons where the guy gets on one knee.”
Leo’s cheeks were slightly pinkish, and he was kneeling in front of you, palms braced on his knees, eyes wide. You weren’t old enough to understand the way your heart was beating inside your chest slightly off beat. “Do what?”
“Marry me.” Not a question, just an affirmation, all too obvious because the ring was the world’s least subtle clue. “Like, for real.”
You looked down at the ring in your hand, then back at him. “Bro, what’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
“You stole this!”
“She won’t notice.” A pause, the smallest flicker of doubt crossing his face, gone as fast as it came. “And I’ll put it back when I’m grown up and get a job and buy you a bigger one.”
“Your mom is gonna kill you, and you’re gonna get grounded until we’re in high school. And you’re gonna get me grounded too.”
Completely unfazed by your description of what was most likely his near future, Leo simply shrugged, used to ignoring consequences of his actions until he was actively getting yelled at. “You didn’t say no.”
“Well, I didn’t say yes! I said your mom’s gonna kill you.” You wanted to yell at him, throw the ring at his stupid head, but he was staring up at you with those huge, blue puppy eyes and again, your chest felt so tight you thought maybe it would be better to call your mom and ask her to come pick you up. With a huff, you crossed your arms. “I’m not marrying you. I’m ten.”
“When we’re big, then,” he conceded.
“You are so annoying.”
“Still not a no!” Leo beamed, the tiny bit of worry totally gone now. One of his small hands reached out to snatch the ring back from your hand, and you almost let him, fingers already opening up. Then, for no good reason at all, you stopped. Before he could grab it, you balled your hand into a tight fist, hiding the sparkly rock away behind your fingers.
Leo blinked at your closed fist, hand frozen mid-air. For two seconds he looked genuinely baffled, brow furrowing as he tried to compute why you were suddenly hoarding the stolen treasure.
“Hey. We gotta hide that before my mom comes up with more juice boxes,” he said, nudging your knee with his.
Stubbornly, you pulled your fist close to your chest. “No.”
“Why?! You just said you’re not marrying me!”
“Because!” Glaring at him, you tried to sound like the voice of reason even though your heart was doing that treacherous flutter against your ribs again. “If you take it back you’ll put it somewhere stupid like under your bed, and your maid is gonna find it, or your mom, or your dad. I’m keeping it so you don’t get us in trouble.”
His eyebrows shot up before a massive, insufferable grin slowly spread across his face, dimples popping into full view. “So you’re keeping my mom’s ring.”
“I’m safekeeping it. There’s a difference, idiot,” you huffed, sitting up straighter and shoving the heavy diamond deep into the pocket of your shorts.
“You’re keeping it, which means we’re gonna get married,” Leo sang out, shoving his shoulders up and down in a taunting little dance.
“Stop saying that!” You shoved his shoulder, which only made him laugh harder, until he lost his balance and flopped backward onto the carpet, kicking his legs in the air in triumph.
“You’re wearing my ring, you’re wearing my ring!”
“I’m not wearing it, it’s in my pocket! And if you don’t shut up, I’m throwing it out the window into the bushes.”
That threat made him stop and sit up, though the sparkle in his eyes didn’t dim for a second. “Okay. But this means it’s official.” He crossed his arms. “We’re basically married now. Which means you gotta share your birthday cupcakes with me.”
“I was already going to share my cupcakes with you.”
“See?” Leo crowed, leaning forward and poking your arm. “Wife stuff!”
As it turned out, after your tenth birthday, you kept the ring. At first, you told yourself you were going to give it back to his mother. You were just waiting for the right moment, a moment that wouldn’t involve explaining exactly how that ring ended up in your possession. But the right moment didn’t come, a week turned into a month, and the ring ended up wrapped in a white sock at the very back of your top dresser drawer, in the one part of your bedroom you knew your parents never looked.
Leo also never asked for it back. His mother never noticed it missing at all, which tells you a whole lot about the size of her jewelry box. You took it out, sometimes, late at night, when you were supposed to be asleep. You didn’t put it on, it was too big for your hand anyway, would slide right off if you tried, but a part of you thought maybe you would want to try it on in a few years and see how it felt then.
Age 16.
“Leo, I’m gonna jam an ice cub straight down your back if you don’t stop moving.”
“You’re pressing it too hard against my jaw, it hurts!”
“I’m pressing hard because you have a massive lump forming where you got hit, move your head over.”
You and Leo were sixteen now, side-by-side on the hood of Leo’s vintage cream convertible, the expensive car his father splurged hundreds of thousands of dollars in even though Leo is still only allowed a learning permit, parked under the shade of a massive oak tree at the far edge of the country club parking lot. A bag of melting ice wrapped in a plush club towel was balanced in your hands, pressing firmly against his jawline as Leo was sprawled back against the windshield, long legs stretched out and completely resigned to letting you play medic after a disastrously competitive croquet game. He was wearing a pink polo shirt with the collar undone, looking like he had just walked off the set of a high-end luxury ad campaign and something had gone very wrong during it.
“In ancient times, vanquished knights had whole teams of court maidens to tend to their battle wounds,” Leo hummed, wincing slightly as you pressed the ice towel firmer. “Why am I getting handled so aggressively?”
“Because you tried to show off, took a mallet to the face and then refused to let the club medic touch you. So you get me instead,” you replied calmly, gently shifting the ice pack over his swollen jaw, fully convinced you were not handling him nearly as roughly as he claimed. “You’re getting me an iced coffee for my troubles after this.”
“I’ll get you two iced coffees at the clubhouse,” he said, bright blue eyes crinkling as he grinned up at you. “Which makes me a fantastic husband.”
Letting out a sigh, you didn’t even look down. “We’re not married, Leo.”
“Yet.” Word lazily added as he rested his head back against the glass. “Will you marry me today? We can fly to Vegas, my dad’s pilot is bored, I bet he’d take us right now.”
“No, Leo.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No, Leo.”
A dramatic sigh, an exaggerated drop of his head, back of his wrist thrown over his forehead like a tragic theater actor. “You hurt me. You’re breaking my heart into a million tiny pieces. I do everything for you, I carry your bags, I ask my driver to take you for snack runs at two in the morning, I sit here and let you freeze my face off… where is the gratitude?”
“The gratitude is that I didn’t leave you to fend for yourself,”you said, lifting the dripping ice pack for a second to tap his uninjured cheek. “Keep the towel on it for ten more minutes or your jaw is going to look like a plum tomorrow.”
Leo shifted on the warm hood of the convertible, sliding closer to you, close, too close, really, but the concept of personal space had never quite existed between the two of you the same way it existed for everyone else on the planet. But as he leaned in to rest his chin near your shoulder, a sudden shift in the breeze brought a familiar scent over the smell of sun-warmed fabric. Smile faltering, you didn’t move, but your throat felt very tight, sickening knot of dread twisting in the pit of your stomach.
It was happening more and more lately. The faint, whiskey edge underneath his peppermint gum, the subtle tremor in his fingers when he handed you something, glassiness in those bright blue eyes that he tried hard to mask behind rapid-fire jokes. You knew the signs by heart, now. Knew he had probably slipped into the clubhouse locker room before the game, or poured something into a metal flask he kept hidden in his glove box. It broke your heart in a way you couldn’t put into words, navigating the urge to scream at him and beg him to tell you why he was doing this to himself, why top-shelf liquor was apparently the only thing keeping him tethered when he had an entire world standing right in front of him.
Jesus Christ, he had you. Was that not enough?
Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat, burying the thoughts deep down, so deep you don’t think you’ll be able to find them until another whiff of alcohol reached your nose.
“What?” Leo asked softly, noticing the way you had gone all too quiet. Reached out, long fingers gently hooking into the strap of your wristlet and tugging it lightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing. Just wondering how you managed to lose to that guy,” you lied, forcing your voice to stay light even as your chest ached.
Age 19.
The Pier & Anchor wasn’t technically a club; it was rather an upscale, semi-exclusive beachside lounge built over a wooden boardwalk where rich kids with fake IDs went to pretend they were thirty, which is exactly what you and Leo were doing right there and then. Bass from the speakers vibrated straight up through the floorboards, mixing with the rhythmic crashing of the tide beneath the deck. Everything was loud, the room crowded, floor sticky with spilled elder flower gin. You were four cocktails deep, feeling that floating lightness where your feet didn’t quite feel attached to the your legs and everything everyone around you said was automatically the funniest thing you had ever heard.
Standing right beside you at the bar, Leo was looking absurdly attractive in a light blue shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He had spent the last two hours being the undisputed center of gravity for half the room, laughing with the bartenders ordering expensive shots on his running tab, and slinging a casual arm over your shoulders every time someone tried to squeeze past you in the crowd.
You, in your pink dress and sandals, had told yourself halfway through a paloma, that if Leo attempted to flirt with you tonight, you would let him. That if tried to kiss you, or make a move, you would let him. Or better yet, you’d kiss him back. Maybe drag him to the back of the bar, push him against the wall in the hallway by the bathrooms. There was no plan, nothing concrete that meant you would finally break whatever wall you always kept between the two of you, but there was an intuition. An idea to move forward, because you are both nineteen now, and life would never be fun if you didn’t try to kiss your best friend who was helplessly in love with you at least once in your life.
“Two more palomas, please, Marcus,” Leo called out over the blaring track, leaning over the bar with his dimpled smirk and tapping his credit card on the damp wood, looking entirely in his element.
“Leo, if I drink another paloma I’ll end up trying to backflip into the ocean,” you warned, leaning your hip against the bar and fanning yourself with a paper coaster.
His head turned, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he grinned at you. “I’ll catch you.”
“Excuse me.”
A voice came from your left, all too smooth, with a gravelly accent that cut through the noise. Standing on the other side of your barstool was a guy who looked like he had stepped off a surfboard and straight into your life. Sandy, sun-bleached curls that fell loosely over his forehead, warm hazel eyes, an easygoing smile that made whatever willingness you’d regularly had to push strangers away immediately fade, and he looked just about your age.
“Seat taken, or is it just serving as emotional support for your bag?” the guy asked, tilting his head with a charming grin.
The alcohol in your system made your cheeks feel extra warm, and a little jolt of excitement ran down your spine.
“Oh,” you said, letting out a tipsy giggle as you reached over to scoop your leather clutch off the stool. “Go ahead, it’s all yours.”
“Thanks,” he replied, taking the stool and turning it slightly toward you, leaning one forearm against the counter. “I’m Julian.”
Before you could reply, Leo’s arm materialized out of nowhere, dropping over your shoulders like a curtain. A silver vintage lighter was balanced between his knuckles as he held an unlit cigarette lazily between his teeth. “She’s with me,” Leo said smoothly around the cigarette, and although the words were delivered lazily, with an easy smile, you could tell the moment the usual golden-retriever charm harden slightly into something protective. You liked it.
Julian didn’t seem to flinch at the words. He looked at Leo’s arm over your shoulder, then at Leo, watching the expensive watch on his wrist, the linen shirt. “Are you two together?”
It was a simple question, which meant there was absolutely no reason for you to royally fuck it up. And yet,
“Oh, no! We’re not! This is Leo. He’s my… well, he’s just Leo. We’ve known each other forever.”
Just Leo.
For a fraction of a second, the entire universe seemed to freeze. Leo’s grip on your shoulder tightened just a fraction, then loosened. He had begun opening his mouth to say yes, or obviously, or she’s my wife, the same line he repeated every single time ever since he met you. Instead, he was a beat too late and had to hear you say those words that completely shattered his heart.
You had just looked at a stranger and said, “we’re not together.”
Julian’s smile widened, a confident flash of teeth. “Ah. Got it. I was gonna say, I’d be pretty devastated if I walked all the way across this room just to find out you were taken.”
Your heart did an unexpected flip. Julian was cute, very cute, and he was flirtatious in a way that felt fresh, and completely different from the predictable orbit of Leo.
Over the past couple of years, since high school ended and college started, you had dated. Kissed guys at house parties, hooked up with a frat guy during freshman year, had a three-month fling with a boy from your art history class, spent your summer nights flirting with cute bartenders and summer visitors. It was normal. It was what nineteen-year-olds did. You were figuring yourself out, having fun. And all the while, you never really thought about what Leo was doing during those times. You just assumed he was doing the same. Rich, handsome, girls hovering around him like moths to a flame at every party you went to.
What you didn’t realize was that while you were moving through the world, kissing other boys and having normal college experiences, Leo was completely stalled.
He didn’t want other girls, never had. When girls slid into his lap at parties, he bought them drinks, cracked jokes and made them laugh until their cheeks hurt before politely slipping away to check where you were. When his friends bragged about their hookups, Leo just swigged his beer, flicked ash off his cigarette and kept his mouth shut. He had built an entire universe inside his head where there was only ever one person at the end of aisle, and the idea of touching anyone else felt like a betrayal of a promise only he was keeping. Worse, he was okay with that. Leo was okay with waiting for you.
“So, can I buy you a drink that isn’t a paloma?" Julian said with zero hesitation.
“I actually love palomas,” you giggled, resting your chin in your hand, leaning into Julian’s space. “But I wouldn’t say no to a gin and tonic.”
The rest of that night blurred into a hazy mix of salty ocean air and loud bass. You let yourself get swept up in Julian’s laughter, let him buy you that gin and tonic and walk you out to the boardwalk, let him hold you against a wall and kiss you senseless and put his hand under your skirt until you were shaking, a normal nineteen year old girl being pursued by a cute guy you most likely would never see again.
All the while, you had told yourself Leo was fine. He was always fine, after all. It wasn’t until hours later, when Julian dropped you off back at the beach house around three in the morning, that you realized how wrong you had been.
The house was dark, save for a single flickering light out on the back deck facing the expanse of the Atlantic. You kicked off your heels, humming softly to yourself and stepped through the sliding glass door only to find Leo sitting on the top stair of the deck, alone, blue shirt unbutonned at the chest, sleeves pushed past his elbows, blond hair messy and damp from the sea mist. On the wooden plank beside his bare feet sat an empty bottle of bourbon. You were sure he had heard you approach, but he didn’t move, instead staring at the dark water.
“Leo? What are you doing out here at this time of night?” you whispered, alcohol draining out of your system in a cold rush.
“‘m just thinking. Don’t worry about it.” Which turned out, were the exact right words to get you to worry.
“Leo, how much of that did you drink?” You stepped toward him, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but for what might have been the first time in twelve years of knowing him, he subtly flinched away from your hand. Until that point in time, you could have never predicted how badly that would hurt.
“Just enough,” he murmured, but his eyes remained on the ocean. “Go to sleep, darling. You had a big night.”
Standing there on the deck for a long time, watching the heartbreaking tremor in his fingers as he reached into his pocket for a lighter and a cigarette, the night suddenly shifted and thoughts began to click together like pieces of a puzzle. Earlier that night, you had tossed words off to a handsome stranger, an attempt to sound funny and available, and in that attempt had managed to compromise the one good thing in your life. For twelve years, you treated his devotion like an inevitable constant, something that would always be there no matter how many times you mocked it. Treating his heart like an unbreakable toy and actively teaching him that his love was embarrassing. That all the time and patience he had for you did not even earn him the right to be called something more than ‘just Leo’ in front of a guy you had known for five minutes.
Unbeknownst to you, that night changed something for Leo. Leo, who used to drink because it was fun, because he was rich and he could, because high-society parties were too boring without alcohol in his veins, now became Leo who drank to numb the excruciating reality that he was irrevocably in love with a girl who kept him tucked safely in the background of her life.
Morning sun rises slowly over Leo’s apartment, the distant hum of urban traffic a quiet sound drowned out almost entirely by the whir of the heavy espresso machine heating up against the dark marble of the kitchen counter. Despite the inconvenience of turning that loud sound on early in the morning, you are moving quietly through his kitchen, sock-covered feet making virtually no sound against the smooth floorboards. Drowning (quite comfortably, you might add) in one of Leo’s oversized vintage button-downs, faded indigo fabric with the sleeves rolled up clumsily in uneven folds three times past your wrists so your hands can function properly. The hem falls generously well past your mid-thigh, swishing against your legs as you move.
And on the far side of the massive open living space, sprawled across the sofa, lies Leo.
In the stillness of a Sunday morning, he is curled sideaways against the cushions like a tired puppy, having managed to migrate entirely off his king-sized bed down the hall at some point in the early hours, seeking out the living room couch for reasons known only to his subconscious. One arm is wrapped tightly around a soft throw pillow, holding it against his chest like a child holding its favorite plushie, while the other is hanging lazily off the edge of the leather frame, tips of his fingers brushing lightly against the fluffy white rug beneath.
While the espresso machine finishes its warming cycle, you step away from the counter and wander down the hallway toward his bedroom, aiming to find a scrunchie in that one drawer you’ve come to know too well.
Over the span of the past few years, without a single word of discussion, the top drawer behind the doors of his dresser was meticulously transformed into a dedicated sanctuary for your belongings. Arranged in neat little rows is an entire collection of your life: a stash of your favorite claw clips, a handful of silk scrunchies in muted pastel tones, a fresh set of silk pajamas that smells like your laundry detergent, full-sized bottles of the exact night cream, cleanser and toner you use at home.
Leo never made a grand gesture out of it. He had simply noticed what you used when you were at your apartment, bought every single item himself and tucked them neatly into his own living space so that you would never have to worry about packing an overnight bag or have to feel like a temporary guest. An almost natural progression from having a drawer with his favorite snacks back at your place when you were children.
Grabbing a dark tortoise-shell claw clip, you twist your hair up into a loose knot at the back of your head before walking back out toward the kitchen. The couch cushions shift loudly as you grab yourself a mug, a dramatic groan echoing across the open expanse of the living room. Leo buries his face deeper into a pillow, lets out a muffled sigh and then a groan that sounds like an engine trying to turn over on a cold day before rolling onto his back. He blinks against the bright light, blue eyes bleary with sleep. And the first thing he does is search the room until he finds you.
His sluggish morning brain completes its boot sequence the moment his gaze locks into you standing by the kitchen island, in his shirt, with a steaming mug in your hands.
“Com’ere,” he rasps, voice off center with sleep, stripped of his usual goofiness. You take a few careful steps toward him.
“I’m holding hot liquid, Leo,” you inform gently. “Why did you fall asleep on the couch?”
“Doesn’t matter. Com’ere,” he grunts, not moving an inch of his back though his arms extend toward you in an unashamed invitation.
There is zero actual resistance in your steps as you walk over slowly shaking your head, because you’ve played this exact game too many times to pretend you’re going to win it now. The second you get within arm’s reach, Leo moves with surprising speed for someone who was unconscious thirty seconds ago, arms reaching out and catching you securely around the waist. Doesn’t tug hard enough to make you spill your coffee, but there is a solid momentum to the pull, maneuvering you down onto the edge of the cushions.
“Leo, watch the mug—”
“I’ve got it,” he mumbles, shifting his frame effortlessly to make room.
Before you can settle yourself properly, he moves his body, adjusting until your back is resting comfortably against the armrest of the sofa and his head is planted right in your lap. Buries his face directly into the side of your hip, letting out a long exhale that blows warm air through the thin cotton of your (his) shirt. One of his arms coils firmly around your waist, large palm against your power back, anchoring you down into his space as if he’s afraid you might float away if he lets go.
For a long stretch of time, neither of you says anything. The apartment is completely serene, and you carefully set your coffee mug down on the end table beside the couch, free of the immediate danger of scalding either of you, and rest your right hand on top of his head. Gentle fingers trace mindless paths through his messy hair, smoothing down the stubborn tufts that are sticking up at odd angles. Leo lets out a low hum of approval deep in his chest, vibrating against your thigh, and then you feel him shift barely an inch, head turning slowly and lips pressing the softest kiss to the skin of your knee. Fleeting, the kiss, too light and so entirely natural to him that he doesn’t even pause afterward, and his breathing settles back into a steady rhythm against your hip.
It is infuriating, really, how naturally he occupies your space. How he assumes, without a shred of hesitation, that your lap belongs to his head, that your time belongs to his morning, your presence the default setting of his life. How often he handles you with so much affection, sharing with you the kind of intimacy that would ruin friendships for anyone else. A dangerous line you two have walked for years.
From the outside, to anyone who didn’t know better, this would look like a relationship. Two people who fall asleep together and wake up entangled in the soft morning light. And the truth is, it isn’t just your lap he claims or your knees he kisses. It’s the way his lips will graze your temple when he walks past you in a crowded room, how he’ll press a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth when saying goodbye, how he’ll pull you flush against his chest on cold nights, resting his chin on top of your head until you both drift off. Touches that no regular friends would share.
And yet for all the blurred edges, something between the two of you never fully cracked. The serious conversations never fully bloomed, nothing was ever labeled properly. Half-joking attempts at proposals that you shoot down always while letting actual feelings unravel slowly between you without being acknowledged. Sharing his bed, wearing his clothes, but keeping your heart firmly behind glass.
Leo turns his head slightly, resting his cheek against your thigh now.
“Have I told you today how much I love my wife?” he murmurs into the soft fabric of the shirt. You roll your eyes even though the comment helplessly turns your lips up into a smile. Reaching over, you pick up the warm ceramic mug from the side table, and gently tap the cool outer base of it against the crown of his head.
“Been telling me since I was seven, Leo. You’ve filled your quota for the first fifty years of our lives, I think,” you say softly, a poor attempt at exasperation in your tone.
“Well, I can’t let you forget it,” he hums lazily, arm tightening around your waist just a fraction. For a second, silence settles again, but only until Leo shifts and taps a slow rhythm against your skin with his fingers. “You’re coming with me on Friday, right?”
Friday night. Ever since you were seven and moved to this town, the Foundation Gala, the Reilly family’s annual charity event, has been the crown jewel of the town’s high-society season. A lavish grand spectacle held at the estate belonging to Leo’s parents, the kind of night where the champagne flows like water, live bands play on perfectly kept lawns, and Leo’s mother and father make their grand reappearance after staying gone to remote islands and business trips for more than half the year. They will pose for photographs and pretend to be the picture of domestic perfection, completely oblivious to the hollow space they leave behind in their son’s life every time they pack a suitcase.
And Leo will move through the crowd of hundreds of wealthy, wine-drunk guests with his dimpled grin that makes everyone feel a bit warmer inside. Will charm the wives of his father’s business partners, crack effortless jokes and, above all, pretend he isn’t secretly drowning. With all the skill of a seasoned actor, you know that is what he does best, because every single time, you are right there by his side to watch him do it.
“Mom’s been on my back about the guest list for three weeks. If I go alone, she’ll spend the entire night trying to introduce me to the daughters of the country club friends.”
You pause, fingers slowing in his hair. “I thought you were taking Penelope,” you say, trying to keep your voice offhanded, and somehow failing marginally, because the thought has been quietly picking at your brain for some time now. Penelope had been the newest addition to your broader social circle. Gorgeous and polished, a woman who looked like she would belong perfectly on the arm of a Reilly heir. You’ve watched Leo charm her at dinner parties and laugh at her jokes with that wide smile of his.
Leo doesn’t seem to immediately make the same connection you’ve made. He slowly uncoils from your lap and sits back against the sofa cushions, leaning close enough that you can see the tiny gold flecks in his blue eyes. “Penelope?” He repeats as if the suggestion sounds absurd in his mouth.
“You’ve been very friendly over the past weeks. She’s sweet, I thought maybe you’d like to take her.”
“You thought wrong,” he interrupts gently. “You know there’s never been anyone but you.”
You know there’s never been anyone but you.
A violent thud stutters against your ribs, spine-chilling realization swelling in your chest. Not for the way he feels; you’ve known about it for years, since you were seven and he decided to tell you in that playground that you would be his wife one day. Rather, you are discovering your own feelings. Admittedly, they haven’t just sprung up out of nowhere. You know they have always been there, deep down, rooted so deeply into the foundation of your life that you can’t separate them from your own pulse. A part of you has loved him through every joke and school note, every act of devotion he never asked credit for. But you spent eighteen long years building a fortress around yourself, almost two decades of deflecting his advances with laughter and steady stream of “No, Leo”s, teaching yourself to treat his advances like fragile jokes you could never take seriously.
And now, feeling the unsettling bloom of love unfolding in your chest, you feel entirely helpless. You wouldn’t even begin to know how to show it to him. How do you rewrite eighteen years of instinct in a moment’s notice? How do you tear down walls you built to keep your own heart safe? After turning him down for what feels like thousands of times, the prospect of reaching across the gap and admitting that you are falling, that you have been falling, hell, that you already have fallen, feels like stepping off a cliff into total darkness. You wouldn’t even know how to hold his hand as a lover without feeling like an imposter in a life you’ve shared forever.
So you swallow the confessions before they can reach your tongue, burying them under familiar safety.
“You flirted with her all night last Saturday. Even bought her drinks,” you remind him, objection coming out far weaker than you intended.
“I bought everyone drinks. That’s what you do when you’re rich,” Leo replies, a ghost of his usual self-deprecating smile touching the corner of his lips before fading into something more serious. “And I didn’t flirt with her. Well… okay. I kind of flirted. Sometimes I do that to see if you get jealous. Haven’t been lucky so far.”
His hands shift, and long fingers slide over your shoulder, into the nape of your neck, palm warm against your skin, tilting your head up just a fraction. “I’ve only ever wanted you. You’ve known that since we were seven years old.”
You know he’s telling the truth. That is the most agonizing part of it all, that Leo has never lied to you about how he feels, that he has spent his entire life wearing his devotion on his sleeve, making a joke of it only because you wouldn’t let him hold it out in the open.
“If I go with you,” you start, “you are not allowed to hide in the study with a bottle of scotch after an hour.”
A familiar, golden-retriever enthusiasm flickers back into his eyes. “Negotiating conditions already?”
“I’m serious, Leo. No disappearing and no drinking until you can’t remember who you’re talking to. You stay with me.”
His expressions softens naturally, and he leans in, nose brushing against your cheek, warm breath that makes your skin tremble, and his lips move slowly as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, close enough to make your heart skip a beat, but hovering tantalizingly over that invisible line you haven’t crossed yet. It would be easy to turn your face just an inch and taste those pink lips on yours. So easy. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” Leo murmurs against your cheek, voice so teasing that it rivals directly the words coming out of his mouth. “Wear something pretty for me?”
Despite the knot of anxiety twisting in your stomach about Friday night, you let your head rest against his shoulder. “Yeah, fine.”
Friday afternoon sure comes fast enough to find yourself with your black dress zipped up, fabric clinging smoothly to your frame, eyes falling to the heels resting by the door, waiting for you. Yet, as ready as you might be, you find yourself standing frozen in front of your vanity mirror, gaze flickering between different points of the room as if waiting for an answer to every question you have ever had to materialize magically. Even the ticking of the clock on the wall sounds unnervingly loud for a moment.
A glance in the mirror reveals the exact silhouette you had expected for tonight. Careful makeup, a dress that makes you look every bit as expensive as your family is, a polished exterior meant for a room full of people who have more money than they know what to do with. Except, in the midst of all that, the only thing you are thinking about is Leo.
For eighteen years, deflecting Leo Reilly was practically a survival instinct. Counteracting every dramatic proposal with a no, thanking every act of devotion with just laughter or a sarcastic reply to keep feelings at bay instead of reeling them in. The fear had always been the same: if you ever let yourself fall, if you surrendered to the magnetic pull, the only constant in your life might shatter. What started as a joke had become the one thing in your life you could not afford to let go of. And what of his reckless habits? The faint smell of scotch hidden beneath gum? Loving him meant opening up to a heartbreak you weren’t sure you could survive, even if you knew, deep down, that a part of his own self-destructive tendencies came as the only way he could think of to lessen the pain of not having you.
Lately, though, the air has shifted. Calculated distance has become suffocating weight. Pretending your heart doesn’t stutter every time his breath brushes your neck, or that his read resting in your lap on Sunday mornings isn’t the anchor of your entire week is an unsustainable lie. Every time a hand is put up to push him back, another one is longing to pull him closer instead.
With a certain kind of self awareness you are thankful for, you understand that things changed mostly when Penelope came along.
Watching Leo charm her at dinner parties over the past few weeks hit like a icy bucket of water over a lingering dream. It feels deeply unfair, shameful, really, that it took the quiet threat of another woman stepping into his life to finally shatter your defenses. You hate that jealousy was the spark that ignited your resolve, that after nearly twenty years of Leo’s unyielding love, it took only a rival to make you face the truth.
It makes you feel flawed and selfish, and you sit with that discomfort instead of looking away from it. Because for the longest time, you believed love announced itself cleanly. That it would arrive like a single lightning strike, and then all you had to do was act on it. It’s the version of yourself you’d like to be, someone brave enough to have looked at Leo across a hundred ordinary mornings and just know, without needing anything to threaten it first.
There’s no dignified way to spin that. You didn’t wake up one day newly capable of loving him; you woke up afraid, and fear turned out to be a sharper motivator than devotion ever was. That’s the part that sits heaviest in your chest as you stand in front of the mirror. Not that you love him, because you have always loved him, in whatever buried way you allowed yourself, but that your heart reacts better to scarcity than certainty, the one thing Leo has given you unconditionally since you were seven. He made loving you effortless and low-stakes for you, safe, and maybe that’s why you never had to reckon with it, because there was no cost to deflecting a love that never wavered. It’s an ugly thing to realize about yourself. You wonder, standing here in your black dress with hands not quite steady, whether that makes what you feel for him less real. Whether wanting him now, finally, honestly, is somehow cheapened by the fact that you didn’t get here on your own.
But maybe love shouldn’t be measured by how it arrives, only that it’s there now. The most human part of it all, that people rarely find their courage in the calm, that it so often takes almost losing something before you can see it clearly enough to hold onto it.
You exhale slowly, pressing your palms flat against the cool surface of the vanity, and let your eyes drift toward the top drawer of your dresser. Almost on instinct, you walk over and your hand reaches out to slide it open, wood creaking softly in the quiet. Right at the very back, tucked beneath a stack of ordinary, forgotten things, rests a ball of faded cotton that used to be a plain white sock. Your fingers work slowly to untangle it until the item inside spills onto your open palm. Heavy, and cold, the dwindling sunlight from the window catches the stone, fracturing into dazzling shards of white and blue light across your ceiling.
The ring glitters just as fiercely as it did fifteen years ago on the carpet of Leo’s bedroom floor, when an ten-year-old boy with pinkish cheeks and innocent blue eyes stole it straight out of his mother’s jewelry box. You remember the utter panic that seized you back then, convinced his mother was going to notice and he would get grounded and he was going to drag you down with him. You had told him you’d safekeep it and find a way to put it back, afraid he never would.
Now, you look down at the sparkling rock sitting in your palm. It was never an accident that you kept it.
You didn’t forget to give it back to his mother, and you certainly didn’t lose it in the clutter of growing up. Had kept it wrapped away in that soft cotton sock through grade school, middle school, high school, straight through college, always in the back of your drawer but never lost. You kept it because deep down, you always knew.
Knew that if anyone was ever going to hold your heart, it was going to be the boy who painted your toenails with the concentration of a surgeon in your bedroom and the boy who repainted your bedroom just because you no longer liked the old color. The boy who had built an entire universe inside his head where there was only ever one person waiting for him at the end of the aisle.
Slowly, you raise your left hand and you bring the heavy band to your ring finger, sliding it over until it settles. It doesn’t slide off or wobble like it did when you were ten. Instead, it glides on smoothly and rests comfortably at the base of your finger.
Like maybe it’s finally exactly where it should be.
The Reilly estate comes into view slowly, headlights sweeping over the long gravel drive lined with valet attendants in crisp black vests. You have made this drive more times than you can count over the years, birthdays and holidays and every Gala since you were a teenager and Leo started inviting you as his plus one, but tonight your palms feel a bit damp as you shift in the back seat of the limo, your parents’ chauffer driving you to the meeting point.
You spot Leo before you’re even fully parked, standing at the base of the wide stone staircase that leads up to the estate’s grand entrance, exactly where he told you he’d be. He’s swapped his usual colorful clothing for a white dinner jacket tonight, with a deep burgundy vest peeking out beneath it, fabric embroidered faintly enough to catch light without looking gaudy. His black bow tie hangs loose and undone around his collar, because apparently some things never change no matter how old the two of you get, and his hair has been combed very carefully.
There’s something restless in the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot at the bottom of the stairs, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the driveway like he’s been counting the seconds since you told him you’d meet him instead of letting him pick you up. You had insisted. He argued, of course, some long-winded speech about how a gentleman should always pick up his date and you simply rolled your eyes and reminded him he had actual party-hosting duties to attend to. He’d relented eventually, though not without extracting a promise that you’d text him the second you left your apartment, which you had, and clearly he’s been standing at that staircase ever since.
When you step out of the car, Leo’s shoulders pull back, his posture straightens and he starts moving toward you before you’ve even fully shut the car door behind you.
“You didn’t have to make me stand out here like an idiot. Should’ve let me pick you up,” he says, with no real bite, just relief to finally see you. His eyes drag over you, cataloguing every detail and committing it to memory. “I know I asked you to wear something pretty but this is is… a whole new level. You might leave me out of breath. I might need mouth-to-mouth. Will you save me?”
That makes you giggle. “You’ll survive, Leo.” Your hands reach for him, tugging gently on his sleeve. “Your bowtie’s a mess, let me fix it.” Before he can spiral into whatever half-formed sentimental thing was clearly building behind his eyes, you pull him by the loose ends of the black silk and your fingers work quickly, tightening the fabric properly around his throat, a task you’ve performed more times than you can count, muscle memory taking over. Leo stands very still and lets you, hands falling loose at his sides.
“There. Presentable,” you murmur once it’s done, smoothing your palm flat against his chest, right over the burgundy vest.
“Barely,” he replies. You’re about to pull your hands back down when his gaze drops and lands on your fingers still resting against his lapel, and you watch the exact moment it happens.
How his entire face goes still, some automatic teasing comment dying somewhere behind his teeth before it can even fully form. Blue eyes fix on your left hand, on the ring catching the night lights. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, but nothing comes out. For the first time since you’ve met him, Leo Reilly has absolutely nothing to say.
His own hand comes up slow, fingers hovering just beneath yours like he needs to confirm what he’s seeing is real before he actually dares to touch it. Doesn’t quite manage to make contact, hand suspended in the space between you, and when his eyes finally lift to your face, they’re glassy in a way you’ve genuinely never seen on him before. A boy who spent eighteen years waiting, now staring directly at proof that the waiting might be over.
“That’s— Is that—” he starts, voice cracking clean in half.
You only smile, and thread your fingers loosely through his, the hand with the ring on it, resting easily inside his palm like it belongs there, which you suppose it always has.
“Come on, your parents are probably already looking for you,” you say, giving his hand the smallest tug toward the staircase.
Leo doesn’t move right away, just stands there for one more beat, dumbfounded, staring down at your joined hands like he’s terrified that if he blinks it’ll turn out to have been a very elaborate hallucination brought on by too many stressful hours, or maybe all the alcohol he’s had in his entire life is finally catching up to his brain functions.
“You’re wearing it,” a mumble as he wobbles slightly to follow you up the stairs, his face doing something you’ve never seen it do. “You’re… wearing it.”
“I am wearing it,” you confirm.
“You kept it. This whole time, you— fifteen years. You’ve had it for fifteen years, and you never—”
“Leo.” You squeeze his hand, cutting him off before he can talk himself into a full spiral right there on the front steps in front of the valet attendants. “You can crash out on me later, promise. But can we not do this here right now? Your mother is going to come looking for you any minute and I’d rather not have this conversation in front of her.”
A shaky chuckle leaves him, rough around the edges but genuine, and he lets you pull him up the remaining steps toward the towering front doors, golden light and champagne-glass chatter spilling out to meet you. On the way, Leo doesn’t let go of your hand, thumb rubbing absent circles over your knuckles needing the physical confirmation every few seconds that you’re actually still there, still wearing his ring.
The two of you make it maybe ten feet past the entrance before his mother descends on him in a flurry of perfume and pearls, sweeping him into an obligatory embrace for the benefit of a hovering photographer, and Leo throws you a helpless look over her shoulder, right before his father claps him on the back and steers him toward a cluster of business associates who all want a photo with the Reilly heir. You watch him go, slip effortlessly into the performance he’s given a thousand times, dimpled smile in place, easy laugh on cue, and you find a quiet corner near the terrace doors to wait it out.
It’s while you’re standing there that you spot Penelope near the champagne fountain, in a deep emerald gown that fits her like it was poured onto her, dark hair swept up in loose curls, laughing at something one of the Whitfield sons is saying. She looks infuriatingly lovely, the way she always does, and something unwelcome twists in your stomach.
It’s ridiculous, you know. You’re wearing his ring, and even then some old reflex in your chest wants to bristle at the sight of her, to catalogue exactly how many times Leo’s eyes might drift her way tonight. It doesn’t matter that she’s never done a single unkind thing to you, that she’s always been warm and easy and has no idea of the quiet role she played in shoving you toward tonight.
Penelope catches your eye across the room and lifts a hand in a friendly wave, and you make yourself smile back, wave in return, because none of this insecurity is her fault, and then exhale slowly, trying to talk yourself down.
“There you are.” Leo’s voice comes right against your ear, and then his hand is at the small of your back, having extracted himself from his parents’ orbit faster than you expected. His gaze follows yours before you can redirect it, lands on Penelope across the room, and he smiles. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you tell him way too quickly.
Leo doesn’t look convinced, but instead of pushing, his fingers find yours, tugging gently. “Dance with me.”
You groan in complaint. “Leo, I hate dancing.”
“You hate dancing with anyone who isn’t me.” Already pulling you toward the small cleared space near the quartet, where a handful of couples are swaying beneath strings of light, Leo is quick to guide you through the crowd. “I just want an excuse to have my hands on you. Will you give me that?”
His hand settles at your waist, yours finds his shoulder out of pure muscle memory, and the two of you fall into step like you’ve done this a thousand times, which you have, at every one of these galas, except tonight there’s an extra weight between your joined hands.
“So, you saw Penelope,” Leo says quietly after a few slow turns, forehead nearly resting against yours.
“I don’t want to talk about Penelope.”
“I do, actually. Just for one second.” His hand at your waist tightens slightly, thumb pressing warm through the fabric of your dress. “I need you to know there’s nothing there. I flirted with her just enough to see if it’d get a reaction out of you which, for the record, is very pathetic behavior on my part and I regret every second of it now that I know it actually worked.”
Those words land like a personal offense, even if you know they are absolutely true. “It didn’t work,” you mutter, even as your face heats.
“You’re wearing my mom’s stolen ring on your left hand right now. It worked.”
You huff, biting back a smile you don’t quite manage to hide, and he laughs, spinning you slowly beneath the string lights. For a moment you stay quiet, just moving together in that easy rhythm, and the ridiculous knot of jealousy finally starts to loosen, dissolving beneath the weight of his hand at your waist. There’s never been anything between him and Penelope. You believe him.
His hand slides slightly higher on your waist, pulling you infinitesimally closer, and the space between you shrinks until there’s barely a breath of it left. Warmth radiates off him, and you smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the expensive champagne, and his eyes drop to your mouth for half a second too long before flicking back up, restrained ache living behind them.
“I’ve spent eighteen years imagining a hundred different versions of this moment. None come close.” His head tilts, just slightly, nose brushing along your cheekbone, lips a fraction of an inch from finally closing that distance you’ve spent too long carefully maintaining. Pulse hammering somewhere in your throat, you can feel his breath warm against your mouth, lips parting, his, yours, and in a spark of bravery, you close the gap just enough so that your mouths press for only a second, not a fully kiss but rather a brush of lips, a peck, if anything, but enough that you feel him trembling against you. “You— that’s— fuck, come on. That’s unfair.”
He’s still got that look on his face, blinking at you like the floor just tilted under him, when you laugh a little breathless, and definitely all too pleased with yourself for throwing him off balance properly.
“Unfair how?” All faux-innocence, even though your heart is thundering so hard you’re convinced he can feel it through the fabric of your dress.
“Eighteen years of waiting and you give me that? A whole two seconds of contact? And you expect me now to just keep dancing and being normal?” He complains with a frustrated sigh.
“That was the deal, no disappearing tonight. Which means no dragging me off into some closet, Leo,” you remind him, even as your fingers curl a little tighter into the lapel of his jacket, unwilling to actually put any real distance between you.
“I wasn’t going to suggest a closet.” A beat, then his blue eyes flick, very obviously, toward the dim hallway leading down. “But the wine cellar has excellent acoustics. For discussion purposes.”
“Leo.”
“Okay, fine,” he relents, laughing under his breath, though the look he gives the hallway one more time makes it clear the wine cellar suggestion isn’t fully off the table for some future night. “I’ll behave, mostly.”
True to his word, he keeps you close for the rest of the evening instead of vanishing the way he used to. Every time his parents try to peel him off toward some cluster of donors, his hand finds yours again within minutes, tugging you back into the fold of the conversation like it’s the most natural thing in the world for his fiancée to be standing right there beside him. By one in the morning, the crowd has thinned considerably, older guests retreating to their cars, waitstaff quietly clearly champagne flutes off the lawn. Leo finds you by the terrace doors again, bowtie completely undone now, jacket slung over one shoulder.
Proud to have fulfilled every single condition of your agreement, no disappearing, no alcohol, he parades his impeccable behavior knowing it’ll earn him what he’s wanted most his entire life: you.
He tucks you into his side, and you let him. “Can I take you home?”
You don’t hesitate to say yes.
The drive back is quiet in the best way, comfortable silence settling as city lights slide past the windows, Leo’s hand resting over yours on the console the entire way and thumb moving over the ring, against your knuckles. Leo has driven you home a thousand times, sometimes to your apartment, sometimes to his, but never has the moment felt like it does now, and never have you seen him quiet for such a long period of time. Your Leo is a chatterbox; and you realize during this drive that you quite like it when he runs his mouth, but still a part of you is strangely proud that you’ve made him a bit more introverted tonight.
His apartment looks the same as it always does when you walk inside, couch slightly rumpled from where he most likely passed out on it the previous nights, but at least there are no immediate signs of bottles anywhere that could ruin the butterflies in your stomach. The door clicks shut behind you, and you both toe off your shoes in the entryway at the same time, a wordless habit, oxford shoes landing haphazardly beside your heels.
You’ve barely straightened back up before his hands find your waist.
“Let me kiss you,” he says, desperation clear in his tone, nothing playful left in it this time. His forehead drops to rest against yours, both arms coming to surround you and pull you against him, and he sighs, a little shaky, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip. “Please, please, please, let me kiss you. Don’t make me wait again.”
Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, and you think, for a half a second, about being a tease and make him wait again, but the way his blue eyes are staring straight into yours like he’s about to run out of air to breathe and you are his salvation does very little to your composure. Without anything left to deflect with, your hands pull on his vest and you push your lips against his. Leo exhales into your mouth, the relief of a man who can breathe again, one hand coming up from your back and tangling in your hair, tilting your head exactly where he wants it, and the other splays wide on the small of your back, keeping you flush against him until there’s no space left at all. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath your fingertips, his usual easy version completely gone and replaced with a desperate man.
When his lips part yours, gentle, you answer without hesitation, tongue sliding into his mouth and meeting his halfway. Leo shifts his hips closer and makes a pained sound into your lips, nose wrinkling against yours, and you feel it, a shift, something, an unexpected reaction that tells you maybe he had been meaning to slow the kiss down and you had just done quite the opposite. And then, just as obvious as everything else about tonight, a sudden hardness presses firm against your hips through the dark fabric of your dress, directly under his pants.
Intoxicatingly hot is the thought of absolute lack of control from Leo. Still, a breathless chuckle bubbles up in your throat, and you start to pull your head back, intent on teasing him, even if briefly, just to watch his cheeks flush red under the dim entry hall lights.
“Leo—”
“No, don’t. Don’t stop—don’t stop kissing me.” His hands tighten instantly, one on your hair, the other on your back, and his eyes are blown wide, chest heaving like he just ran a mile. “Please. Mock me mercilessly later, but don’t stop kissing me now.”
You don’t stop. Lips mold together perfectly, tasting him, him tasting you, a string of saliva connecting you whenever you part for half a second to get hair and dive back in. It’s slow but no less messy, tongues moving together and curling into each other, and Leo shifts his hips once, experimentally, you think, the friction making him whine in pleasure, easily the most satisfying sound you have ever heard him make.
You answer by tilting your head and catching his lower lip between your teeth, tugging gently, and he surges forward again, like he’s trying to close a gap that is no longer there, trying to keep himself grounded and the only way is through your mouth. His hips twitch again, a little less controlled, small involuntary rolls that grind him against you in time with the way his tongue strokes yours. The pressure grows insistent with every second and a small part of you brain is saying that maybe you should slow down, because Leo is very clearly on the edge of something he can’t control, but you, now hopelessly addicted to the way he seems to lose it just by touching you, cannot stop. You can’t pry yourself away from him, your own kind of ecstasy, getting high on his reactions to you.
You almost taste in his saliva the moment he begins to lose himself, when his body starts to tense, shoulders locking, hand in your hair clenching hard enough to sting in the best way, and Leo is now the one who tries to pull back just a fraction, maybe to warn you, but you chase his mouth and refuse to let him go, moaning his name into the depths of him.
That’s all it takes to make him break instead of bend. A broken sound spills from him when he comes, hips jerking against yours and you feel the wet heat bloom between you almost immediately, soaking through the front of his trousers and leaving its mark. He keeps kissing you through it, messy and open-mouthed, and trembling so hard you have to wrap both arms around him and hold him upright, afraid his knees are about to give out.
Leo doesn’t move for a long moment, forehead pressed against yours, breathing uneven, both of you swaying slightly in the entryway like the floor’s trying to right itself under your feet. When he finally pulls back to look at you, his face is a mess of things; underneath all of them, particularly, he is mortified.
“Oh my god. Hey, so… I’m so sorry. What the fuck, that’s— that was so embarrassing, that has never happened to me.” He drags a hand down his face, refusing to meet your eyes now, ears burning red.
One of your hands comes up to cup his cheek. “Leo, please, it’s okay.”
“Well, I mean, it’s not okay, we could technically forget it ever happened, but it’s just, you know, I don’t—” He cuts himself off, shoulders curling in slightly.
“No, I mean, it is okay. I kinda liked it.”
That earns you the smallest flicker of a smile, quickly buried again under another wave of embarrassment. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“I’m not, I found it hot, if I’m being honest.” You watch the blush deepen impossibly further at that, and then he’s quiet for a moment, jaw working as he decides whether to actually say what’s sitting right behind his teeth. finally he exhales, chews on his bottom lip before he clears his throat.
“I, uh… might be slightly inexperienced.” A pause, like he’s bracing for your reaction. Or worse, rejection. “Or, like, fully inexperienced. Hum. I’m still… you know.”
You blink. “Leo.”
“I know how that sounds! I swear I’m not making this up. I’ve hard plenty of opportunities, I’ve brought girls home before, a handful of times, but every single time I just— couldn’t. No matter who it was, all I could think about was you. Felt like I was cheating on you even though we never dated at all. Is that pathetic? It feels a little pathetic.”
“No, that’s not pathetic,” you say softly, thumb brushing along his cheekbone and then you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth and feel him loosen up, like he’s been holding that confession in for ears, which, he has been. “Is it okay if we… I mean, do you want to? Tonight?”
“Yes,” he says immediately, then catches himself, slightly flustered at how quickly he gave you that answer, but it dissipates promptly when you smile at him, bright and wide. “I mean… yes, I really want to. But only if you really want to, too, I’m not trying to rush you just because I’m a twenty five year old virgin.”
The answer to his words come in the form of your fingers sliding down his chest, finding the buttons of his burgundy vest and undoing them one by one, slow enough that he has to watch every moment and try to keep himself in check. You push it off his shoulders when its open, and he helps, shrugging out of it and letting it drop somewhere behind him without looking. Next comes the white shirt, and you work the buttons free while he stands there trembling under your touch.
“Relax. It’s just me,” you whisper, fingers teasingly moving down the expanse of his chest as it slowly is revealed under the shirt. You and Leo have spent enough time together that seeing his chest isn’t a surprise. You’ve been at the beach together, you have even helped him undress when drunk. Still, your eyes look at him differently tonight, taking in small details like you hadn’t before. How his skin prickles when your fingertips dip down, the hair peppered across his chest, the soft definition of his stomach.
“Kinda hard to relax because it’s you,” he whispers back. When the last button slips free you spread the fabric apart and finally lay your palms flat against bare skin, warm under your touch. Leo makes a helpless sound and leans into the contact like he’s starved for it. “Are you teasing me? Feels like you’re teasing me.”
You lean in and kiss him again, smiling against his lips and he melts into it, one hand resting at the side of your neck, holding you close.
“Would you like to take off my dress?” You ask when the kiss breaks. Leo’s eyes go comically large at that.
“Yes. Jesus, yes, okay—” His hands shakily move to your back, finding the zipper of your dress and drawing it open with care, cool air kissing the newly exposed skin of your spine. When the zipper reaches the bottom he peels the fabric with both hands, sliding the dress of your shoulders until it slips down your arms and pools at your feet in a soft rustle of silk.
In front of Leo, barefoot and a little breathless, you’re left standing in nothing but your panties. He takes a half-step back just to look at you, admiring how the light catches on bare skin and the simple lace of your underwear. His eyes trail down shamelessly, fixating on your breasts for a moment before diving down to the soft curve of your waist, the plumpness of your thighs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, stepping into your space again and letting his hands drop to your waist, thumbs brushing the soft skin just above the waistband of your panties. You notice, with special interest, how despite 67~ vulnerable you are right now, almost fully naked right in front of him, he doesn’t immediately reach to touch places he wasn’t allowed to touch before, instead deciding to keep his hands somewhere safe and familiar. With soft pressure applied to your body, he walks you backward toward the bedroom, leaning forward to catch your lips in a kiss as he guides you through the familiar layout of his apartment. You’ve been here hundreds of times before, have slept here, on his couch, on his bed, with him, too many times to count. Yet when the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress, your heart skips a beat, eyes looking up to meet his.
Slowly, he guides you down onto the bed, helping you lay against the expensive sheets which you’ve helped pick, smelling exactly like the floral laundry detergent that you love. Leo grabs one of the pillows from the headboard and places it under your head, and you know it’s yours, too, by the way it feels under you. Your body sinks comfortably against the mattress and Leo follows, careful not to put his full weight on you, settling between your thighs, and the still-damp front of his trousers brushes against the thin lace of your panties.
You watch him swallow down before he kisses your cheek and begins trailing down, from your cheek to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, inhaling your scent. Eyes closed, he simply stays there for a few seconds, nose grazing the dip of your neck, the faintest brush of teeth. One hand is braced beside your head, and the other moves over your side before it reaches your breasts, thumb stroking the soft underside and then cupping one of them fully. Your back arches off the bed, a soft moan leaving your lips and he immediately looks up to see your expression, lips parted, cheeks flushed, fingers massaging the flesh before he rubs the nipple under his fingers.
“Leo…” A whisper of his name is enough to drag another noises out of him, disbelieving, and he stays locked in on your face for a heartbeat longer, watching the way your lips part around his name, the flush climbing your cheeks. Then, with careful movements, he kneels between your legs and moves both hands to cradle the weight of your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tighten under his touch.
An open-mouthed kiss to the upper curve of one breast, then the other, lingering there like he’s trying to map the texture of your skin, his tongue traces a slow path downward, circling closer and closer to the peak without quite touching it yet. when he finally takes your nipple into his mouth, the heat of him makes you whimper, and he sucks gently first, then a little more intense, tongue flicking across the sensitive tip while his other hand kneads the opposite breast, thumb rolling the neglected nipple in circles. There’s a bit of an uncertainty to the way he moves, every action just right but also always a little bit unsure, which, granted, you imagine has much to do with his inexperience. But he makes up for innocence with enthusiasm, licking and suckling the way a starving man would.
Leo switches sides without hurry, giving the second breast the same devoted attention, kissing and sucking until the nipple is wet and flushed and your eyes are rolling into the back of your head, a sight he catches quickly when he looks up from your breasts without letting go of your nipple. He nuzzles into the soft valley of your breasts, inhaling deeply, then returns to lavishing them with his warm mouth.
“Wanna stay here forever,” a whisper between kisses. “ ‘m gonna stay here forever. Will you let me?”
Your fingers slide into his hair, and you watch him behind heavy eyes, how he looks completely lost in the simple act of tasting you, and he keeps going until both of your breasts are glistening from his mouth, until every brush of his tongue and roll of his thumb pull weak sounds from your throat. Only then does he rest his forehead against your sternum, breathing hard, still cradling you in both hands like something precious he never wants to let go of, and he only moves when you give his blond hair a soft tug.
“Get up here,” you tell him, and you sit up just enough to reach for him, hands finding the front of his trousers. Fingers work the button open, then pull the zipper down, Leo’s breath hitching hard as he watches every movements of your fingers. Pushing the trousers and briefs down together, your eyes watch curiously as his cock springs free, the one part of him you have never seen until tonight. Thick, head flushed a deep pink, still glistening with his come and already leaking again and definitely still half-hard; you wrap your hand around him, spreading the slickness over the length of him, and that’s enough to make him thicken the rest of the way almost instantly. Leo’s hips jerk once, a little thrust into your fist and a broken sound escapes him.
“Fuck, okay, I—” He braces himself on either side of your head, forehead dropping to yours again as you stroke him slowly. “Oh, darling, please, I—can I be inside of you? Please. Please, let me be inside of you. I need to know what you feel like.”
You keep the rhythm easy, thumb sweeping over the sensitive head on every upstroke as he trembles above you, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he forces them open again. When he does, you are already guiding him closer with your hand still wrapped around him, and Leo shifts, settling more fully between your thighs, shaky hands reaching for your panties and pulling them down your legs before brushing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance.
“Wait, I don’t… I don’t have any condoms. I never… well, I never really bought them, you know, because I didn’t—” He starts, but you shake your head, fingers still loosely wrapped around him, thumb stroking once more along the underside.
“I’m clean, and on the pill,” you tell him quietly. “We can go without… if you want.”
Leo’s throat works, and he stares at your for a long second, processing. “Yeah, yes, yes, I want you. Anyway I can have you.”
There’s another beat of silence, of quiet understanding and agreement, and then he’s finally pushing in. The first inch draws moans out from both of you, the stretch of his cock too perfect, but he freezes halfway in, his face twisting as if he is in actual pain.
“Oh my god,” he chokes out. “I’m inside you. I’m actually inside you, you’re—you’re so tight, I need a second—”
“Leo, slow down, we’ve got time.”
He nods once, then starts to move, too careful, sinking deeper inch by inch until his hips finally meet yours and he is fully buried to the hilt. The full stretch of him makes your breath catch and eyes widen, and Leo makes a wounded noise, breathing you in as he stays still for a few seconds, the fine tremor in his arms the only sign of how hard he’s holding himself back.
Then he begins to move in a slow rhythm. Pulls out halfway and slides back in with a controlled roll of his hips that makes you gasp, and the next thrust is the same, measured, even though he is still learning the right angle, figuring out how to keep from going too fast, or too slow, and every time he bottoms out he makes a punched-out sound that shoots right through your spine.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, voice rough against your mouth. “Tell me if I’m doing it right. Tell me what to do, Jesus, I’ll do anything to make you feel good. I just wanna make it good for you.”
You answer by tilting your hips up to meet him, taking him deeper on the next stroke, and his rhythm stutters for a second, taken aback by the bluntness, but then settles again, a little more confident. Starts kissing you between thrusts, too, open-mouthed, a little messy, tongue sliding against yours every time he sinks back in. His right hand fingers your left one and threads your fingers together against the mattress, diamond ring on your finger cool between your joined palms. Leo sneaks a glance at it, bites his own bottom lip as he watches the shine of the ring on your hand, and you swear you almost see a tear in his eye at a point.
Leo is clumsy in places. Sometimes he thrusts a little too hard and has to pull back with a whispered apology, sometimes loses the rhythm and has to start over, cheeks flushing dark. But the intensity never fades, every movement focused entirely on you, on the way your body opens for him, the soft sounds you make when he hits the right spot, the way your free hand digs into his shoulder as the pleasure builds. He shifts his weight, changes the angle, and the next thrust drags the head of his cock right over the spot inside you that makes your toes curl, a soft cry flying out of your mouth. Leo freezes, then does it again, slower this time, watching your face the entire time.
“Fuck, is that—is that the spot?”
The wet sound of him moving inside you fills the room as he keeps working that angle, even though you are barely able to form a thought and agree that it is, in fact, the spot, that you can see stars behind your eyelids, a supernova building. You cup his face and kiss him before gently pushing at his shoulder.
“Let me ride you,” you whisper against his mouth, only to see Leo’s eyes go wide.
“You— yeah. Yes, please.”
He rolls the both of you carefully, staying inside you the entire time until you’re straddling his hips. The new position seats him even deeper, and his hands fly to your waist, gripping tight, a broken moan spills from him as he looks up at you, flushed, panting. Leo’s head tips back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded as he watches you take him, take the reigns and control the moment, hips rocking back and forth and then up and down, letting him feel every inch of the slide. His hands don’t guide as much as they hold, thumbs stroking the soft skin just above your hips, a touch of a devoted zealot.
Hips meet yours in small, instinctive thrusts as you set a steady rhythm, rising and sinking, feeling him stretch you on every downward stroke. One hand comes up to cup one of your breasts, thumb brushing over the still-sensitive nipple.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warns you, voice strained. “You’re so tight, darling, and I’ve waited so long, and now you’re on top of me, and I can’t—”
Leaning down to kiss him, you swallow the rest of his words and roll your hips a little harder, circling them in a grind that presses your clit firmly against the hard plane of his pelvis. The friction is perfect, your folds parting around the base of his cock as you grind down, chasing the extra pressure. You sit up a little straighter then, still seated deep on his cock, and give him a smile that spells trouble.
“Watch and learn, Mister Reilly,” you tell him.
Your left hand slides down your stomach, and Leo tracks the movement promptly, wholly hypnotized. You spread your fingers, find your clit and start rubbing slowly while you continue to move on his lap, the dual sensation of his thick cock stretching you from the inside and your own fingers working the sensitive bud making your thighs quake around his hips. Leo stares, mesmerized, half-convinced he might still be dreaming, because in what universe would he be lucky enough to lose his virginity to the girl he has been in love with for eighteen years?
“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers in awe. “God, don’t stop. Show me how you like it.”
The wet sounds grow louder as you continue rubbing yourself in tight circles, hips still rolling, head tilting back as pleasure beings to pool low in your gut, a spring ready to snap from too much tension. Wet, your arousal coats his cock as you work yourself on it, slowly toward your own edge, and Leo only lets you, coming into his role of only an observer but carefully memorizing every twist of your wrist, every change in pace of your fingers. He will replicated it perfectly the next time you let him touch you like this. Slap of skin on skin fills the room, and you feel him swelling inside of you, cock twitching every time you sink all the way down and roll forward, begging for release.
But yours comes first. A broken moan muffled against his mouth, your muscles locking as you let your weight fall against his chest, and he holds you through it, through every tremor and tremble of your hips as your orgasm snaps and spreads, spilling into your bloodstream, connecting to your bones like ligaments and tendons being born from pleasure. Leo tries to wait until your own high has passed, really, he tries, but it’s over for him before he can manage it, hips jerking up into you as he empties himself deep inside, pulsing hot and thick and painting your walls in white.
You stay collapsed against Leo’s chest, having no intentions of moving unless he makes you, which you are sure, he won’t. Both his arms wrap around you after a few seconds, one hand stroking a path up and down your back while the other rests warm against the nape of your back, letting the tremors in your bodies gradually ease. Neither of you move, exactly, but both of you eventually end up laying side to side, your legs still wrapped around his waist, one arm around his shoulders, intimacy that doesn’t feel awkward, or forced, because this is just your regular relationship wrapped in an extra layer of meaning.
“I love you,” he says first. “I’ve loved you since I was a kid and I’m still going to love you when we’re old and gray and I’ve come in my pants a hundred more times because I can’t help myself around you. You’re it for me, always have been.”
You smile, your last of your old walls crumbling completely. “Very romantic,” you giggle, before going a little more serious. “… I do love you, too, Leo.”
Relief and joy turn into a bright grin spread across his lips. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Leo.”
“One more time, for the record?”
You smile, sleepy and warm, and tuck yourself closer against his chest. “I love you, Leo.”
Leo pulls the soft throw from the foot of the bed over both of you, then settles his chin on top of your head. Under the blanket, his hand finds yours once more and he never lets go of it again.
Slumber dissipates leaving behind heavy and warm limbs, tangled in sheets that smell like both of you now instead of just the floral laundry detergent. Leo’s arm is slung over your waist, unmoving, and when you shift you feel him stir behind you, a low hum vibrating against the back of your neck. Your eyes stir open, and you find that morning light is coming in through the gap in Leo’s curtains.
“Don’t move,” he mumbles into your hair a second later. “I’m doing something important.”
You don’t move. “Doing what?”
“Rewinding last night in my head. That you wore my ring, and we made love, and you told me you loved me, and now I’m awake and you’re… here. Nothing’s changed. Last night was real. It’s a very busy morning for my brain.”
You laugh, quiet, and turn over to face him. Hair a disaster, pillow crease pressed into one cheek, eyes still soft with sleep looking up at you in awe, fascinated, fingers curling into the small of your back and pulling you closer.
“Marry me,” he says, a repetition of the two words he has spent eighteen years telling you at every opportunity he had, and yet now they feel different, as if Leo’s testing whether the words feel different now than they did before. You think they do, because when he asks it, you don’t immediately say ‘no, Leo’, you don’t immediately laugh and deflect, and instead suck your bottom lip into your mouth, exhaling a shaky breath. “I’m serious. I mean, I was serious the other four thousand times I asked you, but I’m very serious now. With you here, in my bed, naked, and this ring, and you look so fucking beautiful right now, and I already want to kiss you again, so bad, and maybe do some more of what we did last night but… marry me. Please.”
There’s no ring box, no knee on the floor, just his hand finding yours under the sheets, thumb brushing over the stone that is already there. For the first time in your life, the question doesn’t feel like something to swat away.
“I want to marry you,” you say, and watch something in his face crack open with hope before you finish. “On one condition.”
He blinks, and the hope doesn’t vanish, but it stalls, caught somewhere between his eyes and his mouth.
“No more drinking,” you affirm, sitting up a little, because this isn’t a soft and easy conversation that you can have lying down, letting him charm his way past it with soft kisses to your neck and wandering hands. “I mean it, Leo. For real. Not just ‘cutting back’ or ‘just this one because I had a stressful week’. I mean getting actual help. A program, a therapist, whatever it takes, whatever you need. I’ve spent years finding you drunk out of your mind by pools and on decks and every time I had to pretend not to notice that it was getting worse. I know what it looks like when you’re fine, and exactly what it looks like when you’re not, and I’ve never said anything because I didn’t think I had the right to ask you to change for me. But if we do this, then I do.”
Reaching for his hand again, you bring it to your chest, press it right over your beating heart. “I’ve never been angry at you for drinking. But I just told you I love you for the first time ever, and I don’t think you get to have all of me until you’re willing to fight for this.”
Leo doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks down at your joined hands and the ring, and it feels like watching a whole different man in front of you, because he doesn’t try to deflect it the way you’d expect him to. He takes it seriously, as serious as you had asked of him.
“Okay,” he says, and his voice isn’t steady but the grip of his hand is strong enough to make for it. When your lips part, he shakes his head and sits up properly now, bringing you with him to his lap. “No, I mean it. Okay. I’ve had you dangled in front of me my whole life like some finish line I was never actually running toward fast enough. And I let the drinking happen because some dark part of me thought I didn’t deserve to get there anyway. All the shit from my parents, and thinking you’d never actually say yes, so what did it matter? But… you’re here, and you just said yes, which means you’ve decided I’m worth waiting for on the other side of this. Nobody’s ever done that. Nobody… has ever looked at me and said ‘I’ll stay if you do the work’. So I’ll do it. Not just because I’m scared of losing you, which I am, okay, but because I want to be the version of me that deserves to wake up next to you like this.”
You bring one of his hands up and press a kiss to his knuckles, feeling the tremor in his fingers, same one you’ve catalogued for years for a different reason.
“I’ll stay if you do the work,” you tell him, and he nods quickly. “But you gotta do it for you, Leo. Not just for me.”
“For me, too,” he agrees. “I want to stick around long enough to actually marry you. Sober toast and everything.”
The lump in your throat becomes a little smaller. “Sober toast is a low bar, Leo.”
“I’ve set a lot of low bars. Not this one though. Nothing low about wanting to get better to be the perfect husband for you. To be a good father to our future children. I want to be good for us, darling.”
You lean your forehead against his, and finally the world seems a little less bleak, because you know there is a real future waiting for the two of you together.
Synopsis: Reading in the woods got a little more interesting after she met a big dog.
Warnings: imprinting; getting to know the family/pack; I mostly stuck to the characters' traits from the book; smut; protective Paul; SMUT; first time having sex; scent fetish; wet panties fetish; doggy style (it was accidental, I swear); condom use; all characters are 18+ (does not follow the movie timeline); Emily and Sam are like a mother and father figure to Paul and the whole pack;
Part 1
The following days turned into a magical routine I never knew I wanted. Paul showed up at the forest every afternoon, sometimes already waiting for me, other times arriving after me, always with a smile that made my heart race.
Our encounters had become more intimate. Not in the physical sense—although there was something undeniably electric in every touch—but in the sense of sharing secrets. I told him about my loneliness, about how I'd always felt like an alien in Forks. Paul listened to me. Understood me.
"You're special," he said, stroking my hair. "Not fitting into a mold made for ordinary people is a blessing, not a curse." That phrase seemed deeper than it really appeared. As if he himself had heard that before. Many times.
He told me about his family, about Sam, about how a wolf's life was full of rules and responsibilities, but also of a loyalty I could barely comprehend. About the dangers that lurked in the forest—he begged me not to cross the river, as there he wouldn't be able to protect me.
"Someday… Will I meet your family?" I asked one sunny afternoon. I was lying under that same tree, but with my head resting on Paul's lap. The ground was cold, but his body heat kept me warm enough not to worry about it. He was stroking my head, while his own eyes were half-closed. After all, that dawn Sam had the patrol shift. He was exhausted, but still insisted on meeting. "I mean, it doesn't have to be now… I don't even know what we are—"
"You're mine. And I'm yours," he said, opening those beautiful dark-earth eyes. He didn't say it as if leaving room for misunderstanding. It was a fact: I was his and he was mine. No one could question it.
But that didn't stop it from giving me chills when he said it.
"And you will meet them," he said, lifting one of my hands to his lips. "I just want to enjoy you all to myself a little longer," he said between kisses on my palm, fingers, and the back of my hand. "If it makes you feel better, they know you're my imprint."
Imprint.
It was such a new thing. Paul had explained it to me, but it was still hard to understand.
He said it's like being soulmates, only more intense. His whole world revolves around me. Nothing else matters, besides me. It's intense. It's painful. And at the same time, it's incredible.
But sometimes I couldn't help but doubt.
Not out of malice. Certainly not because I didn't trust him. But everything is so… Strange. The legends we learned in school were true. And apparently I was dating one of them.
Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and wonder if it was all a dream. If I hadn't just hallucinated from so much loneliness or something.
But then the next day, there he was. Alive. And real.
And it's as if I know I'm not crazy. As if I can finally breathe again after years of drowning.
Would that be an imprint?
"They know?"
"Wolf telepathy," every day was something new.
"You read minds?" He knows I dream about him shirtless?! Without pants?!
"Only when we're wolves," he explained, stroking my forehead.
"Only when you're wolves… So—" I sat up, looking at him with a bit of embarrassment. "They know about the… My big dog?" I whispered, as if the forest had ears. Paul laughed, pulling me onto his lap as if I weighed nothing.
"They know," he replied, and all I could think to do was hide my face in his chest.
Paul laughed, hugging me as if protecting me from everything. My nose brushed against his neck, and I could have sworn he shivered.
I lifted my face just enough to see him. It was a sight I never tired of. Every detail. Every tiny mark. I wanted to memorize everything. Feel everything.
He, as if reading my thoughts, pressed his lips to mine in a calm kiss. His hand touched my face, and I couldn't help but let out a small sigh.
My hands gripped the fabric of his dark t-shirt tighter, as if trying to pull him even closer—even though I was literally on his lap.
He smiled mid-kiss, but didn't pull away. His hand remained on my face, his thumb making a delicate, gentle caress.
"My big dog," I said softly, just to make him smile. I loved that smile.
However, before Paul could respond, his expression changed. From serene, calm, passionate, it shifted to worried and irritated. His dark eyes scanned around as if searching for something. His arms tightened a little more around me, before he gently set me down on the ground.
"Stay behind me," he said in a tone that left no room for doubt. At least not now.
Paul ripped off his shirt and dropped his shorts. Before I could question it, his body changed. I could hear the cracking of bones, saw the fur growing, his face transforming.
In the blink of an eye, Paul had disappeared and that large gray wolf had taken his place.
Paul let out a growl that sent the nearby birds flying away. I couldn't see his face, but I knew those large fangs were bared for the enemy.
My heart raced. The forest, which had once seemed like a sanctuary, now closed in around us like a trap. I heard the sound of leaves being stepped on, and before Paul could attack, a voice echoed:
"It's me. Don't bite." It was young. Male and sounded… Embarrassed.
The owner of that voice came out from behind the tree the wolf—Paul—was staring at. He was indeed a young man. Probably not even sixteen yet. He had dark hair like Paul, and dressed somewhat similarly—shorts and a t-shirt. He had an embarrassed and guilty expression.
The moment Paul saw him, that big angry fierce wolf let out the lowest whimper before transforming back into a human.
And there I learned a small detail.
"OH MY GOD!" I screamed, covering my eyes with both hands and squeezing them shut. Believe me, I wanted to look. But at the same time, I didn't.
Paul hadn't taken his clothes off for me—it was because of his transformation. It didn't seem right to look.
Even though I thoroughly enjoyed the little glimpse I got of those round, tanned buttocks.
"She covered her eyes?" the boy's voice said, his tone confused.
"He's naked!" I replied, as if it were obvious. I heard the sound of dry leaves being crushed and then his warm hands touched mine.
"Not anymore," Paul said, gently moving my hands from my face and helping me stand. "My love, this is Seth." Seth—Paul had already mentioned him.
"Oh… Seth! Hi!" I extended my hand to greet him, but Paul growled just from the boy getting close.
"What are you doing here?!" Paul asked, crossing his strong arms.
"I came to see her," Seth murmured, looking at the ground. "Everyone's dying to meet her! And you said you were going to take her to meet everyone!"
"Seth!"
"Sam made me do it! You know I can't say no! And actually, this is your fault! You keep filling everyone's head with: my imprint is beautiful! My imprint is perfect! My imprint is smart! She reads books!" Seth said in a higher-pitched voice, and I really tried to hold back my laugh, but it was funny.
"Oh really? You're laughing?" Paul asked, one eyebrow raised. His tone was a mix of serious and humorous. And just from his tone, I should have known what he was going to do. "I'll give you a reason to laugh."
"No! Pffft—HAHAHAHA—" I barely had time to react before his fingers pressed into the side of my torso, sending my nervous system into a panic. Tickling. Paul had learned a few days ago that I was ticklish, and now it was a perfect weapon. "Paaahahahaul!" I screamed, trying to catch my breath, but he didn't stop.
"No, weren't you laughing?" he teased, using one arm to trap me against him, using the other to continue the torture.
He would have continued, if Seth hadn't let out a laugh and caught his attention.
"You're still here, why?" he asked, not letting me go, but stopping the tickling.
"Sam wants to meet her," Seth said. "And your mother too." Sam had also been mentioned by Paul.
He was the first of this generation to transform, helping all the others go through the same experience. Teaching them to have control and master the transformation. And even though another wolf had the right to be Alpha because he was a direct descendant of the ancient chiefs, Sam was the Alpha. He was bigger than everyone, and stronger. And he had the mental control of an Alpha.
It seemed scary to meet him.
But somehow, meeting Paul's mother seemed scarier.
"Sam said you don't have to be afraid. Everyone just wants to meet her, Paul," Seth pressed.
Paul was silent for a long moment, as if weighing what he should do. Slowly he turned me in his arms, his eyes meeting mine.
"I know it's a lot to ask," he said, his voice low. "And I didn't want it to be like this… But… Would you go? Meet everyone?" You could feel in his tone that he was disappointed. He'd said he wanted to enjoy while it was just us, and now he'd been forced out of that fantasy.
"Yes. Of course," I replied, placing one of my hands on his face, as if that would soothe those thoughts.
The journey was… Interesting.
Paul transformed into a wolf again, and Seth did too. While the younger one ran ahead, Paul stayed by my side and crouched on the forest floor, looking at me as if to say: you can get on.
Riding a giant wolf was certainly surreal. My fingers sank into that dense fur until my hand felt his skin. My feet didn't touch the ground—even if I tried. Paul stood up again and looked at me over his shoulder. I could have sworn he was smiling before letting out the longest howl, announcing his departure.
He was faster than I imagined. Instinctively, I hugged that wolf with all my strength so I wouldn't fall, but I knew Paul wouldn't let that happen.
The wind hit my face so hard it was hard to keep my eyes open. The forest was a green and brown blur, with small spots of light that passed through the leaves and touched the sun.
Seth appeared beside us, letting out a sound similar to a growl and a bark. If I had to guess, I'd say it was a taunt, especially with Paul's response: a loud, clear growl.
Paul slowed down before we passed the tree line. Seth kept looking at us before entering the clearing surrounded by houses.
Paul crouched down, which was my cue to get off his back.
That large gray wolf looked at me before taking a few steps away, disappearing behind a large tree. I could hear Paul transforming back before he reappeared, with both hands covering the front of his groin.
I knew Paul was strong. His t-shirts were almost sleeveless, not hiding his well-defined biceps. But now I could perfectly see how strong he was. Full chest. Toned abs. Thighs so thick they'd make excellent pillows. That reddish, tanned skin begged to be marked with my teeth.
"My love?" his voice called me back to reality.
And the reality was: I was—shamelessly—staring at Paul. Practically devouring him with my eyes. Barely remembering that his t-shirt and shorts were with me after all.
"Oh! Here! Take it!" I finally said, handing his clothes back to him. Paul laughed, and I grabbed whatever dignity I had left and turned around, giving him the privacy he needed.
"You don't need to be embarrassed when you look at me," Paul said, wrapping his arms around my waist and turning me to face him.
"I'm not embarrassed," I said softly, wrapping my own arms around his neck.
"No? Then why does your heart race so fast?" he asked, lowering his mouth to my neck. "I can hear it, remember? Beating as fast as a fleeing rabbit." His mouth left little kisses, one after each word of his sentence. "I can feel the change in your body. You get warm… Blood boiling under your skin." My legs went weak feeling his teeth nip at my neck. His low laugh made me shiver. "But you're right, it's not shame… It's something sweeter, isn't it?" I felt his hands slide down my back, nearing the waistband of my pants but not crossing that line.
"Ahem…" a loud throat-clearing made me jump, but not pull away from him. "Are you two done yet?" Seth was right there, a few steps ahead. Now also dressed and without wolf fur on his skin. "Come on! Everyone's dying to meet whoever defused his fuse!" Seth practically pulled me out of Paul's embrace.
My sneakers sank into the damp earth as I tried to keep up with the younger boy's steps. Paul was right behind me, smiling as if he hadn't done what he did seconds ago.
A woman with a beautiful smile approached me. Her hair was as black as Paul's or Seth's, but she didn't look like them. Seth had a sweet look. Paul had an intense, strong look. Her? She had a look… Welcoming.
As if her presence brought a peaceful, warm aura. Like a mother's lap.
Her presence was so intense that you hardly noticed the deep scars running across her face.
"You must be the girl Paul can't stop thinking about!" she said, pulling me into a hug so tight it took my breath away. "It's so good to have another woman around here! I live surrounded by all this testosterone," she said quietly in my ear. "I'm Emily." Paul had told me about her. She was Sam's wife.
"I'm—"
"Everyone here already knows, honey," she said, loosening the hug and placing her hands on my cheeks. "Welcome."
"Thank you," I said with a sigh.
"Come on, there's a bunch of anxious boys desperate to meet the new imprint," she said, taking one of my hands and guiding me down a trail leading to a house hidden at the edge of the forest. Every few seconds I looked back, just to make sure Paul was still there. And of course he was.
"Emily, can I have my girlfriend back?" he asked, pretending not to see my surprised expression.
It was foolish of me, knowing I'm his imprint. His soulmate. The one he would kill, live, and care for. And still blush and get all silly hearing him call me girlfriend?
I hope not…
"No! You hid her all this time, now it's my turn," Emily replied, guiding me inside the house, where more people were.
Sam was obviously the most noticeable there. He was the tallest, and also the strongest—which was a little intimidating. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing shorts, but longer pants and boots. And of course a dark shirt. He looked like he'd just arrived from somewhere—maybe town.
"Sam, honey, look who Paul finally brought!" Emily seemed unaware that he himself had asked (ordered) Seth to go into the forest. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Thank you," I said with a slight blush.
"Sam Uley," he introduced himself. His voice was deep enough to make my bones rattle. "Don't be afraid. I don't bite… Unlike your big dog," he said in a joking tone that clearly made the tension dissipate.
"All of you know about that?" I asked, looking at the others at the table. They all nodded. "Oh god…" I sighed, covering my face with my hands, as if that would help escape the laughter.
"They're laughing more at me than you, if that helps anything," Paul said, resting his head on my shoulder and hugging me.
"Not much," I replied, letting my body go limp against his.
"We're happy Paul found you," Emily said, hugging Sam.
"We're happier you've got him under control more than anything," one of them said from the table.
"What do you mean?" I asked curiously.
"Paul has a reputation," another replied.
"Reputation?"
"Short fuse," one said.
"Temperamental," another said.
"Irritable," one more added.
I looked at Paul in disbelief. He wasn't short-tempered. Or temperamental. Or irritable.
"I don't believe it," I said, bringing my hand to his face. "He's so sweet." I heard one of them choke on his food as if in disbelief.
"Haha, real funny," Paul huffed, patting him on the back. Not hard enough to hurt, but harder than necessary just to help him un-choke. "You've eaten enough, right? Now move and give my girl a seat."
The boy huffed but moved. Paul pulled out a chair for me and handed me a plate of food Emily had made. He chose to stay right behind me, like a guard dog. Or wolf, to be more precise.
Occasionally, I noticed Sam acting the same way with Emily.
Dinner was an experience I'll never forget.
The house was cozy, full of warmth and laughter. Little by little, everyone introduced themselves—Jared, Kim, Collin, and Brady, the youngest of the pack, and so many others. There was a sense of family I'd never experienced before, and I found myself thinking that maybe, finally, I'd found my place.
"So how was meeting our Paul?" Jared asked, a playful smile on his face. "He scared you the first time, didn't he?"
Paul, still behind me, mumbled something about "treason," but everyone laughed.
"He was pretty scary," I admitted, feeling Paul squeeze his hands on my shoulder. "But… When I saw his eyes… I wasn't scared anymore. I knew he was my big dog," I said, looking at him, who just smiled and leaned down to kiss my forehead.
"Big dog!" Jared said amidst laughter.
"I'll bite you," Paul growled.
Dinner was a succession of stories. How Paul was in school. How before transforming, he was shorter than me and without all those muscles. It was strange to imagine that.
When Emily declared the pots were empty, everyone left the house and went to the middle of the clearing, where the others from the reservation were gathered around a large bonfire. I stayed on Emily's porch, looking at the beautiful scene of the great bonfire burning a warm orange light, which contrasted perfectly with the dark sky.
There, for the first time that night, I remembered my parents. But the phone with no new messages or calls in my pocket said it wasn't reciprocal.
Still, I sent a brief message to my mother.
"Hey…" Paul called from the other side of the porch. "I know you need to go, but we're going to gather around the bonfire and tell stories."
"I don't need to go," I corrected, resting my elbows on Emily's porch railing. With that height difference, I was taller than Paul, since he was off the porch.
"You don't?" he asked, not hiding his surprised tone.
"I sent a message saying I was sleeping over," I said, bringing my face closer to his. "I left out the part about sleeping with my boyfriend who turns into a giant wolf." He laughed, standing on his tiptoes and stealing a kiss.
"So… You're going to stay with me?"
I felt my heart race, but there was no fear. Just a deep certainty that this was where I should be.
"I will," I said between small kisses.
"Would it be terrible if we skipped the bonfire and went home?" he asked, and I briefly glanced toward the great bonfire.
"I didn't want to seem rude," I said softly, and Paul laughed.
"You can blame me," he replied, pulling me off the porch as if my body had no weight at all.
I'm sure my laughter was heard by everyone, but the only ones who turned to see me and Paul running off to his house were Sam and Emily. Maybe I expected the great Alpha to do something, but instead he just smiled and looked at his wife. As if he knew the feeling of wanting to be that close to someone.
Paul's house was, somehow, exactly what I imagined.
A mess. Not in a bad way, but in the sense that Paul lived alone with his father. And he worked most of the day, didn't have much time for housework, and Paul had his patrols with the other wolves. It was a mess, but still somehow organized.
His bedroom, however, wasn't very organized.
"Sorry, I didn't think you'd come here…" he said, almost sounding ashamed.
While he threw all the clothes into the small closet, I pretended not to see, too focused on the decorations on the walls. A photo of him as a small child in his mother's arms. His grade school graduation photo. A beautiful beaded bracelet. A necklace decorated with feathers, shells, and pieces woven together in patterns that seemed perfectly designed. There were some books, some seemed to have been passed down through generations. Others with newer covers.
Every piece of that room had Paul's personality.
It had his life.
"It's not perfect, but—"
"It's perfect," I said before he could finish. "Paul," I brought my hands to his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss a little different from all the others.
An intense, fiery kiss. The kind where our tongues touched and noses squished. Hands slid down each other's bodies, feeling the warmth of their skin beneath the clothes.
"We…" Paul pulled back, or tried to, since I chased his lips with mine. "We don't have to—"
"I want to," I interrupted him again.
"You—"
"I want you to throw me on that bed. I want you to be the first person to see me. Feel me. And love me," I asked, and Paul smiled, taking my lips in a kiss that said everything he wanted to say.
"If you want to stop—"
"I don't want to," I interrupted, ripping his t-shirt out of the way.
"But if you do," he stopped me, taking my face and forcing me to look into his warm, dark eyes. "Just say so. One word and I stop."
"I don't intend to say anything except your name," I replied with a confidence I'd never had before.
Maybe it was because of him. His presence made me comfortable enough to be myself. And I'm confident enough to say I want to have sex with my boyfriend.
"You're going to kill me," he teased, turning me around so I was pressed against the bed. "And I'll die happy," he continued, pulling my t-shirt out of the way. "So happy," he said, wrapping his arms around me; his lips grazed my neck while his hands undid my bra, and our bodies tumbled onto the soft mattress.
Paul took his sweet time marking my neck, kissing and nibbling my skin before moving down to do the exact same thing to my breasts.
I was certain that for the next few weeks, I’d only be able to wear turtlenecks. Or scarves. But it was worth it.
That feeling of heat. My blood boiling. My heart pounding between my legs. All because of Paul.
His hands. His teeth. His tongue. Hands. Legs…
My pants were the next to go, and before I could even think about closing my legs, he was right there between them. In the dim light of the room, I could only see the shadows of the muscles across Paul's broad back as he held my legs wide open.
"Fuck…" he breathed, and I could feel the cool touch of his breath against my panties. "I can smell it." Before I could ask, Paul buried his face against my sex. He inhaled deeply, as if savoring the scent of my pussy—and judging by the low, vibrant, intense sound he let out, he was.
"Paul!" My hands dropped to the waistband of my last piece of clothing, but he stopped me from taking it off. He grabbed my hands, holding them tight enough that I had no escape.
"You're so sweet. I smelled it before… when we first met," he said, pressing his nose harder against me. "Fuck…" he groaned, louder this time. I could feel his tongue behind my panties, licking me through the fabric.
Trapped there between his arms and his torso, all I could do was move my hips against his face. And Paul liked it. He liked it enough to dive into me with even more intensity.
I could hear the obscene sound my body made against Paul’s face. A wet sound. Hot and heavy.
If Paul already seemed addicted to my arousal, things escalated—and by that, I mean they got even better—when he felt me climax. He used his teeth to tear my panties right down the middle, giving me not a second’s respite before using that hot, thirsty tongue to lap at me like a dog drinking water.
Free from the restriction of the panties, Paul thrust his tongue deep inside me without a shred of inhibition. His nose pressed against my sensitive nerves, a perfect form of teasing.
"Paul!" My back arched off the bed, driving his face even harder against me. My legs trembled around his head. My body was hit with an overload of sensation that made everything feel incredibly intense.
So intense that it hurt, yet it still wasn't enough.
Paul seemed to know exactly what was missing; he moved up from between my legs, trailing hot kisses along my body as my orgasm lingered. He pressed his pelvis firmly against mine, hard enough for me to feel his body through his rough shorts.
"Are you okay?" he asked, pausing right over my face.
"I need more," I said, sliding my hands down his abdominal muscles. "Paul… I need…"
"I know," he said with a smug smile as he reached for the small side table next to the bed, digging into the drawer to grab a condom. "I'll give you everything you need," he promised, rising up and leaving a trail of kisses as he stripped off his shorts. In the brief moment it took him to put on the condom, I could see his cock—just as aroused as I was. Hard and throbbing. Craving relief—relief I was certainly ready to provide.
Paul moved back onto the bed, using his hands to turn my hips and slide a pillow underneath me. My face pressed into the sheets while my hips arched upward, as if beckoning him. And Paul, like a well-trained dog, responded.
First, I felt his hands kneading my flesh before the latex-covered head grazed my body. Paul teased my sex, trailing down to my clit before moving back up to tease the throbbing entrance that was calling out for him.
When he finally slid inside, my whole body shuddered.
It didn't hurt. It didn't sting.
I was relaxed. Confident and at ease. My body embraced Paul without a hint of resistance—making me question everything I’d ever heard about sexual experiences.
"You're perfect," he groaned, pulling my hips even higher and forcing me up onto my elbows. "Fuck! You're perfect. My beautiful girl. My imprint," he said in a low voice, groaning the words.
"Paul…" I moaned in response. My hips moved on their own, seeking more. And he certainly understood.
That wet sound from before was replaced by the rhythm of our bodies colliding. Smack. Smack. Smack. Non-stop. Without pause. Just the sound of pleasure.
Paul pulled my torso up, his arms holding me against him. My back pressed against his abs. One hand held my neck, while the other gripped my breast firmly.
In a wet kiss—tongues clashing, teeth grazing—I felt my body plunge once more into that intense, incredible pleasure, taking Paul along with me.
I could feel his body pulsing. I could feel a sensation of swelling inside me. Like a knot ensuring Paul’s release stayed inside me—or, in this case, inside the condom.
We collapsed onto the mattress together. His arm made the perfect pillow, while his body was warm enough that I didn't even want to think about reaching for the blanket.
Silence settled in—not heavy or oppressive, but light and comfortable. You could hear the crickets outside. Through the window, I could see the moon through the treetops, and even a few fireflies.
"Are you okay?" he asked right by my ear. His voice was deep, heavy with sleep and pleasure.
"Never better," I replied, turning my face to look at him. "Are you okay?" Paul smiled, pressing his lips to mine.
"Never better," he echoed, pulling me a little closer—even though getting any closer was impossible. "Want to take a nap? When… when the knot goes down, I'll clean you up." His tone was low now, as if he didn't want to disturb my drowsiness.
"How long does it take?" I asked, and he knew there was no mischief in my tone.
"A few minutes."
"Does it always happen?"
"With you? It’ll always happen," he answered, and I couldn't help but smile. "And if you keep squeezing me like that, it’ll take longer." He said it playfully, but my body relaxed anyway.
"Paul? I’m glad I met you. " I felt his heart beat faster.
"I’m even gladder" He said, planting a kiss on my shoulder.
Ghost who's infatuated with you meanwhile you genuinely think he's trying to kill you.
Ghost who corners you against a wall, the width of him caging you in, arm above your head. He looks a bit crazed, a bit too animal and a bit too blood hungry when he grunts "i saw a deer on the side of the road, once."
"Legs twisted up in a bloody mess, gravel red underneath. It kept on twitchin', starin' at me." He leans in close, breath hot on your ear. You can feel the body heat radiating off of him when ghosts hand hovers over your bicep, "i killed it. Didn't have a gun, had to use my knife. Quick. Merciful."
Ghost leans back far enough to stare you in the eyes.
"You remind me of that deer," ghosts hand retreats, but he stays caging you in. "Staring at me all the time. Beggin' for that knife."
Now, whenever ghost talks about you, he calls you "sweet doe" and people snicker about his sweet little crush. It makes your stomach churn.
You wake to a hand on your forehead. Consciousness comes to you in degrees but your eyes stay heavily shut. The light touch on your skin moves to your hair, pushing it away from where it fell in your face during your sleep.
"You awake?" Simon's low timbre gently caresses the borders of your hearing. All you can muster is a noise from deep in your chest as a reply.
He hums, fingers petting through the texture of your hair, wild from having fallen asleep with it still wet. The feeling of his warm hand smoothing over you in its slow passes is enough to make you fall asleep again. You're only aware of this when the hand leaves your head and goes to your shoulder instead. A heavier pressure, meant to bring you closer to the land of the living.
"C'mon, you'll miss breakfast." You groan, turning your face further into the pillow. Sleeping on an actual bed again makes you never want to leave it, makes you want to just burrow down and hibernate for the next week at least.
But you're already awake, and you know you need to eat something. You rub your crusty eyes and prepare for them to open.
Simon sits on the edge of the bed closest to the door. The blackout curtains keep the room dark but the morning light still glows around their edges. When he sees that your eyes are open, Simon takes his hand back.
"Mornin'." You grunt again, language not available to you this quickly after waking. "Can you sit up?"
You don't know, so you try. Your arms come up under you and push your weight from the bed despite the twinge in your back doing so. The change in position makes your heart thump out of your chest like you just sprinted a marathon.
Simon stands when he sees you able to stay upright. Resting on the bedside table next to him are a pair of crutches you hadn't noticed until he picks them up.
"Come over 'ere so we can get these adjusted for you."
You slide over to the edge of the bed as he holds them straight.
"You just have those lying around?" you ask through a sleep-roughened voice.
"Among other things." He takes one of them and shortens it significantly. He holds it in one hand while he offers the other one to you. You put your hand in his and you use it to help support your effort in standing. Going from laying down to sitting to standing makes you lightheaded, stumbling on your good foot for a moment. Simon doesn't let go until you're less likely to tilt over from the lack of blood to your brain.
He puts the crutch under you arm on the side of your bad leg and kneels down to further adjust it and roll the bottom of your sweats up so you don't trip on them. He looks up at you from his spot on the ground. "That comfortable? Need it lower or higher?" You test it.
"Feels fine."
"Tell me if it doesn't." He stands and grabs the other one and adjusts it to the same level. He hands it to you and you secure it under your other arm, weight resting on the handholds.
Simon takes a long step back and holds out his arms to you. "Try takin' a few steps, get used to 'em."
Feeling like you're a baby learning how to walk, you start figuring out how to move with the introduction of extra limbs. Any pressure on your bad leg is still not an option, you quickly learn. Keeping it from the ground, you get used to the shift in balance and hobble over to him.
"There you go. Now turn around and walk back." The movement does not come natural to you and one of the crutches catches on the ground a bit, but you manage to do what he says.
It's easier to hoist yourself onto the bed with the crutches and you rest them to your sides when you sit.
"Still good?"
"Mh-hm." You nod.
"Good. Here." Also folded up on the side table is another hoodie. Black like the last one, but cleaner and not smelling like roadkill. You're thankful for it, regardless. It keeps the chill of the house from you and makes you feel almost like you have a layer of armor encasing you, the comfort it gives going beyond just physical.
"Breakfast should be 'bout ready," Simon says. "C'mon." He opens the door and motions with his head to the hallway.
The sound of the crutches hitting the floor is the only sound you hear until you get to the end of the hallway and the kitchen comes into sight. Then, the sounds of plates clinking against each other and utensils scraping pans joins in.
John and Kyle are there, talking quietly to each other when you and Simon approach. John's at the stove where the smell of hearty breakfast foods emanates. Simon herds you to take a seat at the table while Kyle looks over to you and smiles.
"Morning, sleep well?"
"Like the dead," you say. That draws a snort from him.
"Good to hear. It's a nice change of pace sleeping in an actual bed, eh?"
"To put it lightly. Thanks again for letting me steal your room." He waves you off immediately.
"Don't mention it. I meant it when I said it wasn't a bother."
John turns off any open flame he's cooking on and turns around to finally face you. He grabs a towel hanging from the oven handle and wipes off any grease on his hands.
"Good to see you moving around," he says in lieu of any other kind of greeting. You curl your hands in your sleeves.
"It's good to be moving around."
"Yeah, I bet it gets pretty old getting lugged around by this brick wall after a while," Kyle says, nodding cheekily at Simon. He says this as Simon passes him to grab the plates and silverware, giving him a look out of the side of his eye. Kyle smirks at him.
Simon sets the table as John brings over plates of food. Eggs, sausages, potatoes, nearly an entire loaf of bread turned into toast. Mounds of food. You don't think you've seen this much food just for breakfast. You're used to a protein bar and a cup of coffee if you were lucky to tide you over until your lunch break, never having the time or energy to put this much thought into the first thing you ate in a day. This could quite literally feed a small army.
The three men all flow around each other as they get set up, taking no time at all in the obvious routine of things. While John finishes setting the table with the food, Kyle opens the fridge and pulls out containers of butter and what looks like a marmalade of some kind. Simon grabs a steaming, full kettle and starts making a couple cups of tea.
You sit there feeling awkwardly useless. You'd offer to do something, just to feel like you weren't some spoiled thing who can't help set a table, but with your current ambulatory ability you think you'd just get in their way even more than you already are. None of them seem bothered by it, however, so you just try to make yourself as small as possible and hope your apology comes through that.
John eventually sits down at the seat across from you. He piles up his plate generously before Kyle and Simon take seats. Kyle sits closer to John, more diagonally to you, while Simon takes the seat directly next to you. He brings over two mugs in his hands, the smell of tea wafting from the steam. He places one in front of you while keeping the other for himself. You shoot him a quiet, "Thanks," and grab the mug, letting it warm your hands. You can't help but notice an empty spot set up in the seat on your other side.
Rather than reaching for his own empty plate, Simon grabs yours and starts filling up your plate from the spread. You balk at the portion sizes he gives you, assuming that he's used to them himself. But the idea of having to put all that food away this early in the morning could make you nauseous just thinking of it.
"Tha-that's more than plenty," you say, laying a hand on his arm. He stops midmotion and looks at you.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
He doesn't push anymore and sits the plate back down in front of you. He grabs his own and starts making a mountain on it. You spear a potato and pop it in your mouth and use this time to get a better look of the men who's house you're in.
Kyle is busy slathering a piece of toast with the marmalade while John eats like there's a fire somewhere. Without looking, Kyle grabs the salt from across the table and puts in front of John. Without a beat in between, John takes it and dumps a criminal amount onto his eggs then passes it down to Simon. Simon slides the butter over to Kyle just as he finishes with the marmalade and passes the jar over to Simon. They move like they've done it a thousand times before, each anticipating what the other needs and providing it before they even need to ask. And you're just there.
"Are you from around here or are you just visiting?"Kyle's voice nearly makes you jump as it's directed to you. You hurriedly swallow down the bite of eggs you were chewing.
"Visiting. This trip was supposed to be the last little bit of freedom this summer before it ended."
"Starting a new job? Getting married, or something like that?" he asks.
"Ah, no." A sudden well of shame fills your chest for reasons you can't name. You look down at your plate, fiddle with the eggs. "No, nothing like that. I was, uh. Just. Going back to school." It feels like an admission of guilt.
Kyle hums. "Good on ya." You freeze, glancing up at him. He doesn't seem to be mocking you, or trying to lead you down a conversation that leads to you embarrassing yourself. He just finishes up the last bite of his toast and washes it down with the mug of coffee at his side.
You don't know how to respond so you don't. You don't know to to accept the praise so you don't. You leave it hovering in the air and try to ignore it, hoping it passes over you. You busy your mouth with a drink of tea, the taste of honey on your tongue.
"Later this morning, I have a ranger coming out to talk to you," John says, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "get you sorted out." You blink, absorbing this sudden information.
"Alright. Thank you," you say for lack of knowing what else to.
"Of course, love."
The backdoor suddenly opens, seemingly taking all three of them (and you) by surprise. The sounds of breakfast halt as another man enters and closes the door behind him. Kyle's the first to recover.
"Hey. Coffee's still on," he nods his head behind him to the kitchen.
The man who walks in does so in clothes absolutely not fit for the cold air of the morning. His hair is dark, barely longer than a buzzcut. A long scar carved into his chin. Another sprawling out on the side of his head. When he makes eye contact with you, a hitch makes his footsteps hiccup.
There's a moment, barely longer than one that takes up the space between your rapid heartbeats where the little animal ancestor in you brain freezes and yells Predator! so fast you're not sure if it actually happened.
The moment passes anyways with the small, closemouthed smile he gives you, continuing again his walk into the house without faltering this time.
"Mornin'," he says, "you must be the guest I've heard about." His voice turns words into rolling hills. You nod, not sure if the question was rhetorical or not. When he gets within arms reach of you, he holds out his hand. "Call me Soap." You say your name back, putting your hand in his where he gives a single, solid shake. You can't help but notice the near burning temperature of his skin.
Soap retreats to the kitchen to presumably get some of the aforementioned coffee. You watch the back of him while the puzzle pieces in you mind scramble again. You're half expecting another guy to pop out from somewhere before breakfast is over. Maybe the whole "feed an army" was more literal than you intended it to be.
As the biggest anchor in the room (which isn't saying much at this point), you glance over to Simon, using him as gauge of sorts. His mask is barely pulled up high enough to free his mouth, revealing two large scars the bisect his lips. Starting at his chin and slice up to disappear under the rest of his mask. They're the kind that was done by something sharp, purposefully sharp, not an accident encountered in everyday life. The light scruff he has makes it all the more obvious where scar tissue sits on his face. If he notices your scrutiny, he doesn't bring attention to it, more preoccupied with staring at Soap in the kitchen.
He watches with intense eyes as Soap finishes putting way too much sugar in his coffee and come back to sit down in the empty seat on you other side. You hear Kyle start talking to John about something you have no point of reference for in the garage, but you don't pay attention, more aware of the new body at your side.
Soap fills his plate in record time and starts eating like it'll be the last time he'll do. At times you're not even sure he's chewing before gulping down his coffee.
"Yer probably tired o' hearin' this, but are ye doin' alright? Look like ye lost a fight with a mountain." Soap says out of nowhere
You actually, genuinely laugh. His big, blue eyes light up and a smile grows on his own face. Simon's shoulders relax so much you can see it happen from the corner of your eye. "That's 'cause I did," you say.
"Aye," he says nodding like he completely understands, "tricky bastards. They never play fair."
"Yeah who'd have thought falling down them could be so bad for your health."
"Ah, gravity," Kyle says with a nearly thousand-yard stare, "the fickle bitch."
You can hear a story or two hidden in that sentence but you don't push for it. "You're telling me," you agree instead, finishing your tea.
Soap pauses in his attempts of scarfing down his food and stabs the last sausage on the table. He brings it and plops it down on your plate.
"Here," he says, "if you want to keep from starvin' 'round these animals ye gotta act quick."
You try to wave him off. "No, that's—I'm stuffed."
"Too late. Yours now." He playfully waggles an eyebrow at you while he shovels in the last mouthful of eggs from his plate.
You suppress a smile down at yours. You're reminded all of the sudden of something you should've already done.
"Simon," you say to get his attention but he's already looking at you, "do you have a phone I can borrow?"
He nods, wipes his mouth with a napkin and pulls back down the mask. "Hold tight," he says and gets up from the table, sneaking away down the hallway. You watch him disappear while in your peripheral John shifts in his seat toward the front door.
Moments later the doorbell rings. He gets up, tossing his crumpled napkin on his empty plate. He looks to you.
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♡ synopsis: john steps in to protect you from unwanted male advances at a bar you went to to unwind. after you bid each other goodnight, he can't help himself from digging into who you are, where you work, and even where you live—quickly wanting your sweetness all to his often lonesome self.
♡ content: implied age-gap, fauxcest, sexual harassment, masturbation, stalking (kinda)
♡ a/n: the last cod game i played was black ops 2, so apologies if i've mischaracterized the new version of cpt. price!
If you shrink any further into yourself, you might just disappear entirely.
"C'mon," the drunkard slurs with a wandering hand slowly venturing down your rigid spine. "Jus' tryin' to have a good time. Lemme buy you 'nother."
Wiggling the tiny paper umbrella in your glass, ice tinkles quietly against the polished sides. "Still working on this one," you reply softly before hunching further over the nicked bartop in a failed attempt to create even a sliver of distance between yourself and your unwelcome suitor.
"So you'll 'ave another when it's gone," he hiccups.
Your eyes flitting to the bartender, you silently wonder if they've taken his car keys. Just because he's had one too many tonight doesn't mean that innocent drivers on the road deserve to get hurt because of his irresponsible choices.
Including his moronic self...
"I—"
"Leave 'er alone," rumbles a low, accented timbre a handful of stools away.
"Mind your own fuckin' business," the drunkard promptly spits back. "We're havin' a conversation."
"And the conversation is at an end," the stranger growls. "Next hand you lay on her I mean to break. So back off. She's not interested."
Waiting with bated breath for something—anything—to happen, you remain quiet and still, like a tiny field mouse caught between two predators ready to fight.
Until he takes a step back and you breathe a sigh of relief. You only just manage to catch something mumbled about—presumedly you—"not being worth it" before he stumbles toward the door and out into the night before it falls shut behind him.
Glancing to the side, you study his lean frame and trimmed beard before looking nervously away. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it, darlin'," your rescuer utters gently—like a soft blanket thrown over jagged glass, which he was presenting himself as only just a moment ago for your own protection.
Releasing the toy umbrella, you frown, then shove your drink away before pushing off your seat, now no longer interested in finishing what you paid for. Should go home instead now.
This place no longer feels safe.
Was stupid of you to stop in in the first place. Would've been smarter to pick up a fruity bottle of something from the gas station for you to drink in the privacy of your apartment instead, but...
"Don't leave," he throws unexpectedly over his shoulder. "He's gone now and won't be comin' back. Finish your drink like you stopped in for. No one else'll bother you the rest of the evenin'."
You waver then. If you don't stay, he might grow angry at your disrespect—for being seemingly ungrateful about his saving you by making an immediate beeline for the door instead of obeying his simple request. This was actually the point of drinking tonight: calming the racing thoughts borne from your constant overthinking.
Sliding back atop the worn leather stool, you tug your drink toward you. Plucking a tiny plastic straw from between melting icecubes, you begin poking them one-by-one, watching as they bob before floating back to the surface.
You're unaware that you're begin watched now by the unnamed man, but not with salacious longing. Rather, mild curiosity.
When you shove the colorful umbrella open with a whispered "pop", his lips tug into a grin. You're a sweet young thing, that much is clear. He can't exactly blame the bloke from earlier for having taken an interest, but he does for the way he went about it.
Rising with a muffled groan, Price takes even, measured steps to your side. Gesturing to the unclaimed seat beside you, he rests an elbow on the countertop. "You mind? Or would you rather drink alone?"
Lifting your chin, you blink innocently up at him.
"I'm content either way," he assures. "You tell me to go and I'll go."
You chew your cheek while you consider. He seems harmless enough... Well, to you at least. But some men who present as white knights actually bear blackened hearts beneath their expertly crafted facades.
"Up to you," you reply simply before turning back to your drink.
He chuckles quietly. Leaving the ball in his court then, not that he's entirely surprised. Maneuvering himself atop the round seat, his thigh brushes against the side of yours and he takes a sip of his whiskey. "John," he offers with an extended, steady hand. "My name is John. 'Case you were wonderin'."
Wiping your sweaty palm against your skirt, you wrap it around his.
Your grip is kept purposefully loose—almost indifferent—while his is firm, but with room to breathe. It's remarkably gentle for a man of his stature. "Hello," you chirp.
"Pleasure," he returns, releasing you.
You take a sip of your drink then, unsure of what to say. Maybe he means to sit in comfortable silence? Maybe he expects repayment. Maybe—
"Should carry pepper spray in the future," he suggests. "If not a pea shooter. Something to keep yourself safe. Lot more men like him in the world than ones like me."
"Bad versus good?" you ask curiously.
He snorts. Lifting the bottle to his lips again, he shakes his head. "Bad versus dangerous 's more like it."
You suppose it doesn't much matter which one he means to represent him. Neither answer is good. "Oh."
"But you don't need to worry," he continues. "I don't hurt women." Not if he can help it, anyway.
"Reassuring," you mumble. Thankfully, he doesn't press you for your name in return. Lifting the straw to your mouth, you drag it over your tongue before plunging it back into your perspiring drink.
Concealed beneath the bartop, John readjusts himself over his pants at the sight with a calloused hand. He can't truly say the last time he had a woman, and even less so one who seems as reserved as yourself, but just your sweet scent alone has sent his loins stirring and head swimming.
When the hell did he get so goddamn lonely and desperate?
"If you don't mind me asking," he begins, hoping for casual conversation to serve as a distraction from the unsavory fantasies in his head of your soft female form quivering beneath his own in a dark motel room somewhere. "What do you do? For work."
You lean your cheek against your first. "Nothing interesting. Just office work," you grumble. "You?"
"Military. I'm a Captain."
He watches as your eyes widen and he nearly barks a laugh at the sight. Sweet young thing indeed.
You swivel in his direction. "What, uh... Branch?"
"British Army," he rasps before downing another drink.
You debate whether you should quip the predictable "thank you for your service" tagline. It often seems an empty platitude—something people say as a way of giving theirself a metaphorical pat on the back. It's less about the soldier and their sacrifices and more about... Well, the complimenter.
What do you say, then? Oh, neat! Do you get to shoot lots of cool guns?
"Have you ever been anywhere interesting?" Seems a safe enough question... You hope.
When he turns to meet your gaze, his knees knock against yours—contact which sends a fleeting, thrillful feeling straight from his cock and to his heart. "Russia count?"
You nod eagerly. "Did you get to see the Kremlin?"
John rests a loose elbow atop the bartop. Wrapping his opposite palm around his bottle, he figures if his hands are otherwise occupied, there's less chance of using them to touch you. "I did. Wasn't exactly given a grand tour, but I can say it's something I set eyes on, yeah."
He watches as you take a long pull from your drink. Resting it back atop a damp coaster, you stir the remaining colored liquid with a straw. "I've never really been anywhere. Or... Done anything."
You huff a sigh, sure he doesn't care to hear your complaints. Cue him telling you that you'd be prettier if you smiled in 3... 2... 1—
"It's not necessarily all it's cracked up to be. Not in my case anyway, when you consider why I was over there." He shakes his head while grimacing. All the shit he's seen—the blood coating his hands—it'd be all too easy to lose himself in a pleasant distraction such as yourself. "Vacation, though..." he snickers. "Wouldn't know the first thing to do on one of those."
He pictures warm, sandy beaches, you clad in a charming swimsuit that hugs your curves, and your fingers twined tightly together as you wade through pleasantly warm seawater that laps at your shins.
You're not the only unhappy one here, apparently.
"Me neither," you reply. "Not having anyone to take one with... I don't anymore. When I do take time off, it's for a dumb staycation. I hold up in my apartment watching Netflix and cleaning until it's time to go back to work."
Rather sad mental picture, in truth—you all alone somewhere, dressed in your pyjamas, counting down the days until you return to a place you'd clearly rather not be.
"That what you want? How you prefer it to be?"
You drain the remaining dregs of your drink. "No. I thought..." you brush a thumb over the rim of your glass. "Maybe I'd be married by now. With a family." You blink back brimming tears. In the lowlight, hopefully he can't see them. "Sometimes I get scared that it's too late."
Breaking his fucking heart, darling.
"You're young," he assures with a tender palm planted over your shoulder blade. "All the time in the world still."
Reaching into your bag, you retrieve a crumpled $10 bill which you toss next to your empty drink before making to stand. "I guess."
His half-empty beer bottle forgotten, John stands as well. "I'll walk you out. Long as you're alright with that, sweetheart."
Your cheeks warm at the pleasantry. "Sure, yeah. That's fine."
"Thank you for the conversation," you say while unlocking your car. "And the save. It was kind of you."
And quite charming.
Gripping the top of the vehicle's door frame, John nods casually. "No trouble at all. Was just fortunate enough to be there when I was needed, it seems."
Setting your bag inside, you turn back to John for a final farewell. Strange how the world works—the two of you gaining a pleasant acquaintance tonight with a bit of vulnerable conversation, only to most likely never meet again. To walk out of someone's life just as quickly as you enter is certainly something to ponder.
"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a sweet smile and gentle nod.
Stubble-lined lips curve into a knowing grin. Leaning forward, he releases the door in favor of caressing your cheek. "Night, sweetness," he rasps before brushing a tender kiss over the flushed apple of your cheek.
Hot water cascades down Price's muscled back as he works at his twitching cock with tight, languid strokes. Forehead pressed to cool tile and teeth gritted together, he expends every imaginative effort he can to remain firmly planted within his made-up fantasy until his finish climbs over him.
You, lain back in bed, quietly whimpering as he ruts viciously away between your slick thighs, crying out over and over again "Da, da, da," the way a daughter would to her attentive father. You're so soft and innocent—so his. The only non-troublesome part of his life. Relief in female form.
Sucking in a sharp breath, he readies himself. You squeeze your cunt 'round him like a vice, and John throws his head back. Releasing a primal growl that borders on guttural—it comes from so deep within his chest—thick, hot ropes of cum paint the shower walls as the dream of you fades regrettably into steam.
"Yeah, you get the message I sent? Plate I wanted ran?"
He listens attentively while continuing to pace back and forth across hardwood floors.
"No priors, then," he confirms. "Not even a speeding ticket." He doesn't consider himself surprised. "Never married—no, yeah, yeah. Send me the address. All of it."
He licks his lips, then pulls his phone away from his ear long enough to watch as an email pops up on the notification bar. "Got it."
Instantly disconnecting the call, the foot of Price's king-size mattress dips heavily beneath his weight. Perusing the minimally-paged file, dark eyes flit over records of past schooling, predictable employment, and the address of your presumably charming one-woman apartment.
It's not that he means to frighten you as he pulls up a site to make an anonymous flower delivery order, but he's obviously never minded a good game of cat-and-mouse. Occupational hazard. He won't have you with anyone else; can scarcely tolerate the thought already.
Had you asked anyone else, you're sure the answer would be a resounding 'no.' Or even a mocking laugh.
But you didn't ask anyone else. You asked ghost, under the dimly lit awning of the pub, "can i fuck you, si?"
"You already do, love," ghost points out with a mumble around his cigarette. He lights it and takes a drag, exhales slowly "an' not here."
"I don't mean like that, si." You huff, knock your ankle against his bad one pointedly "I mean can I fuck you. As in with a cock. I bought a strap and...well."
Ghost takes a moment to raise both brows at you, deadpan. He takes great pleasure in silently judging you before shrugging "alright. But I want my tea."
Which is how ghost ends up sprawled naked on your bed that you really should size up, nearly taking up the whole mattress.
"Christ, simon..." you whisper, kneeling between spread thighs. Ghost is big in the way important things are big. More than just size, his entire presence takes up space. Meaty thighs covered in scars lazily drop open to reveal an already prepped hole, and you drag your eyes up a round stomach and fat tits to see ghosts smirk "don't trust me to do it myself?"
Ghost hikes a leg higher, loops his ankle behind your hip and rubs the leather of the strap into skin "wanted to make it easy for your first time, sweetie."
God, you love him.
You smile, notch the head of the strap against his rim. The minute twitch if his abdomen makes your cunt ache, "ready, si?"
With a firm, slow, thrust you push in. Torn between watching the silicone slide into ghost or watching the sudden pinch of his brow or the way he tosses his head back with a pleased groan "fuck, okay. Keep going–"
You do, a bit awkwardly at first. You're using muscles you previously didn't need to, trying to adjust and finding yourself wholly frustrated that you can't get the angle you want while ghost is too busy whining under you to really help.
"Fuck– okay, hold still–" you grunt, having enough and all together shoved ghosts thigh up and hooking his calf over your shoulder so you can thrust down to the base and–
"Wait– wait fuck–!" Ghost seizes, stomach tightening and back arching and his orgasm hits sharp and sudden. Thick ropes shoot across his chest while ghost moans and huffs through his teeth like he's trying to fight himself from grinding further onto the strap.
"Woah." You mumble once he's finally down. You wear there's a puddle under you at this point by how wet you are.
Ghost groans, breathes. He cracks one eye open and motions you to crawl up his chest. "I'm not getting up again, lovie. C'mere, you need a reward."
Once you're both cleaned up and snuggling, you'll notice ghost didn't even touch the twenty pound tea that he wanted. Asshole.
