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lewmagoo · 7 months

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to my heart, he carries the key | bob floyd

sequel to someone to watch over me (i recommend reading the first part beforehand so this makes more sense)

description: in which a threat is made against the president’s daughter’s life, and agent robert floyd is tasked with carrying out ‘operation hidden angel’

characters: secret service agent bob floyd x f!reader, pete mitchell, beau simpson, dagger squad as their own respective characters

warnings: 18+, mentions of domestic terrorism, military, secret service and us gov’t inaccuracies, smut, unprotected sex, forbidden love, gun violence, attempted kidnapping, hospitals, broken bones, angst, hopeful ending

Things had changed in The White House.

It had been three months since that fateful night during a charity event, where a man in the crowd targeted the First Daughter of the United States. Agents Robert Floyd, Jacob Seresin, and Reuben Fitch intercepted the perpetrator, and he was disarmed before he could harm anyone. He had been taken into custody, and after weeks of extensive questioning and investigation, The Department of Homeland Security had determined that this man was not working alone. He was a member of a homegrown terrorist organization.

The only thing they couldn’t get out of him was the location of the organization. He refused to give them up, but he was adamant that in a few short months, they were going to go through with their next act of violence. And this time, people were going to die.

It was very calculated. Every last detail was planned out. How they would get the attention of the American public. How they would carry out their threat against the US government. And the way that they planned to do that?

Why, kidnapping the president’s daughter, of course.

During the time it took to obtain that information from the perpetrator, there was unrest in The White House. A changing of the guard, so to speak, was taking place. Tragedy had struck in the personal life of Pete Mitchell, head of White House security.

His husband of over thirty years, Tom Kazansky, had passed away after a bout with cancer. Pete took it hard. Hard enough that after the funeral and the burial and everything in between, he decided that it was time to retire from his decade long position as head of security.

It was not a decision that he took lightly. In fact, he’d agonized over it before finally biting the bullet and placing his letter of resignation upon the president’s desk.

“The truth is, I’m getting too old for this,” he told his team of agents, as he addressed them on the day he left. “I know, I know, it’s shocking to most of you,” he teased, as lighthearted chuckles filled the room. “But…it’s time for me to step down. Tom’s death showed me how fragile life is, and how much I should be cherishing it. I have grandchildren on the way, and I plan to be here to watch them grow up.” He glanced at Bradley Bradshaw, and the pair shared a silent understanding. Bradley’s wife was expecting. Pete didn’t want to miss a moment of that little one’s life.

“So, in my stead, Beau Simpson has agreed to take on the position as the new White House Head of Security.”

And thus, new leadership walked onto the stage.

At first, things weren’t that much difference. Your personal security detail, with Bob as the head, remained the same. Everyone missed Agent Mitchell, but life had to go on. And go on, it did.

Bob, for one, wasn’t the biggest fan of change. But change was part of the job, it was part of life, so he couldn’t make a big deal about it. When Simpson began to implement subtle changes into the way things were done, Bob bristled, but he didn’t speak out. He held his tongue, because he had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to rebel against Simpson’s leadership, he’d lose his job faster than he could even blink.

So he simply observed silently and waited to see just how many changes Simpson was going to make.

And then, one day, Bob was called into the president’s office, where he stood before Agent Simpson and POTUS himself. “Do you know why we’ve brought you in, Agent Floyd?” Beau asked.

“No sir,” came Bob’s simple response. He didn’t get the sense that he was losing his job, so he had no idea why he was standing here in the Oval Office.

“I’m sure you recall three months ago, when a threat was made against the president’s daughter.”

“Yes sir, vividly.” He’d never forget that night. Never forget the terror in your voice as you called out for him.

Then, the president interjected. “As Agent Mitchell previously briefed you, the perpetrator was part of a domestic terrorist organization here on our soil. Recently, he confessed to agents that this group will be carrying out an act of violence upon the American people. We aren’t sure where, or when exactly, but what we are sure of, is that they’re going to go after my daughter again.”

Agent Simpson picked up where the man left off. “Listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. What we talk about here is strictly confidential. It is a matter of national security.” Then he leaned closer toward Bob. “I am going to give you a set of coordinates. No one else but you, me, and the president know them. Once I give them to you, I want you to be prepared for my signal. When I deem it necessary, you will go to the Residence, retrieve his daughter, and escort her to this location. You will not bring any other agents with you. Just you, and herself. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir. But why am I being given coordinates contrary to the location of the safe house that was already put in place?”

“Because that location has been compromised. You must only escort her to the coordinates I give you. Her life depends on it.”

“And when we get there?”

“You wait for my all clear. It won’t be safe to bring her back home until the threat is neutralized. Can you carry out these orders?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now memorize these coordinates.” Agent Simpson recited the numbers twice. Bob had an excellent memory, and stored away the information easily. Once he confirmed the coordinates by reciting them back to the man, Beau nodded. “From here on out, you will be prepared at all times to carry out Operation Hidden Angel.”

Bob breathed in, then out. Then he nodded. “I will be standing by awaiting further orders.”

The president stood from behind his desk. “I trust you to do whatever it takes to protect my only child, Agent Floyd. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Whatever it takes, sir.”

He was dismissed from the office, and his head was spinning. Suddenly, he was burdened with a deep sense of pressure. The need to do his job well. Not because your father and the entire country was depending on him, but because you were depending on him.

He had taken an oath to serve and protect. And he meant it. Even before he knew he loved you, he had made good on that oath. And now, even more so. You were infinitely precious to him, and he would do whatever it took to ensure your safety.

Even if it meant giving his life to ensure it. He was fully prepared to go to that length if he needed to.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. His mind kept drifting to you. To how much he loved you. How much he missed you. He saw you everyday. He escorted you to wherever you needed to go. But those moments did not allow him to be alone with you in the way that you both wanted. There were always prying eyes. Other members of your security detail. Cameras. Nosey reporters. Your relationship had remained secret all this time, and you couldn’t risk exposing it.

So he would continue pining for you, desiring you, hoping for a private moment to at least hold you in his arms. Little did he know he was about to get that opportunity, just not in the way that he was expecting.

The orders came one Friday afternoon. The work day was coming to a close. At that moment, you were in your quarters getting ready. That evening, you had a dinner engagement with a friend from college. Bob had only just finished briefing the rest of your detail on what the itinerary was for the night. Everyone was prepped and on the same page.

And then, Agent Simpson’s voice spoke into his earpiece.

“Agent Floyd, it’s time to enact Operation Hidden Angel.”

He tensed, his heart seizing in his chest as a shock of dread shuddered down his spine. This was it. His worst fear was coming true. Your life had been directly threatened, and it was time to take you to the designated safe house deep in the Virginia mountains.

And when Bob received that command, he had no choice but to act on it. He touched his fingers to his earpiece and responded. “Copy that. Operation Hidden Angel commencing.”

And then he was off, his shoes tapping rhythmically against the polished wooden floors as he rushed down each hallway and corridor. Adrenaline drove him forward, and he soon came to the entrance to the residence. Breathing in deeply to steady himself, he knocked twice before he opened the doors.

He knew where you were. He didn’t have to search. You were in your bedroom, readying yourself for the night ahead. For propriety’s sake, he knocked softly. If he hadn’t been afraid that someone might see him, he would’ve just burst into the room.

He still had to keep up the appearance that you were not romantically involved.

On the other side of the door, you were just setting out the outfit you would wear that night. You were entirely oblivious to the looming danger, eager for an eveningof catching up with an old friend. “Come in!” You called out as you debated which accessories to add to your outfit.

You were surprised to see Bob in your doorway. You smiled at the unexpected visit, but your smile soon faded when you saw the urgent look on his face. “You need to grab your emergency bag and come with me. Now.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bobby, what—”

“Just come. It’s not safe for you to be here right now.”

Deciding it best not to ask any further questions in the moment, you rushed to your closet, trembling hands yanking out the bag of packed necessities you kept for emergencies such as this. Then you shoved your feet into your shoes and rushed after him.

“What’s happening?” You asked as you followed Bob out of your room and down the corridor that led out of the residence.

“Can’t tell you the details. Just need to get you somewhere safe.”

“But-”

He turned, stopping you in your tracks. “Do you trust me?” He asked, blazing blue eyes locked with yours.

“With my life,” you replied without hesitation.

“Then stick with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

So you stopped asking questions. You followed Bob through the back hallways of the White House, allowing him to lead you, trusting in his guidance. You knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would protect you. He always had. When there was a threat against your safety, he was the first to run toward the danger.

But now, you were both running from it. You knew it had to be serious if you were being removed from The White House. Someone had likely made a significant threat, and Agent Simpson had advised you be removed from the premises until the threat was neutralized.

But would the danger ever be gone? Even if this particular instance was taken care of, others would come up in the future. You would never be safe, because that was just your life as the president’s one and only child.

You did, however, feel safe with the man in front of you. His large, warm hand engulfed your own as he led you down beneath the building. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure your protection. Not only because it was his duty, but because he couldn’t live with himself if something happened to you. He loved you too much.

And that was the sticky part of the situation. No one knew about your secret love for one another. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Someone did know. Bradley Bradshaw, Bob’s secondhand man on your security detail, had silently put two and two together. He’d never outright told either of you that he knew, but there seemed to be a silent understanding between him and Bob. A way of communicating that had come with years of working alongside each other in the same military branch. Neither one of them had to say a word, but they knew what the other was thinking.

Bradley had kept your secret all this time. You were often surprised that no one had found out, and both you and Bob lived in fear that one day, your father would find out. And if that were to happen, you would lose Bob. He would be dismissed from his duties and you would likely never see him again. The thought broke your heart.

But for the time being, you were able to slip under the radar. Now, especially, because it was just the two of you. And for a moment, you wondered why the rest of your detail wasn’t with you. “Bob, where’s the rest of the team?” You asked as he pulled you to a stop outside a sleek black sedan. He grabbed your bag and threw it in the backseat before motioning for you to climb in alongside it.

“I’ll explain later.” He ushered you into your seat before he scurried to the driver’s side and slipped into the seat. The engine roared to life seconds later, and he glanced back at you. “Buckle up.”

You did.

Then he was taking off, headed out of the parking garage. As he hit the gas, he spoke into his earpiece. “Angel is flying.”

“Bob, why is it just the two of us?” You reiterated your question from a few moments earlier.

He glanced at you through the rearview, debating just how much he should tell you. “The more people that know where we’re going, the more danger it puts you in. Only your dad and Agent Simpson know where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just…just don’t ask questions, okay, honey? The less you know, the safer you are.”

You heeded his words and settled back into your seat, your heart racing against your ribcage. This was more serious than you realized, wasn’t it? And as you thought about it, the more fearful you became. Your life was in danger, and it was an odd feeling.

Who were you, that someone wanted to kill you? Your father’s decisions were not a reflection of your own morals or beliefs. You had no control over the way he chose to run the country. But there were times when his decisions put a target on his family’s back. Yours especially, because as his child, you were his biggest weakness. Remove you from the equation, and one would have the President of the United States in the palm of their hand, willing to do whatever they asked just to get you back.

This was why proactive measures were being taken. You couldn’t be used as a bargaining chip if you were in hiding. But oh, how you hated it. This was your father’s second term. You had been living in the White House for much too long, and you were tired of it. Tired of the world’s eyes being on you at all times. Tired of the politics and the responsibility. You had never asked for this. This was your father’s endeavor, you were just along for the ride.

But it had resulted in you being placed into the back of a bulletproof car and driven off to some top-secret location just to keep you safe. And from the back of that seat, your eyes observed the singular agent in charge of maintaining that safety. He wasn’t looking at you through the rearview, his eyes were on the road where they belonged. But you could see the conflict in those beautiful blues. You could see the fear.

Whatever this threat was had scared him. And that was saying something, because Bob Floyd didn’t scare easily. But when it came to protecting you, he did get scared. Terrified, even. He just didn’t let you see it. He wanted you to trust him, to feel secure. And you did. In fact, no one else made you feel as secure as he did. Yes, the rest of your detail did a wonderful job. You knew you could trust them with your life.

But because you loved Bob so much, you sought him out for shelter and protection. He was the first you turned to when you were frightened or felt unsafe. And he loved being that for you. Loved that you looked to him for those things.

However, he sometimes thought about the day he might fail you. Would his feelings for you hinder his ability to protect you effectively? Would he be blinded by love? It hadn’t happened yet, but he knew if he was even a smidge off his game, Agent Simpson would be able to sniff it out. And he would not let Bob off the hook for it, either. He’d instruct him to end his relationship with you immediately. And there would be no second chance. Beau would tell the president, and Bob’s position would be terminated.

But it had not gotten to that point, and you prayed it never would. You much preferred sharing this intimate little secret. It did make maintaining your relationship a little difficult, because there were times when you wished you had the guts to tell your father, to tell the world. But the thought of the repercussions that would follow always made you decide against it.

You wanted to relish in this secret for a little longer. If the time ever did come to reveal your relationship, you would know. Until then, you remained under the radar, stealing private moments when you could, and otherwise keeping your distance when it was appropriate.

But now you were entirely alone. No prying eyes. No risk of being caught. You were alone, because Bob was the only one your father trusted to watch over you. Because some unhinged madman had made a threat against your life and Bob would sooner die than let any harm come to you.

“You’re taking me to the safe house, aren’t you?” You spoke up. You had no idea where the house was located, but you had heard of presidents in the past utilizing safe houses. If you were being physically removed from The White House and taken elsewhere, a safe house was the only logical destination you could think of.

Bob caught your eye through the rearview mirror. His expression was bleak, and he said nothing, but it confirmed what you were asking.

The drive to the safe house was two hours. You left behind the bustling area of Washington, D.C. and headed into the mountains of Virginia. And as you went, the sun began to sink lower in the sky, allowing eventide to grace the land.

You and Bob hardly spoke, which was uncommon. But you could tell he was harrowed by this situation, and in turn, you were just as scared. It rendered you both silent for the rest of the ride. Instead, you stared out the window, watching the landscape go by, wondering how long you would have to stay here. A night? A week? A month? How serious was this threat made against you? How immediate was the danger?

All these questions swirled in your mind as Bob drove up a winding, dirt drive. It seemed to go on forever, and the farther he went, the darker it got. But he kept going, until finally, he was pulling up outside a small cabin.

You stared in confusion. Surely this couldn’t be it, right? When thinking of a safe house, you imagined concrete walls and impenetrable security systems. This was just a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Bob was confused as well. An odd feeling churned to life in his gut. Something didn’t feel quite right about this, but these were the coordinates he was given. He had not made a mistake in his navigation. You were where you were supposed to be.

“Are you sure this is the place?” You asked as he pulled the car behind the house, intending to keep it hidden from view so as not to raise any suspicions if anyone were to happen upon the place.

“These are the coordinates I was given. I followed orders,” Bob replied, a little sharply, but his annoyance wasn’t directed at you. It was at whoever had designated this as a safe house. Surely the US government could afford something more than this, right?

“I just…was expecting something more grand. A fortress or something,” came your explanation.

Bob softened. “Honestly, me too. I didn’t know what to expect. They gave me the coordinates when I first took charge of your detail. I always assumed the safe house was a bunker.”

Both of you were wrong. Instead, it was a quaint cabin that looked like any normal cabin in the forest might look. However, when you got up to the porch, you found a keypad on the door. It had to be unlocked by a code.

Bob spoke into his mic. “Angel has landed safely.”

Seconds later, Agent Simpson’s voice crackled to life in his ear. “Copy that,” he said. And then, “zero one zero two nine three.”

Bob typed the numbers into the keypad, and the sound of a lock turning reached his ears. Seconds later, the door was unlocked. He opened the door and took a look inside, scoping out the place.

It looked like a typical hunting cabin, except more well furnished. a seating area off to the left, complete with a bearskin rug. A small kitchen off to the right. An old oak dining table in the middle of the main room.

“Let me see,” you spoke up from behind him.

He stepped forward into the house and allowed you to follow suit. As soon as you were both safely inside, he shut the door, manually locking it. He was surprised at the addition of windows to the cabin. As you wandered around and explored the place, he parted the blackout curtain that hung upon one of the front windows, tapping the glass with his fingertips. It was bulletproof.

He eyed the architecture of the house, assessing what it was made out of. It he had to guess, there was also bulletproof material within the wall panels. Although the cabin looked normal, it was anything but. It was designed to blend in, to not raise suspicion.

And then his eyes traveled to the bearskin rug, and something told him to check it out. As you were rifling around in the kitchen, he stepped over to the seating area and kicked at the rug with his foot. It seemed to be fastened to the floor. So he knelt down and pulled at each edge until one gave way, lifting up to reveal a hiding space beneath the floor.

He grabbed his small utility flashlight he kept on his belt and shined the light inside. This was the bunker he’d assumed he was taking you to. It was very clearly designed to withstand any sort of disaster. I hoped he wouldn’t have to utilize it.

“What’s that?” You came up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“Bunker.” He slammed the door shut. With the rug overtop of it, it didn’t look out of place at all. Bob turned to you, his expression serious. “If anything happens, we go down there.”

You held his gaze, your own fearful. “Bobby…how bad is it?” You wanted to know the severity of the threat. You wanted to know if you’d be forced to hide in that bunker.

Bob stepped closer to you, allowing himself the physical connection he’d deprived you both of in his haste to get you here safely. His hand came up to cup your cheek. “Bad enough that your dad was spooked. Bad enough that Simpson thought we should bring you to the safe house.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, lifting your hand to rest it gently overtop of his own. “I’m tired of this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he whispered back. He wanted to assure you that he’d protect you. That you were safe with him. But the words felt so insignificant. Yes, he would protect you, but that didn’t change the fact that a threat had still been made to your life. You, the most precious soul he’d ever known. You, kind and giving and compassionate. You, the one who loved him. How could anyone target you?

You leaned in close, and his mind ceased its wandering. Your free hand was placed gently against his chest, over his heart. And then you spoke. “Do you think that maybe…we could pretend, just for a little bit, that life is normal? That we’re just two people living in their little cabin in the woods, who aren’t actually in danger of a terrorist trying to take their lives?”

Bob’s mouth curled into a halfhearted smile. “Yeah…yeah, we can do that, little love. Whatever you want.”

Little love. The endearing nickname always made your heart warm in your chest. You nestled yourself against him, lifting your head and seeking out his kiss. He gladly returned the affection, mouth fitting against yours like it was always meant to, lips meeting in a tender kiss.

For a fleeting moment, everything felt alright. There was no looming danger. No president’s daughter and secret service agent. It was just two people, very much in love, sharing an impassioned kiss in their living room.

And then you parted, and as Bob rested his forehead against yours, you said, “You hungry? I found a box of MREs stored away in the kitchen.”

He smiled, humming softly in amusement. “Mm, my favorite,” he teasingly replied.

Your hands now rested on his chest. “I’ll get them ready.”

You shared one more kiss before you slipped away to saunter over to the kitchen. As you did so, Bob grabbed your duffel bag and carried it to what he assumed was a bedroom. When he opened the door, his assumption was confirmed.

A double sized bed was positioned in the middle of the sparsely furnished room. There was a nightstand on one side of the bed and a dresser along the opposite wall, facing the bed. An empty closet was across the room.

Bob set your bag down on the bed, and he assumed the two of you would be sharing this bed. His heart yearned for it. It had been a while since the two of you had shared a bed and spent the night snuggled up close. He missed it so.

Although the situation that had brought you here was less than ideal, at least you would be able to spend time with each other, without having to sneak around.

With a soft sigh, Bob stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut before he quickly made his way back outside, with intentions of doing a perimeter sweep to make sure the area was secure. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back to the house, stopping only to grab his own overnight bag that had been stashed in the trunk of the sedan.

Moments later, he was inside with you again, the door locked securely behind him.

In the meantime, you were at work in the kitchen, reading the directions on your MRE packet. When he entered the room, you looked up, and then motioned to the bin of pre-packaged food kits you had found.

“Take your pick. There’s macaroni in tomato sauce, chili, spaghetti, and some bean and cheese thing.”

He chose the macaroni in tomato sauce, assuming it would be the safest option. Together, you prepared your respective meals, and you couldn’t help but find it a little humorous that your first time cooking together consisted of making military grade survival meals.

“I haven’t eaten one of these in years,” Bob mused, as he activated the heating element. A memory flashed in his mind. A not so happy one. “Last time I had one was when my plane went down during a mission. Natasha was flying with me then. We were stuck in the woods for days.”

You frowned softly at his admission. “How did you make it back?”

“Some nice farmer saw us along the road and we were able to hitch a ride with him into the nearest town. We radioed for help.”

“Why didn’t search and rescue come for you?”

“Partly because we went down in enemy territory. And because our plane literally exploded into a million pieces. We were presumed dead.”

Your previously chipper mood was dampened a bit as you imagined him and Natasha, yet another trusted agent in your security detail, lost and potentially injured in unfamiliar territory. “Did you get hurt when the plane went down?” You asked.

He nodded. “Got some nasty cuts. Some burns, too. You know the scar on my side?”

You hummed in realization. You did know it. You’d run your fingers over the six inch long scar many times while laying in bed with him.

“That was shrapnel from the blow. Cut me pretty good. Nat stitched it up for me, actually. Kind of embarrassed to admit I passed out during it.”

You reached out, touching his arm gently. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. I can’t even imagine, Bobby. That must’ve been awful.”

He nodded. “But we got through it. Nat’s one determined gal. She told me she was gonna get me home safe. And she did. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Your hand moved from his arm, resting against his back, thumb stroking circles along his spine. Your touch grounded him. “Remind me to thank her.”

He smiled softly as he finished preparing his food. He was beyond grateful that the Fates had decided to spare him. Had they not, he never would have met you, the best thing to ever happen to him.

Joining the Secret Service had never been part of Bob’s plan. He’d never even considered it. But Agent Mitchell had recommended him to the president, and after Bob had fulfilled his commitment of time to the Navy, he’d moved over to The White House, where he became part of security.

In fact, the entirety of your personal security detail had been recommended to your father by Pete Mitchell. With you making more public appearances and doing charity work, it put you on the radar. Your father wanted the best security detail possible for you, and because he trusted Pete’s judgment, he brought them in to begin the interview process. In the end, all of them were hired.

But only one was the head of your detail. Only Bob was entrusted with every minute detail of your safety. Not because the others couldn’t be trusted, or because they were incapable. Far from it. It was his sharpness and his ability to assess threats quickly. It was his respectfulness and penchant for following the rules (or so everyone thought). Out of the group of agents assigned to you, Bob stood out above the rest.

In the words of your father, Seresin was too cocky, Bradshaw too aloof, and Trace too emotional. You strongly disagreed with his words. You didn’t like the assessments he’d made of each agent. You thought he was being unfair and harsh. Especially with Natasha. Calling her too emotional was crossing over into sexist territory, you felt. If anything, Bradley was the emotional one. But you didn’t argue with your dad. Whatever POTUS says, goes.

None of the supposed “downfalls” your father saw in each agent affected their ability to protect you. All of them put their lives on the line every single day to ensure your safety.

But in the end, they hadn’t been put solely in charge of your security team. Bob had. And now here you stood, in safe house in the middle of the Virginia wilderness, eating survival food and pretending everything was fine. Just you and him.

Strangely enough, you were grateful. Grateful that he was the one you were with. And maybe it was for selfish reasons, but you didn’t care. You just hated that your only opportunity to be alone with him as of late was because of the imminent danger posed to your life.

But you would cherish the time you were allotted.

That night, in the quietness of that little cabin in the woods, the two of you sat at the oak dining table adjacent to the kitchen, with your feet resting in Bob’s lap. You drank the electrolyte drink mixes that were provided in your MREs, pretending they were some sort of fancy alcoholic cocktail, if only for your sanity’s sake.

For the rest of the evening, you didn’t acknowledge the circumstances that had brought you here. Instead, you talked of anything and everything. It wasn’t often that you had a chance to have such meaningful conversations with one another. Your time together was usually short. Secret meetings under the cover of darkness. Stolen moments of passion in hotel rooms. Intimate embraces where no prying eyes could see.

But flashes of reality still shocked you like a splash of cold water to the face. Such as the fact that Bob’s gun was still strapped to his hip. Or the fact that he went around the house making sure all the blackout curtains were drawn, and double checking the lock system on the door.

You tried to ignore it. Focused on cleaning up your haphazard dinner instead. But there was still a feeling of unease in your gut. Bob seemed to notice your anxiety, ever observant, and he approached you as you wiped down the table with a dish cloth you’d found in one of the drawers. His arms encircled your waist, and you sighed, leaning back against him, letting your eyes flutter shut.

“Hey,” he whispered, nuzzling his face against the back of your neck. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You turned around in his hold, placing your hands upon his chest. “I know. I just…I’m trying to pretend everything is fine but it’s hard when there’s a literal bunker beneath us, and you’re walking around with your gun on your hip, and checking the state of the art locking system on the door over there.”

Bob glanced down at the weapon in its holster. “Here,” he said. He stepped back, removing his belt, and taking the holster along with it. He took the gun and carried it into the bedroom, where he placed it on the singular nightstand beside the bed. Then he rejoined you in the main room.

“Is that better?” He asked.

“A little,” you replied with a nod, welcoming him into your arms again.

He dipped his head low, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. “I love you, sweet girl.”

Your chest warmed. “I love you too.”

A large hand lifted up, fingers stroking your cheek. “You want to play pretend? We’ll play pretend.” His arm then came down to wrap around your waist, palm pressed into the small of your back. “This is our homestead, right? And you…you are my pretty little wife.” His free hand tapped your nose with his fingers.

“Oh? I like the sound of that,” came your soft reply.

His arm tightened around you. “Mhm. And I just came in from a long day of workin’ the land. Looks like we’re gonna have a good harvest, too. Won’t go hungry this winter.”

Your mouth curved into a fond smile. His accent was coming through. Picked up from summers spent on his granddaddy’s ranch. “Take such good care of me,” you said. “My strong, handsome man.”

He kissed you again, this time more languidly. “Always gonna take care of my wife.”

That promise translated outside of this silly little roleplay, too. You knew he’d always look out for you. “What would I do without my Bobby?” You asked.

He gently bumped noses with you, enjoying the closeness. It made you a little dizzy. You hadn’t been in his big, strong arms like this in a while. You’d missed it more than you realized. The close proximity of your bodies had you growing breathless, and your fingers grasped at the fabric of his button down.

“I…can we…” You couldn’t get the words out. But he knew what you wanted.

“You need me, honey?”

You nodded, caught off guard when tears welled in your eyes. “Please,” you whimpered pitifully. It hit you hard, like a blow to the chest. You hadn’t expected the feeling to be so intense, but now you were leaning into him for support, afraid your knees would give way if you tried to stand on your own.

“I’ve got you. Let’s go to the bedroom, okay?”

With his arm secured around you, he led you to the room. There, he guided you to sit on the bed before he turned on the little beside lamp on the nightstand. It didn’t give off much light, but it did cast a soft, warm glow over the bed.

And then he was in front of you again, but this time, he was kneeling, placing his hands on your knees as he looked up at you. “If you want to stop at any time, you tell me, alright?”

You nodded.

“Words, lovey.”

“Yes sir.”

He wanted to be a little more careful with you in this moment. Not that he wasn’t careful with you all the time, but he had a feeling you needed a little more tenderness than usual. Having your life threatened was a harrowing experience. He wanted to give you the intimacy and closeness you needed. He wanted to be a comfort to you.

As he rose to his feet, a big, gentle hand cupped your cheek. You lifted your head, gazing up at him. His thumb lovingly stroked your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened your mouth, wrapping your lips around the digit.

He watched in awe as your eyes began to grow glassy, and your gaze softened. All it took was his thumb in your mouth to turn you pliant. He smiled fondly, his eyes twinkling.

And what beautiful eyes they were. You gazed up into them, so clear and blue, but somehow dark in the lowlight, as if the bright blue had turned brown. You could feel the tension leaving your body as you suckled on his thumb. The taste of his skin was familiar and soothing.

“Poor thing. Just needed to shut your brain off for a bit, huh?” He murmured.

“Mhm,” you hummed around his thumb.

“I’ve got you. Don’t have to do any thinking with me. I’ll do it all for you.”

You liked the sound of that. You could let go of the stressors. Your circumstances. Your position as daughter of the President of the United States. Your political commitments. All of it could be forgotten, if only for a little while.

So you gave yourself to him. To your Bobby. You let him take care of you, because he knew what was best at that moment in time.

“C’mere,” he said. He took a seat on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard. As you scrambled over to him, he caught you, pulling you into his lap so that you were straddling him. His hands rested at your hips. Your own fell to his broad shoulders. The muscles rippled beneath your touch.

With your body slotted against his like this, you felt so warm and secure. Like you were meant to fit together. In the warm glow of the lamp, and in the softness of the bed, it all felt so domestic. As if you truly were husband and wife, living in your little cabin in the woods.

And then your mind began to wander, and you considered what it might be like if he truly was your husband. If you were allowed to live out your relationship without fear of being found out.

You wanted that, you realized. You wanted it so badly. But you couldn’t have it. Not yet. So instead, you played pretend. You dove forward, connecting your lips with his, kissing him deeply, pouring all the passion you had into it. And he kissed you back with just as much fervor.

Your hands moved from his shoulders to rest upon the sides of his neck. Your fingers slipped through the hair at the nape of his neck, nails ever so lightly scraping at the skin, making him shiver against you and moan into your mouth.

You rotated your hips downward in the process, and he gasped, his grip tightening on your waist. So you moved your hips again. And again. Soon, you were rutting against him, searching out that delicious friction. The seam of your shorts caught against you in just the right place, and the stimulation had his cock hardening beneath you.

He let his head thunk back against the headboard, biting his lip and closing his eyes. “Oh, just like that, honey,” he encouraged, breathless.

“Feels so good,” you whined.

“I know. Been too long, hasn’t it?” he cooed, bringing you closer so your forehead was pressed to his.

“H-how long?” you wondered, shivering as he lifted his hips to meet your own.

He remembered. Of course he did. “Last month. When you visited that one university.”

Oh, yes. Now you remembered. You’d really gone an entire month without touching him? No wonder you ached so terribly inside. You needed him.

“Bobby,” you whimpered then.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He was kissing you again, except this time, he rotated you, gently easing you onto the bed so he could hover over you. Then he began the reverent undressing of your body. He pulled your shirt over your head, leaving a kiss against your clavicle as he easily rid you of your undergarments. Then came your shorts and panties, tossed aside carelessly.

This left you entirely bare to him, and oh, how naked you felt. But he distracted you from any trepidation you felt. He took your hands in his own, lifting them to his shirt, prompting you to unbutton it. Those big hands hovered over yours as you did, there to help if you were trembling too much to do it.

In no time, the shirt was unbuttoned, and he tossed it to the floor before he made quick work of removing his white undershirt. Immediately, your hands splayed across his chest. Well-defined because he worked his ass off staying fit. His job was not for the faint of heart or body. He had to stay on top of his game.

“If ya can stop ogling my chest for a minute, I’ll get my pants off,” he teased.

You looked up at him before turning your head away shyly. He couldn’t help but hum in gentle amusement. You were just the most precious thing.

Quickly, he shoved his pants and boxers down his legs, kicking them asunder, leaving you both naked as the day you were born. As soon as his body was slotted against yours, you sighed in deep relief. Finally.

His mouth was on yours again, and his arms were at either side of your head, effectively caging you in. He overwhelmed your every sense, and it was glorious. In such close proximity, you could smell his cologne, and that natural, heady scent that could only be described as him.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered in awe, his mouth trailing down your jaw, across your neck, over your collarbone. Reverence. Worship.

As he kissed your heated skin, he moved to slip his hand between your thighs. Deft fingers tenderly parted your delicate folds, prodding at your entrance. First one finger, slid in deep. Then two. You whined into his mouth as he crooked those fingers upward, intent on locating that spongey little spot that made you shiver.

It didn’t take him long. He knew your body so well. Knew exactly what to do to have you purring for him. You were so responsive to his touch as it was.

“Gotta open you up for me, lovey,” he soothed. “Been a while since you took all of me.”

Those fingers pumped in and out of you, and his thumb came up to swirl around your clit as he did so. You were oversensitive. Not only had you not been touched by him in over a month, but you hadn’t touched yourself, either. You’d hardly had any downtime, and when you did, you spent it resting. Now, you were so pent up that Bob’s gentle stimulation of your neglected pussy was already beginning to overwhelm you.

In the meantime, he continued to trail searing kisses across your skin. Over the softness of your breasts. Teeth gently tugging at your pebbled nipples. Tongue soothing the sting.

In the meantime, you grew wetter around his fingers, your body opening up to him, welcoming him in. And then he added a third finger, and you squealed, jolting against him. You felt his mouth curl into a smile against you.

Then he lifted his head to gaze down at the way your cunt stretched around those fingers. “Oh, look at this sweet little pussy. My fingers barely fit. I don’t know if it’ll be able to take my cock.”

He was teasing you. But in your hazy state, you took him seriously. “No! No, I can take it! Please, I need it!” You gasped.

This prompted him to place his thumb in your mouth again. “Shh, I know. I’m gonna give it to you, I promise.” A gentle kiss to your lips before he leaned back. He removed his fingers from you, and you watched as he used the slick of your arousal as lubricant for his cock, smearing it over the velvety skin. You whimpered at the sight.

You so desperately needed that cock inside you. Thick and heavy, with a blushed tip that was dripping with his own desire. You found yourself reaching for it, wrapping your fingers around him, longing to feel the heaviness in your hand.

He gasped softly as your grip tightened and your thumb brushed over that pretty pink head, gathering the wetness that had gathered at the slit. You found yourself salivating, suddenly wishing he was in your mouth, warm on your tongue. But at the same time, you wanted to be filled by him so badly. It made you ache.

Gently, he lifted your hand away, replacing it with his own. He slid the underside of his cock through your slick, and you both moaned lowly when the plush head caught at your clit. Again, he thrust his hips forward, teasing you. When he pulled back, he positioned himself at your entrance, slipping in only ever so slightly, enough to pull a desirous whine from you before he pulled back.

“D-don’t tease,” you squeaked out.

“I know. Just tryin’ to savor it. Might not get to do this again for a while.”

You pulled him down, kissing him deeply. “Don’t think about that right now. Just fuck me, Bobby. Please.”

“Uh-huh.” With his mouth open against your own, he finally inched his hips forward, moving so his arms were at either side of your head again, and his chest was pressed to yours. Forward, forward, forward, until…

“Oh!”

He was fully sheathed inside you, every last inch. It was the thickness that took your breath away. He felt so big, yet at the same time, it felt as if he was made to fit inside you in this way. You would never tire of the feeling of his body connected to yours.

Bob couldn’t help but glance down, marveling at the way you stretched around him. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the feeling of the snug warmth. He had missed it so much. Missed you so much. “I love you,” he said with conviction. It warmed you to your core.

“Love you too,” you sighed out blissfully, eyes fluttering shut as you wrapped your legs around his waist, and your arms around those broad shoulders of his.

His hand caressed your face as he began to move, nudging his hips into yours. He kept things slow to begin with, intending to build up to a glorious crescendo. All the while, he held you close, resting his weight upon your body, grounding you, surrounding you. He cherished it all. The feeling of your warmth, the beating of your heart. A reminder that you were safe, that you were alive, that you were here, with him.

His mouth found its way to yours again, trailing down further to lave his tongue against your pulse point. “You are everything to me,” he breathed against your feverish skin. You were his life, his love, his angel.

You couldn’t speak, for you were too overwhelmed. Your heart sang, and the true reason for being here in thise safe house seemed to fade into the background as white noise. Your Bobby was on the forefront, infiltrating every one of your senses, wrapping you up in his love and adoration. You never wanted it to end.

As he began to quicken his pace, you held onto him tightly, every inch of your bodies touching, warm and familiar, safe and secure. You let yourself be vulnerable, let him chip away at the armor you always protected herself with. Oh, how good it felt to let him be your protector. He encased you in his warmth, and that warmth began to radiate throughout your body, thrumming deep within your belly. He kissed yu repeatedly, lips ever brushing against yours, swallowing your precious whimpers and moans, holding onto those sounds, locking them away in his memory.

In the back of his mind, he partly wondered if this would be the last time you were able to make love to each other. What if he slipped up and was dismissed from his duties, effectively barring him from ever being with you again? He hated that his mind went to such a morbid place, but it was hard to ignore.

But then you were drawing him in again with those soft sounds, sighing out his name, and your sweet pussy was fluttering around him, and he was brought back to the present moment. How could he let himself be anywhere else but here, with you in his arms? How could he let himself be distracted when the love of his life sighed and shivered in pleasure beneath him? Because of him?

“Feel so good,” you squeaked. Your eyes were closed, your brow furrowed in utter bliss. You looked rather adorable this way. He was so in love.

You were so wet, and he realized that you were quickly growing wetter by the minute. He could feel you dripping down against his heavy balls, and onto the bed covers below, and it only urged him to change his pace. You tightened your legs around his waist, inviting him deeper inside. As he thrust particularly deeply into you, you cried out softly. He’d bumped into that wonderful spot within you, sending you tightening around him, arousal slicking down the base of his cock.

“Oh, right there!” You exclaimed, fingernails pressing crescent shapes into the skin of his back. He ducked a hand between you then, stimulating your sensitive little clit in such a way that your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open. The way you clenched around him again had him growling lowly, the heat of impending release already beginning to warm in his pelvis. How was he already so close? And then he remembered how long it had been since he’d had you like this, and it made sense.

He applied more pressure with his fingers, driving his hips forward with more force. He was hit with a sudden wave of desperation, wanting, needing you to come before he did. He’d stave off his own pleasure for as long as possible if it meant making you feel good. Beneath him, you were on fire, arousal rushing through your very being like raw electricity, consuming every part of you in its wake. And you let yourself be swallowed up in the feeling, suddenly overcome with intense emotion as tears began sliding down your cheeks.

Bob cradled you against his chest, though he didn’t slow down. You needed him to keep going, and he wasn’t going to stop until you fell apart. And it was so close you could taste it, building and building and building. A vibration that began in your core, a peak that you were hurtling towards but couldn’t quite reach yet. It was a height that only your lover could bring you to.

Sweet, tender love making turned into something so much more primal. His chest heaved against yours, and he growled deeply, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he kissed you. Warmth blossomed between you both, growing into a wild flame. Your bodies fell into a desperate push and pull, faster and harder and deeper, chasing the pleasure high that you knew was inevitable.

He could feel you tighten around him like a vice, and he knew you were close. He let his forehead rest against yours, though he never stopped his movements. “You’re close, I can feel it,” he spoke in a broken whisper.

“I-I am,” you whimpered pathetically, clinging to him tightly.

“Then come for me, my love. Just let go.”

He continued to work you over, carrying you toward that edge. You trembled fiercely, breathing labored, growing even more so. Pleasure began to fizz through you like a firework brought to life, or a pack of Pop Rocks sprinkled on the tongue. Starting at your core and bubbling all the way to your fingers and toes.

Your body went taut against his as the first waves of it began to hit you. Almost there, almost there, almost there. And then, without warning, it hit you. Washing over you like an enormous wave, intense as could be. Seconds later, you came with a wail, convulsing beneath him as the fire of your orgasm ravaged you, surging through the entirety of your being. You cried out his name, and he was there, holding you in his arms as he watched you come apart, losing yourself because of him.

And as you came down, you sobbed. You buried your face against his chest, crying openly, still wrapped tightly around him. And he let you cry, keeping you close. But he also needed to find his own release, you realized. Even in your state of emotion, she pulled back a little, looking into his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were blown, but there was still a tenderness in his gaze. He wouldn’t pressure you for more if you weren’t ready to move on yet.

“P-please, Bobby. Wan’ you to come in me.”

How could he ever say no when you asked so sweetly?

Satisfied with your plea, he began moving again, finding the rhythm that he needed to bring himself to his end. “Yeah? Want me to fill you up, lovey?” He breathlessly spoke.

Glassy eyed, you nodded, bottom lip quivering. “Need it so bad,” you begged.

His face contorted into a look of beautiful euphoria. His jaw went slack, his eyes fell shut, and he let his head fall to the crook of your neck as the climax began to overwhelm him entirely. It washed over him with great force, rendering him absolutely boneless as he keened, your name falling from his lips in a soft whimper. Beneath him, you relished in the feeling of his essence seeping into you, even as tears continued to stain your cheeks.

His hips stuttered a few more times against yours as he made sure to fill you with everything he had to give. And as he came down, trying to catch his breath, you made no move to part from one another.

There you lay, holding each other, basking in the afterglow as the weight of his body settled atop yours. When your tears ceased, Bob very carefully slid out of you, soothing your mewl of protest with an open-mouthed kiss. As he moved to rest upon his back, he tucked you into his side, and you rested your head on his chest, right over his still racing heart.

Gentle fingers traced circles along your arm. You hadn’t realized that you’d zoned out a little, still drunk off pleasure, until his touch brought it back down to earth.

You placed your hand against his chest, eyeing the rise and fall of each breath he took. For a while, neither of you said anything. And when the silence finally did break, it was Bob who broke it.

“Need to get you cleaned up, lovey. Can’t let you fall asleep like this.”

Despite your murmur of protest, he gathered you into his arms and carried you out of the bedroom and into the bathroom just a few feet away.

You were so sleepy, it seemed that the events of the day were finally catching up with you, paired with the romp in the sheets you’d just gone on with Bob. You were in a haze as he tenderly cleaned you up and urged you to use the restroom.

“I’ve got you,” his low, comforting voice assured you. You could allow yourself to remain in that hazy state, because you knew he would take care of you. He always did.

He led you back to the bedroom, where he helped you change into the pajamas you had brought. Once you were taken care of, he tucked you into bed and kissed you on the forehead before he proceeded to ready himself for bed. A shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Easy, in case he needed to jump out of bed and tend to a threat in the middle of the night.

Then he slipped into bed beside you, and you immediately snuggled into him, content to be in his arms, enjoying his warmth. You would cherish every last moment you had with him. Safe and secure, your head on his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. Oh, how you loved him.

You were lulled into a deep, comforting slumber. In fact, it was the best sleep you’d gotten in weeks. Just his presence alone gave you rest.

But while you slept peacefully, Bob remained awake. He couldn’t sleep, not when he had to watch over you. He was tempted to get up and do a perimeter sweep outside, just to make sure everything was safe. But you were sleeping so peacefully in his arms that he didn’t want to disturb you.

At some point during the night, he did drift off into a light slumber, still partially alert, always ready to address danger, should it come knocking on the door.

And, unfortunately, it did.

At around 0400 hours, Bob was alerted to movement outside. It wasn’t loud. But there was a strange rustling in the woods, and the snapping of twigs. Instantly, his eyes were open, and he held his breath, hoping he’d just dreamt the sounds. But then he heard it again, and his heart seized in his chest.

Without hesitation, he eased you out of his arms, and you remained sleeping while he slipped out of bed, grabbing his gun from the nightstand and rushing to put his earpiece back in his ear so he could communicate with White House security if need be.

There were no windows in the bedroom, so he quickly and quietly scrambled to the front of the house, where he stopped at the window and discreetly lifted the edge of the curtain to peer outside. Sure enough, he saw two figures dressed in black gear approaching from the tree line.

And that’s when he realized one of them was already at the door, working on the security keypad. Bob knew, in that moment, that he should have trusted his gut feeling from the beginning. Where the hell had Agent Simpson sent the two of you? Because there was no way this was a safe house if it was this easy to get into.

But there was no time to debate the security of the house. Danger was right on the doorstep, and his first priority was protecting you. So he sprang into action, rushing back to the bedroom where you slept peacefully.

“Safe house is compromised,” he reported into his mic, just before he leaned down to shake you awake.

“Copy. Get into the bunker. Sending backup now,” Simpson’s voice crackled to life in his ear.

Bob didn’t reply. He was too focused on waking you. “Hey, hey, need you to wake up for me, honey.” He shook you vigorously until you stirred from your slumber.

You stared up at him in confusion, your eyes bleary. “Bobby? Wha-?”

“No time. Get up, we need to get under the house now. They found us.”

That woke you up. Your eyes widened, and you sat upright, throwing the covers from your body as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. “How?!”

“I don’t know! Just come with me!” He yanked you to your feet, hands tight on your arms, catching you when you stumbled.

Adrenaline coursed through you, wiping away the sleep-induced fog that had been cast over your brain. Bob’s remained closed firmly around your wrist and he pulled you after him out of the bedroom, intending to take you down into the bunker. But in a split second, he stopped abruptly, and you ran into his back with a surprised gasp.

He could only just catch sight of the door coming open. There was no time to make it to the trap door that would lead you to safety beneath the house. Going for it would result in the two of you being spotted and killed instantly. He had a split second to make a decision. This was life or death.

He whirled around, and in the darkness, you could see the wildness in his eyes, and it sent an icy shock of terror through you. Without a word, he clamped his hand over your mouth, silencing you before he pushed you back toward the bedroom.

Your heart pounded against your chest, your entire body trembling with fear as he released you and turned to shut the bedroom door silently. Thank God there was a lock on it, which he promptly turned, careful to do it silently. Then he whirled back around to face you. “Get under the bed. No matter what happens, you do not come out unless I tell you to.” His voice was so low it was barely audible, but you heard every word. And then, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. You didn’t hesitate to follow his instructions, sinking to your knees and maneuvering your body underneath the bed. Bob yanked the covers down so they were hanging from the edge of the mattress, effectively obscuring you from view. It was only a temporary solution, but it would do.

Then, his hand closed around the cool metal of his gun, which he pulled from his waistband and positioned himself a few feet away from the door, weapon drawn, hands steady as he flipped the safety off. He could hear Simpson’s voice in his earpiece, asking for confirmation that the two of you had made it down into the bunker. But Bob couldn’t answer. Silence was what was going to keep you alive at the moment.

He placed his finger against the trigger, ready to pull it at any second. Whoever was on the other side of the door was quiet, but he could still hear them. Creeping closer and closer, inch by inch. And then, the doorknob rattled, and Bob felt his breath catch in his throat.

You pressed your own hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut. Bob’s eyes never left that door. He counted down in his head. Five. The silence was broken as the person threw their weight against the door. Four. Again, their body thudded against the door. Three. Two steps backward. Two. Bob realized what was about to happen. One. He threw his body to the side just as the sound of a gunshot rang through the house. Wood splintered. Smoke curled through the air.

Bob had moved aside just in time. A second too late and he would be suffering from a gunshot wound. But just as quickly as he moved, his gun was in the air again, held steadily in front of him. As soon as he had the assailant in his sights, he fired.

Beneath the bed, your hands came up to your ears, protecting them from the awful sound. You couldn’t see around the quilt obscuring your vision. You prayed silently that Bob was unharmed. And he was. He’d just put one perpetrator down. You’d heard the thud of the body hitting the floor.

But he had no idea how many more there were.

He would soon find out.

Seconds later, more footsteps. Bob fired. But the second man was expecting it, and kept his body partially hidden by the doorway as he lifted his rifle and aimed it at Bob. The secret service agent ducked quickly, firing his own weapon in retaliation.

He put up a good fight. Really, he did. Bob had always been seen as a pacifist, and by nature, he was. But that didn’t mean he shied away from a fight. And when he did have to utilize physical force, there was a calculated tenacity with which he fought. He was a worthy opponent.

He disarmed the second man quickly. Grazed his cheek with a bullet and used that split-second distraction to dive for the gun that belonged to the dead man on the floor. But then, a voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Bob looked up to find three men pointing rifles at his head. He was cornered.

“Drop the fuckin’ weapon.”

He did. He was severely outnumbered. If he tried anything, he’d be shot dead on the spot. That would leave you entirely vulnerable and alone.

The one in the middle stepped forward. He was tall. Dark hair. Beard. couldn’t have been much older than Bob himself. Dark eyes stared murderously at the agent kneeling on the ground. He never lowered his rifle.

“We’re just here for the girl. Tell us where she is.”

“She’s not here,” Bob lied through his teeth.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. We staked you out. We know you brought her here. Now where is she, huh?” Then, he called out into the room in a singsong voice that made your skin crawl, “come out, come out wherever you are!”

“She’s not going to come out, because she’s not here!”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Alright, then you won’t mind if I fire a couple of precautionary shots, right? Just to make doubly sure?” He aimed his gun at the bed you were currently stowed beneath.

Bob’s stomach dropped. “Hey, there’s no reason to waste ammunition on–”

“Ah! So she is here!”

And just like that, it all fell apart.

One of the assailants forced Bob into a prone position on the floor, his gun pressed to the back of his head. He reached down and ripped Bob’s earpiece out of his ear, tossing it to the hardwood floor and stomping on it, effectively cutting off any and all communication with The White House. And then, Bob watched helplessly as you were dragged from beneath the bed, kicking and screaming.

And all he could think, was that he’d failed you.

“Bobby!” You wailed.

“Hey! What is it that you want, huh?! Money?! We’ll give it to you, I can make a call to Washington, get it wired to–”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” the man above him snarled, smacking him square in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. Bob’s vision went white as searing pain radiated through his skull.

“It’s not about money,” said the one who had wrestled you from beneath the bed. “It’s about sending a message to her daddy.”

You whimpered in fright as he grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks hard. His expression was full of hatred. It chilled you to your very core. “We’ll make him wish he’d never taken office.”

“Let her go!” Bob cried desperately from the floor, though he was in no position to be making demands.

“No, I don’t think we will.” The man began to haul you out of the room, his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your screams. He glanced at the one standing over Bob. “Make sure he can’t follow us.”

As you were dragged into the hall, you heard the sound of a single shot ring out, and you sobbed behind the hand pressed to your mouth. No!

But Bob wasn’t dead. He was very much alive, his teeth clenched so hard he was sure he would break them, letting out a muffled, tormented scream behind them. White hot pain traveled up his thigh, and with it, a violent sense of nausea overwhelmed him. His assailant had shot him in the leg.

And then he was left alone in that bedroom, helpless to do anything as you were carried away, putting up a fight despite being overpowered. Crying out in absolute agony, Bob fought to drag himself upright, though his head spun and his leg throbbed wickedly. He had to stop them. Had to get to you.

It took every ounce of strength in his being to pull himself upright, but by that time, it was too late. They had taken you outside. He’d never reach you in time. After everything he had done to keep you safe, he had lost you in the end. He would never forgive himself as long as he lived.

But then, hope.

All of the sudden, the sound of a helicopter approaching could be heart, and not long after, blinding white light shone through the front door. Moments later, a magnified voice called out, “Homeland Security! We have you surrounded!”

What happened next was a blur. There was shouting. So much shouting. Outside, you were blinded by the lights, reaching your hands up to shield your eyes. The sounds around you were deafening. Someone fired a shot. Then another. Hands grabbed at you. You had no idea who they belonged to. But they pulled you away from the men who had taken you, guiding you to the sidelines, away from the danger.

But you didn’t want to go to the sidelines. You wanted to run back to your Bobby. “Let go! I need to see if Bobby’s alright!”

“Miss, we can send someone to check on him, right now I need you to—”

“No! They shot him! I have to know that he’s okay!”

You argued back and forth for a moment before you got the drop on the agent trying to restrain you. You threw your weight downwards and she released you out of surprise. You didn’t feel bad when you elbowed your way past her. You probably should have, because after all, she was just trying to do her job. But nothing else mattered to you in that moment than knowing Bob’s fate. If he was dying, you needed to be by his side to say goodbye. You weren’t about to miss your last chance to be with him.

So you made a dash for the house, ducking back inside, frantic.

“Bobby!” You cried out, scrambling toward the bedroom. Sickening dread coursed through you. What were you about to walk in on? Would you find the love of your life dead on the ground?

But then, you heard it. “I-in here!”

As soon as you burst into the room, you saw him. He’d tried to stand, but had crumpled to the ground in severe pain, and was now leaning back against the side of the bed, injured leg stretched out in front of him.

“Oh dear God.” You rushed to his aid, dropping to your knees beside him. “I’m here! I’m right here!”

His pant leg was soaked with crimson, and he’d placed his hand over the wound, in effort to slow the bleeding. “I-I’m okay,” he assured you, gazing into your frightened face. “Can you get my belt for me? It’s on the floor on the other side of the bed.” It sounded as if it took great labor for him to get the words out.

You didn’t hesitate. You jumped up and ran around to the other side of the bed, grabbing his belt. As soon as you handed it to him, he got to work tightening it around his thigh as a makeshift tourniquet.

Voices could be heard out in the main room of the cabin. You knew that you would soon be separated. It sent a terrible wave of dread through you, and you reached for Bob.

“Bobby,” you tearfully spoke.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he assured you, his tourniquet finished. His clean hand came up to cup your cheek. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ll see you again real soon.”

“But I don’t—”

“Honey, listen to me. Need you to be my brave girl, okay? I can’t go with you. They’re gonna take me to the hospital. And after that there’s a whole protocol I have to go through. But those agents out there, they’ll get you to safety. I promise you.”

Weeping, you wrapped your arms around his neck once more before you pulled back, just as none other than Agent Simpson walked into the room, his gun drawn.

Bob protectively placed an arm in front of you. “It’s all clear!” He called out. The assailant on the floor a few feet away from you both had long since been dead and did not pose a threat. Simpson still turned him over with his foot just to make absolutely certain that he was dead.

Beau approached you, kneeling so that he was eye level with you. His expression was neutral, but there was sympathy in his eyes. “I need you to come with me. I’ll see to it that you get back home safely. The threat to your life has been neutralized.”

“Agent Simpson, he’s been shot,” you whimpered, motioning to Bob.

“I see it. I’ve got a medic chopper on the way. We’ll transport him to the hospital. Right now, you’ve got two parents who are worried sick about you. Let’s get you back to them.”

“But—”

“Go with him,” Bob gently coaxed. “There’s nothing else you can do for me here. I’ll be fine.”

You gazed into his face, tears blurring your vision. “O-okay,” you whispered.

You wanted so badly to kiss him goodbye. But even now, you were hyper aware of Simpson’s presence and you knew you couldn’t openly show romantic affection to Bob in front of him.

So you allowed Agent Simpson to escort you from the room. You cast one more glance over your shoulder at your injured lover, before you finally left him behind. It felt like your heart was being torn in two. You longed to stay by his side, to board that medical helicopter with him and wait at the hospital while they tended to his injury.

But you supposed you did have one thing to be grateful for. At least he wasn’t dead.

As you were led outside, the early morning light was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It illuminated the carnage that had taken place. You gasped as you realized that the three remaining men who had tried to take you were dead. But there were others. Others you hadn’t seen. They were in custody, ready to be taken in for questioning. In one night, Homeland Security had succeeded in taking down a homegrown terrorist organization.

But that begged the question: why on earth had they been after you? It didn’t matter, because no one would answer your question, anyway.

You were led to a waiting car, where you realized Bradley Bradshaw and Natasha Trace were waiting for you. After what you had been through, you were relieved to see them.

“Hey kid,” Bradley greeted you.

“I sure am glad to see you,” you breathed.

“We’re glad to see you, too,” Natasha replied.

Bradley opened the door, and Nat slid into the seat first before you took your place in the middle, while he brought up the rear and closed the door behind him.

Javy Machado, who was driving, glanced back at you. “Good to see you safe and sound,” he said with a small smile.

You didn’t feel safe and sound. You felt harrowed and anxious.

The entire drive to The White House, you didn’t say a word. You stared out the window and fought to hold back your tears. What had gone wrong? How had those men found you? It seemed too easy. As if you and Bob had been nothing more than sitting ducks.

You were fortunate that all he had sustained was a shot to the leg. And you were even more fortunate that you had not been physically harmed. You were more emotionally scarred than anything. You weren’t sure how long it would take you to recover, but you knew you needed time. And most of all, you needed Bob.

But that was out of the question.

Instead, you had to hold your head high as you climbed out of the car once you had arrived at The White House. Waiting for you were Jake, Reuben, and Mickey. They reported your safe arrival through their mics, and then carefully led you into the building.

“Glad you’re home safe,” Jake softly told you.

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t muster one. You were already steeling yourself for being reunited with your parents. You knew your mother would be teetering toward hysterics, and your father would likely be stoic, as he often was. You loved them, but you were overwhelmed.

Your mind was elsewhere, longing for your Bobby.

Meanwhile, he was just arriving at the hospital, where a team of medical personnel had already been warned of his arrival. He was a little delirious from the blood loss and the pain, but he could hear the terms they were throwing back and forth.

They were going to operate immediately.

“Agent Floyd?” A woman’s voice filled his ears. She was strawberry blonde, with kind blue eyes that reminded him of his mother’s. “I’m Doctor Vitarella. We’re gonna get this bullet outta you as fast as we can, alright?”

He mumbled something in reply, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Then an oxygen mask was placed over his face, and he found himself slipping into a dark and dreamless slumber. The first thing he noticed when he woke a few hours later was the cast.

As consciousness washed over him, he gazed down at it, stretching from his foot to the top of his thigh. Still groggy, he glanced around the room, and saw a nurse walking into the room with a clipboard in hand. She looked up and realized that he was awake.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Floyd,” she said with a smile. “I’ll go get the doctor. She’ll want to talk to you.”

She scurried away before he could say anything. About five minutes later, the woman he vaguely remembered as Doctor Vitarella walked into the room. “You, sir, gave me a run for my money in the operating room,” she said.

Bob looked at her confusedly, still not fully out of his anesthesia-induced haze.

“When the bullet entered your leg, it fractured your femur. I inserted a rod into your leg to provide solid support to the bone. But you should know that the second it came in contact with the bone, the bullet broke into a bunch of tiny little pieces. My team and I did the best that we could, but I must inform you that there are still leftover fragments in your leg. I could not get those out without causing more damage.”

As he mulled over her words, Bob only had one question. “Will I be able to use my leg again?”

“With proper physical therapy, yes. But you’ll likely live with lasting pain. I wish I had a better prognosis for you, but what matters is that we stopped the bleeding and set the bone.”

He nodded solemnly. There were still bullet fragments in his body. A constant reminder of what he had been through. He felt as if he hadn’t let it fully sink in yet. Everything had been such a blur. Being carried on a stretcher out of the safe house because he couldn’t walk. Being placed into a helicopter and then rushed into the hospital.

And now here he was, on his back in a hospital bed, his leg aching something fierce. No, not aching. Throbbing. As the fog began to clear from his brain, the pain set in, and he groaned softly. His head was pounding. His leg hurt enough to prompt him to clench his teeth. “Could I get some, uh, pain meds?” He asked.

“I’ll have the nurse bring you some.”

A while later, he had been given his medicine, but it just barely took the edge off the pain. There was no distraction from it. He didn’t want to watch whatever mindless show that was playing on the television. He didn’t have his phone to scroll through. He had nothing. The only thing that made it even slightly bearable was the thought of you.

He wondered how you were faring. He wondered if you even knew of his condition. Had anyone updated you? He imagined that you were demanding to know how he was.

And you were. You had informed Agent Simpson yourself that you wanted a report of Bob’s health. You had to know that he was okay. Thankfully, as soon as Beau knew something, he called you right away.

“He’s gonna be okay, kid,” he said, “bullet fractured his femur, and they put him in a cast. But he’s gonna be okay.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, thanked Beau for the update, and hung up the phone. Seconds later, you burst into tears. Your Bobby was going to be okay.

But his worries were far from over.

He was given a couple days to rest, but on his third day in the hospital, Agent Simpson walked through the door of his hospital room, and he knew it had begun.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, making courteous small talk.

“Like hell,” Bob muttered in reply.

Beau nodded. “Sorry to hear that.” And then, he brandished a folder from a briefcase. “I hate to jump right into business, but…I have no other choice.” He pulled up a chair and sat at Bob’s bedside. “There are a few things I need to clear up.”

“Go ahead.”

“First and foremost, why did you not utilize the bunker beneath the house? The two of you were sitting ducks where you were.”

Bob stared at his superior. “I tried. But they were in the house before I could get her there. So I hid her under the bed.”

“And why were you not aware of the threat before then? Did you not do a thorough enough perimeter sweep?”

His tone was slightly accusatory. At least, Bob took it as such. His eyes narrowed. “No disrespect, sir, but what the hell kind of safe house was that? They never should have been able to breach it that easily.” He paused for a beat, awaiting an explanation.

“I think you might already know the answer to that, agent.”

“It wasn’t a safe house at all, was it?”

Beau sighed, shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

Now Bob was angry. “Y’know, my gut told me that something wasn’t right, and I just brushed it off. But I should’ve listened. You used her as bait, didn’t you? And I went right along with it like a fool.”

“Floyd, this was a tricky situation we were dealing with here. We’ve been tracking this group for months. Our only chance at luring them out was to use her as a decoy. By doing that, we in turn saved her life.”

“How is that any better?! You can’t just use someone as live bait!”

“I didn’t like doing it either, in fact it was my absolute last resort. But it worked, didn’t it? President’s daughter is safe and sound. Terrorist group has been disbanded. We have the few remaining ones in custody. It’s over. The threat to her life and our government has been neutralized.”

“And what if it didn’t work? What if she’d been killed?”

“But she wasn’t. There’s no use thinking about the what ifs. What’s done is done.”

“Does she know she was used as bait?”

Simpson shook his head, his gaze hard. “No. And it’s going to stay that way.”

Several moments of silence passed. Bob processed what he’d just been told. This entire time, he had tried so hard to keep you safe. Tried so hard to keep the danger away. And yet, the danger had still found you, all because the very administration he worked for had led them right to you.

A sick feeling churned in his gut. He felt dirty. He hadn’t been protecting you at all. He’d been offering you up to the very men who were after you, and he didn’t even know it.

“What did the president think about his daughter being used to lure her potential killers in?” His tone was bitter. He couldn’t help it.

“He was in agreement that it was the most effective way of eliminating the threat.”

“So I was the only one who wasn’t clued in to this plan?”

The agent looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Yes, because just from my own personal assessments and observations of you as an agent, I knew you wouldn’t go along with it otherwise. And she needed to be kept entirely in the dark. It was better that way.”

Bob’s head was spinning. “So really I was just used as a pawn?”

“You have to understand that this was a matter of national security. And sometimes you have to play dirty for the sake of the greater good.” He firmly believed that this had been the most effective course of action.

“I…I’m gonna need a minute to sit with this,” Bob continued.

“You don’t have a minute, Bob. I’m going to need you to fill out a report about what happened. You do not say one word about what I just shared with you. Just report what you saw, how you reacted, and nothing more or less.”

“So you want me to lie.”

“Some things are meant to be confidential. This is one of those things. Just report what you witnessed, agent. I’ll handle the rest.” He placed the folder, marked CONFIDENTIAL, onto Bob’s lap. Then he clicked a pen and set it on top.

Bob stared at it. Could he really do this? His superior expected him to. The president expected him to. But his mind wandered to you, and the senseless trauma you had endured because of it. In his heart, he knew that if Agent Mitchell was still in charge, this situation would have been handled differently. He would have done everything in his power to ensure you were not used as bait.

But Pete Mitchell’s days in The White House were over. Bob had no choice but to follow the new leadership put in place. So he went along with what was being asked of him, even though it went against everything he stood for, everything he believed.

He penned a lie on that report. Described what had happened, as if he had no idea about the plot to use you to lure your attackers straight to you. He dotted every i and crossed every t. And when he was done, he shoved the file back into Beau Simpson’s hands.

“You got what you came for. Now get out.” Bob didn’t care that he was speaking disrespectfully to a superior. It didn’t matter anymore.

Simpson left without a word. And Bob was alone again.

That interaction changed everything for Bob. It made him question his very morals. Could he really allow himself to be part of an administration that purposely put the very members it was supposed to be protecting in harm’s way? This left him with much to consider. He had a decision to make.

He finalized that decision the day you came to visit him.

Escorted by Bradley, Jake, and Natasha, who all respectfully waited outside the room once they brought you to it, you came through the door, so eager to see the man you loved. You shut the door behind you, allowing you both some privacy.

As you took in his form, tears sprang to your eyes. His left leg was in a full cast. There was a bandage around his head from the injury he’d sustained from being hit in the head with a gun. But what mattered was that he was alive, and he was going to be okay.

“Oh, Bobby,” you whispered as you approached him, unable to keep the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

He mustered a smile. “Hey there, sweet girl.”

You leaned down, oh so carefully wrapping your arms around him in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. I’m okay.”

You pulled back, looking into his face before you lovingly stroked his cheek. He let his eyes flutter shut, relishing in your touch, so comforting and familiar. It distracted him from his pain and made him feel less alone.

“They told me the bullet fractured your femur?” You finally found your voice a few moments later. As you spoke, you took a seat on the edge of the bed. Bob’s hand lifted to rest in your lap, and you placed your own hands over top of it.

“Yeah. They put a pin in me. Got a bionic leg now,” he teased. But then, he grew serious. “When the bullet hit my bone, it broke into a bunch of little fragments. They took out most of them, but I’ve still got some floating around in there.”

You frowned, wiping at your tear dampened cheeks with the back of your hand. “How does that work? Will they ever be able to get them out?”

“The doc told me she couldn’t. Said it would cause more damage if she tried. So I’ll just have them inside me forever.”

Your heart broke for him. “I’m sorry they did this to you. All because you were trying to protect me.”

“Hey,” he interjected, hand moving to tip your chin up. “Don’t you ever think of blaming yourself. I’d do it again a million times over as long as it meant that you were safe. You’re what matters most to me in this world. I don’t want to live in one without you in it.”

“And I don’t want to live in one without you in it, either,” came your reply.

His fingers wiped away your tears. There was so much he longed to say. He wanted so badly to tell you the truth. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. What good would it do? It would only bring more grief upon your shoulders. He didn’t want to cause you anymore pain than you’d already been through.

But, with his next words, he ended up hurting you anyway.

“I need to tell you something.”

His tone gave you pause. He was serious. “What is it?” You cautiously asked.

“I…I’ve decided to step down from my job.”

You stared at him. “What?”

He sighed softly. “This injury’s going to have me out for months. And honestly, by the time it does heal, I just have this feeling that it won’t ever be the same again. I won’t be as effective at my job as I was before. So I’m making the decision to resign.”

But you were shaking your head, a fresh wave of tears filling your eyes. “Bobby, no. You can’t leave. I need you.”

“Sweetheart, my mind is made up.”

“Why? Because I know this isn’t just because of your leg. What happened? Did my dad threaten you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

He sighed, shaking his head. How could he word it in a way that wouldn’t expose what he’d just sworn to keep secret? “I…I was asked to do something that goes against everything I believe. And I just can’t remain with this administration while knowing I was asked to do it.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What—”

“That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Then what? You’re just going to leave? What does that mean for us?”

“We’ll figure it out. I know we will.”

You paused for a moment, looking down at your intertwined hands. More tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t want you to leave,” you whimpered. “You’re the one I feel safest with. I-I know everyone else is just as capable of looking after me but I want you, Bobby.”

It broke his heart to do this to you. And it filled him with uncertainty, too. He wasn’t sure what this would mean for your relationship. But he knew he couldn’t keep going on in secret. And he couldn’t continue to serve an administration that could potentially put you in danger again in the name of national security.

“I don’t want to leave, either. But I have to.”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. You should be allowed to make this decision without me causing a fuss about it. Do what you feel is best. I’ll support you no matter what.”

He lovingly stroked your cheek. “That means the world to me, honey. I’m sorry to break the news to you like this, after everything you went through. But I just wanted you to know before anyone else. I haven’t even told your dad or Agent Simpson yet.”

“Well, thank you for telling me. But I don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself, not seeing you everyday. God, I’m going to miss you so much, Bobby.” Your voice wavered. You were barely holding it together.

“Hey, c’mere.” He pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you, letting you rest your head on his chest, over his heart. “We’re gonna be okay, you and me. We’ll figure it out. Somehow, some way.” He kissed the top of your head.

You hoped he was right.

After that initial visit to the hospital, you tried to visit him as often as possible. Your security team was more than happy to tag along each day, because they loved Bob, too. And you cherished those quiet moments in that hospital room, without the eyes of the world on you.

Outside of that hospital, you had to face the public. Had to deliver statements about what happened that night in the safe house. Had to assure the American people that you were just fine, that the brave United States Secret Service and Homeland Security agents did their jobs well. Because of them, an entire domestic terrorist organization had been quashed. In America’s eyes, it was a great victory.

But you couldn’t help but feel like a spectacle. The girl who’d survived a harrowing attack on her life. You were made to relive that night over and over and over again. And finally, in the end, you’d had enough. In the following weeks, you came to terms with a lot of personal things.

Namely, you came to terms with wanting to separate yourself from your family’s administration. You would never be able to erase the fact that you were the president’s daughter. And your life would never be normal. You would need a security detail for the rest of your life. But you were done living within the confines of The White House.

The only time you had ever been away from it was when you were at college. After graduation, you came back to work as part of your father’s administration. But for your own sanity, you knew you needed to step down and find your own path.

So you told your parents as much. You informed them that your mind was made up, that you were going to buy a home for yourself and live your life separate from them. You no longer wanted a foot in the door of politics. It was time to pursue your true passions.

And that was just what you did.

You bought a house deep in Wyoming, of all places. A nice plot of land, spacious enough for owning horses or cows, and for planting a nice sized garden. It was quiet and secluded and the perfect respite after spending the last six years in The White House.

In the time leading up to your move, Bob was in the throes of physical therapy. His leg was healing well, and he was working hard to regain his strength. During those months, the two of you decided that it would be best to distance yourselves from one another, only because you did not want to raise suspicions about your relationship. You attending each one of his physical therapy sessions came across as suspicious, in your mind.

So you allowed him to focus on getting better, while you focused on starting your new life. You missed him so deeply, but your separation was only temporary. You planned to meet again, as soon as he was ready to travel, and you were situated in your new home. You also wanted the media attention on your safe house to die down.

Eventually, it did, and the world moved on to something else to panic about.

But you? You tuned it all out. You stayed out of the news, you stayed out of politics, and you tried to bring some sense of calm normalcy to your life. You no longer needed a full security detail. It was with a heavy heart that you bid farewell to a few of them, leaving only Natasha, Mickey, and Bradley as your remaining security. They helped ensure that your home was always safe, and that you were protected.

But there was still one part of your life that remained incomplete. A void that could only be filled by your Bobby.

And finally, after several months, the day came that you would be reunited. He was strong enough to travel again. He had officially resigned from his job in The White House. He returned to civilian life, and packed up the minimal amount of belongings he had, placing them in the trunk and backseat of his car.

He drove over fifteen hours just to get to you. And it was worth it to him. After not seeing you for months, all he wanted was to hold you in his arms and never let go. So he drove. And he drove. And he drove. Until finally, he was standing at your front door, his hands trembling as Natasha let him in, and informed him that you were out back, in the stable.

So he ran. Ignoring the residual ache in his bad leg, he dashed behind the house, where the stable was, and he kept going into he was standing in the wide doorway. His feet skidded against concrete and hay, and his eyes searched. There you were. Dressed in jeans, riding boots, and a t-shirt. One he recognized as an old shirt of his, which you had snagged from him in the early days of your secret relationship.

You heard him approaching. Heard his feet skid to a halt at the doorway. And your heart quickened in your chest. You turned in what felt like slow motion, your gaze falling upon the man you loved, standing at the entrance of your stable, breathless.

“Bobby,” you whispered.

You weren’t sure who moved first. But in an instant, you were both running toward each other. You met halfway, arms coming out to catch the other, to embrace the other. “You’re here! You’re really here!” Came your cry.

“I’m here.” And then he was kissing you. Arms secure around your body, lips soft and familiar. He kissed you and kissed you and kissed you. And you kissed back. Not even your mingled tears caused you to part. You didn’t want to. It was as if you were afraid this would all be a dream if you pulled away.

When you did part, he was smiling. That sweet smile that made his eyes disappear behind his cheeks. That sweet smile that made your heart sing. “Oh, I missed you!” you sobbed.

“I missed you too, honey. So, so much.”

You embraced again. He spun you around in a circle, and you giggled musically, overjoyed. He was finally here, with you, where he belonged. After months of waiting, months of agony, months of uncertainty, he was in your arms. No longer as the head of your security detail, but as the man you loved.

“I just can’t believe this is real,” came your soft confession.

“Believe it. This couldn’t be more real,” he assured you.

You held his face in your hands. “Oh, my sweet, beautiful man. I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

“Good, because I’m here to stay.”

You shared several more moments in that stable, holding each other, still in disbelief that it was finally over. The years of secrecy, the sneaking around behind the scenes. You didn’t have to hide anymore. You were allowed to love each other freely and openly.

Together, you walked back to your house that night, arms around each other, swaying as you walked, happy and content and relieved. You enjoyed a wonderful dinner, just the two of you, as the three remaining members of your security team had excused themselves to their own quarters to allow you privacy.

A lot had changed in the time that you’d been apart. You told Bob all you’d been doing, and he informed you what stepping down from his job, and enduring all that physical therapy, had been like.

He was no longer part of the secret service, and he never would be again. The fear of being found out and losing his position was no longer on the table. There were no superiors to appease. No presidents to serve. He was free to be his own man. To live his life. To love who he wanted.

To love you.

Things were not automatically perfect now that he was with you. But they were better. You would have to figure out some things. And eventually, you would have to tell your family that you were in a relationship with him. But for now, you could live in peace, if only for a brief moment in time. You were safe, on your little farm in Wyoming, with the man you loved. It was your own little slice of heaven.

And after all the difficulty you had endured, you were more than content with that. You could figure everything else out later. For now, you would live in that domestic bliss for just a little while longer. You’d earned it, after all.

Finally, it was your turn to live your life the way you wanted to, and not the way others dictated you should.

taglist (a mix of those already on the list/who might be interested):

@bradshawsbitch @sebsxphia @rhettabbotts @delopsia @milesmillergf @ohtobeleah @purelyfiction @honeymurdock @ihavealewproblem @high-speed-r @happyrebelruins @chasing-fics @roostersgirlfrxend @bradshawsbaby @whisperofsong @hangmanapologist @callsign-magnolia @callsignmedusa @withahappyrefrain @up-thereinthesky @peachystenbrough @damrlova @lovinglyeternal @laracrofted @bobfloydsbabe @nobody7102 @agentorange9595

#bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd

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haesunflower · 11 months

Text

zb1 as the "best friend's brother" trope

genre: fluff/comedy

pairing: reader (gn) x all members of zerobaseone

about/tags: zerobaseone as "best friend's brother" but not all are romantic

thank you anon for req, some are not accurate in terms of siblings, mentions of violence but not actually violent, kinda pg for jiwoong, secret relationships for some, yujin is platonic!

⠀⠀ kim jiwoong ⠀⠀

"she's gonna kill me when she finds out, you know"

jiwoong is occupied with tracing small kisses along your neck, too busy showering you with affection to care about what his sister thinks about dating you

"so?" he says. you try to push him away, giggling while you try to explain that older brothers are usually off limits.

he's a full on tease, and he knows exactly the power he holds over you when he says "you'd bend the rules for me though, yeah?"

you kiss him again as confirmation "yeah, yeah i would"

your best friend, does in fact think about ~killing~ you when she finds out

but she sees how much her brother has changed, he's happier now, and decides maybe it is better that you stay together.

⠀⠀ zhang hao ⠀⠀

(i know he's an only child so let's just pretend okay)

one thing about you and hao is that you can both take a secret to your graves

so no one ever finds about you sneaking out of his sister's room during your weekend sleepovers, only to cuddle up to him on his bed. no one finds out about the secret dates you go on in the next town over, so that you don't get caught. and no one finds out about the secret phones you both use to contact each other.

if you have to be in the same room together, he's not even making any eye contact with you. it's better to ignore each other in public, like you always have.

when you guys are 7 months into the relationship, spooning on his bed, he asks "how long do you want to keep us a secret?

to which you reply "not any longer than you want to."

so yeah, you can both keep a secret – until you decide you want to share it to the world

your friend is disgusted, but happy for you. emphasis on disgusted tho.

⠀⠀ sung hanbin ⠀⠀

you like going to ludia cafe because one, food is always free as long as you're with hanareum (hanbin's younger sister) and two, hanbin makes the said food

you have a massive schoolgirl crush on hanbin, and he is aware to some degree that you like him. i mean you ask all sorts of questions like "oppa what do you like doing for fun?" or "oppa are you seeing anyone?" "oppa what are you going to study for university? "

and him being the nice person that he is, he answers all your questions genuinely with a large customer service smile

after he debuted you kept supporting him as a fan, only to show up to girls planet season two a year later to make your debut too.

when he sees you again, hanbin tells you that you grew up really well, and that you can rely on him as a sunbae. your relationship stays like that for a while, platonic hoobae and sunbae. on holidays, you even travel to your hometown together. and you see each other outside work often because you both show up to support hanareum's sporting events.

it takes a while, like YEARS, for hanbin to view you as a potential romantic interest. but seeing you laugh alongside his sister during chuseok, he can't help but think about how you're technically already part of the family.

⠀⠀ seok matthew ⠀⠀

don't get it twisted HE has a crush on YOU

being neighbors and the same age as his older sister yaeby, meant that you practically grew up in the seok household too. but you always viewed matthew as your best friend's dorky little brother.

you and yaeby used to dress him up in girl clothes and make him perform, and as he got older, this evolved to him becoming an errand boy for whenever you guys had parties or friends over. matthew of course he did everything you asked because he finds you so so so pretty, how can he say no?

you're an avid supporter of their entire family, so you also fly to korea to support matthew during the finals, along with his mom and sister. he's a little surprised when he sees you, then a little embarrassed when he realized you also saw him cry like a baby.

you ruffled his hair and said "congrats matthew!!"

now, he actively flirts with you for fun because you'll always be his first crush. you never considered taking his advances seriously up until recently because when the hell did he grow up

woohyun oppa agenda is working....and yae makes fun of you for it

⠀⠀ kim taerae ⠀⠀

he's practicing a song he wrote in the living room when his older sister innocently asks who it's about

"um...yeah it's...it's umm about...umm.." literally cannot give a straight answer because how do you tell your older sister that it's a song for her best friend

her best friend that he secretly makes out with behind the school parking lot, her best friend that drives with him to go get takeout at 2am, and her best friend that he's so painfully in love with but doesn't have the actual guts to ask them out

"is it about y/n?" he's shocked when his sister asks. he finds out that you've already told her, and he's relieved he doesn't have to walk around eggshells anymore.

actually his sister has known all along, you were very open and honest about it when you started catching feelings about your bff's younger brother. taerae had just assumed you were ashamed to be dating someone a year younger, so he thought he ought to keep it a secret unless told otherwise

when he confesses that to you, you can't help but giggle. you proceed to squish his cheeks as you say "why would I ever want to keep you a secret, silly"

⠀⠀ ricky ⠀⠀

ricky thinks it's so cute, how you're constantly paranoid that someone will catch you two doing something remotely couple-y

you guys weren't a secret or anything, but you wanted to remain ~respectful~ and would very much want to avoid being teased by your friend group. therefore keeping pda at a minimum.

when he hugs you in the middle of his kitchen, you attempt to release his grip from you when you say "what if someone sees, ricky?"

"look around, no one's here" and he's right, no one is there. so you let him bury his face into your neck as he hugs you, and he's whispering something about how you smell like warm vanilla cookies.

when his sister, your best friend, enters the room she says something along the lines of "ugh you two are so gross. get a room."

and you're all like -_- "see. i told you this was gonna happen."

⠀⠀ kim gyuvin ⠀⠀

you have the biggest crush on him and you don't even try to hide it

your best friend tells you that you have no chance, after all his brother is a "hot commodity" in the school. but you wanna make yourself known as an option, you're only a year younger after all!

you literally bum around their house every weekend, and flat out flirt in front of everyone. "when's our date, gyuvin oppa ;)" or "how long are you going to keep me waiting for you?"

you remain unbothered at his clumsy and awkward responses, and strongly believe that in the end, he'll fall for you anyways. your best friend calls you extremely delusional and overconfident – but, gyuvin lowkey finds it adorable that you have a little crush on him

you're right tho about him falling for you in the end

once you stopped visiting the house every weekend, gyuvin asks his brother why you haven't been coming over anymore

"oh hyung, they have a boyfriend now"

and he's all like "boyfriend? since when? what? i thought they liked me?"

is slightly offended and highly intrigued that you got a boyfriend w/o him knowing

⠀⠀ park gunwook ⠀⠀

gunwook often wonders why his older brother isn't dating you.

"hyung, are you sure you're just best friends. like sure sure?"

because he thinks you're the perfect person: beautiful, smart, tall, funny, even plays genshin impact. his brother teases him, "if you think she's so great, why don't YOU date her gunwook-ah"

as if on cue, you walk back into the room and ask what everyone's talking about. and gunwook's brother just full on exposes him like "gunwook has a crush on you"

his cheeks turn so red, and he's so defensive when he says "hyung, i do not!"

you think it's adorable, so you pinch gunwook's bready cheeks :D saying something along the lines of "you're too young for me wookie"

⠀⠀ han yujin ⠀⠀

you're really close friends with yujin's older brother

and yujin often goes to you for "girl advice" since you're the only girl he knows that isn't his classmate sjhdbjh

he'd ask questions about what gifts to give when you confess to someone, what to say in a love letter, and he'd even ask for date place recommendations

you're bamboozled as to why yujin is such a sweet kid, meanwhile his brother is a pain in your friend group's ass

one time yujin got rejected, and you found him sulking alone at the dinner table eating the box of cookies he was gonna give his crush. he offers you one, and you both eat in silence before consoling him.

"yujinie, you're still young. you'll meet plenty of other people that are a far better match for you. don't worry." he mumbles something about being single forever and you giggle, telling him he's being a little dramatic lol

A/N: i tried researching on their siblings to find out if y/n would be older or younger lol but again, not all are accurate!!

personally, the jiwoong one got me.

૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

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yelenasdiary · 10 months

Note

Platonic idea! Nat meets reader (female) undercover while on a mission. Maybe R’s a waitress trying to make ends meet for her kids, while Nat frequents the restaurant for her mission as that’s where she meets her target. They develop a friendship, but R doesn’t know nats true identity. One day, shit hits the fan w the mission and R is caught in the crosshairs. Suddenly her “friend” is in a fight with random people. But Nat makes sure to protect R. When it’s all done, Nat explains herself and her true identity. Bonus points if she helps R w her financial situation. Thanks!

You're Too Nice!

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Single Mom! Reader (Platonic)

Summary: With struggling to make ends meet with your current job, you were surprised when a guest tips you every time she comes to eat, leading to an unexpected friendship.

AC: Thank you for sending this!! I miss platonic Nat!! I hope you enjoy this x

"What can I get you today, Nat?" you smiled softly at the red head as you came up to her table. The new guest now eats regularly at the restaurant you worked at. She told you she'd just moved to town and was a terrible cook and enjoyed the food here. Although, this place wasn't a place you thought somebody could afford to eat at almost every night for dinner, but it was clear that Natasha had money, with every tip she left you was bigger than the last.

"I think I'll have the rib-eye steak tonight" Natasha looked up with a smile.

"Good choice, would you like a wine to go with it?" you asked, dotting down her order.

"Sure, what not. Surprise me, I trust you have good taste" she replied.

"I'll be right back" you gave the redhead a light nod before walking over to the bar and getting your co-worker to find the best wine that would go down with her order. "What's her deal? She eats here every night" the bartender asked.

"She just moved here and enjoys the food"

"Ha! I wonder how long it'll take until she gets bored of this place" your co-worker poured a glass of wine before handing it too you, "I don't know, she seems different" you took the glass and made your walk back to Natasha.

"Here's your wine, your food shouldn't be too far away" you smiled once more, placing the glass on the table. "Thank you" Natasha smiled but her eyes stayed glued to the table of gentlemen a few tables away. A group of 17 men all in suits, laughing over poorly made jokes as they sipped on their beers, whisky. You tried to work out, slyly, which gentleman she was so intrigued by, but you noticed she wasn't just watching one, but all.

"If those gentlemen are too loud, I'd be happy to move you to another table"

Natasha looked up at you then back at the table of gentlemen, "no it's okay. I was just wondering what they were laughing at" she replied, brushing off your offer. "My mistake, I'll be back with your order shortly"

That you did, you placed her order on the table and told her to enjoy and that if she needed anything just to holla. You waited on other guests while Natasha sat by herself, eating her dinner and sipping her wine. By the end of the night, Natasha along with the table of gentlemen and a few others, were the only ones left.

Natasha waved you down and asked for the check as she got out her purse. You returned to her table not long after, placing the check on the table. "I hope you enjoyed your meal tonight" you smiled.

"It was lovely, and the wine went down just as well, I knew I could trust you with" Natasha replied, placing $300 on the table. "Oh, please. this is too much!" You looked to her, she was tipping you $150 for your service. "Please, take it. You deserve it. I've seen how hard you work and how little you get. Also, it seems you need to get home to your child or children so you're not paying the babysitter too much, right?" she explained to your surprise.

You nodded, "How'd you know?" you asked.

"You keep checking your watch and the butterfly sticker on your name badge gave it away. How old?"

You totally forgot that your 4-year-old daughter had placed a blue colored butterfly sticker on your nametag before your shift started. Money is tight and you try your best to not work late as the babysitter charges by the hour, on some occasions when you knew work was going to be busy around the holidays, you'd ask her for a flat rate which she was kind enough to set a price but you always felt bad that you were taking from her rather than giving.

"My daughter is 4 and my son is 6" you answered the redhead with an almost embarrassed look.

"They sound lovely" Natasha smiled, handing the check back to you, "If you're working tomorrow night, I'll see you then" she added before standing up from her seat.

----

It's been a few weeks since you told Natasha about your children and since she was new to town you offered to show her around on your day off. Quickly, the two of you formed a friendship that honestly surprised you. Going from waiting on her whenever you had a shift to now sitting in a park drinking a hot coffee while your children played.

"What made you move here?" you asked, dying to know.

"I heard it was peaceful and I need peaceful in my life right now. Besides, the café near my apartment makes great muffins" she replied before taking a sip of her coffee.

"I've got to ask, do you not know how to cook?"

Natasha laughed, "I guess you can't count making peanut butter sandwiches cooking, can you?"

You shook your head, "not, that's barely a meal!" You chuckled, "Look, I love cooking. I'd be happy to cook a little extra and drop it off to you. It'll save you from having to come to the restaurant every night, which now sounds really bad like I'm trying to drive you away from us" you offered before blabbering on.

"I don't mind it; in fact, I enjoy it. The service is really good" Natasha replied with a chuckle.

"Maybe you should get a job there, you've seen pretty much how it works and what we do, how we do it. If you're looking, I can talk to the manger" you offered before taking another sip of your coffee.

"You're too nice, did you know that?" Natasha turned to you, "is that a bad thing?" you questioned.

"It can be. Some people might take that for granted"

"The world is already full of crappy people doing crappy things, there needs to be more people doing kind things" you explained, making Natasha chuckle at your choice of words. "Crappy things?" she questioned with a raised brow.

"Sorry, I try to reframe from swearing. I don't want my kids to swearing just yet" you explained.

Natasha nodded, "So if you think that there needs to be more people doing kind things, why do you try to refuse to take my tips every night?"

She had you there.

"W..I..well, I am very grateful for your tips but I feel bad for taking them. I give you the same service I give any other guest an- "

"and they don't see how wonderful your service. Lets make a deal, I'll let you drop off some food if you take my tips without trying to get me to stop, deal?" She interrupted you. Again, she had you.

"Fine, deal" you playful shook your head.

----

The night started off normal as usual, except Natasha hadn't come in. A table of 3 gentleman in suits waited patiently for a fourth member and none of them seemed happy to be there. But regardless of their rudeness towards you, you gave them your best service and did your best to make sure they would leave without complaints.

"That wasn't the deal!" one man shouted as you quietly came up to their table, placing their second round of drinks on the table. "I don't care if you don't think it was the deal, it's the deal now!" another snapped.

"That's it!" the first man replied with anger before standing from his chair.

"Sit down! Don't make a scene" the other muttered, "I'm sorry miss, somebody has had one too many drinks tonight" He looked at you with an apologetic smile. Before you knew it, your life flashed before your eyes as the angry man wrapped on arm around your neck, trapping you in a headlock while having a gun pointed to your left temple.

You instantly dropped your notepad and pen in shock. Other guests took cover under the tables while staff called 9-1-1.

"Let her go, idiot! You're over reacting" one of the gentlemen spoke.

"We had a fucking deal! If you do this, my entire business will go under and I won't let you do that to me! Not again!" your attacked spat back, pressing his gun harder against your temple.

"P-please, let me g-go" you sobbed, tears rolling down your cheeks. All you could think about were your children and how badly you just wanted to get home to them. "Shut up! And as for you bastards, if you do this, I will make sure the entire world know what you plan to do!"

"Damn, looks like you guys beat me to the fun" a familiar voice caught your attention, Natasha. "Who the fuck are you?" Your attacker turned you both slightly to face her. "How about you let her go and I'll show you who I am?" Natasha replied with a light smirk, her own weapon pointed at the man holding you tightly in his hold.

The man pushed you to the floor and quickly fired his gun at Natasha, missing her as she took cover and taking him out with a clear shot between the eyes. The other man quickly jumped up from their seats with their own weapons pointed at the red head you considered a good friend. Meanwhile, you took cover under a table with other guests while the sounds of guns and bullets flew across the restaurant.

Moments passed and you along with all the other guests were too shaken up to come out from under the tables as the restaurant grew with silence. Some guests began to emerge from the safety, "It's safe now everybody, you can come out" Natasha announced but still, you couldn't bring yourself to come out from under the table until Natasha came to you.

"Are you okay?" she asked with worry in her eyes.

"W-what, I m-mean who are you?" you asked, hesitant to take her hand. "How about we get you home and I'll explain everything" Natasha offered. You had no reason not to trust her, she did just save your life. So you took her hand and nodded softly, still in shock.

----

"So you're an avenger? That explains why I've felt like I've seen you before" you looked up at Natasha she handed you a cup of tea, Nat chuckled, "I couldn't say anything. I was undercover and I'm so sorry you got in the middle of all that" she sat down beside you.

"Hey, the way I see it, I now have a fun story to tell the kids later on when they're older" you chuckled, taking a sip of your drink. "I guess you'll be moving back to New York?" you asked, your eyes dropped to the mug in your hands.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean we still can't be friends. I'll give you my number and we can catch up whenever. Besides, I think I'm going to really miss the food" Nat smiled softly. Making you playfully shake your head at the Avenger, "I should get going, I have to report back to my team but I'm going to write down my number and leave it on the fridge for you, okay?" she added.

"Sure" you smiled, "thank you for the lift" you added.

Natasha left, leaving her number stuck on your fridge for you to put in your phone later on. You placed your now empty mug in the sink for tomorrow's problem when you noticed a small bag on the countertop, you did recognize it and assumed that Natasha had left it behind, so you called her.

"Hey Nat, it's Y/n. You left a bag in my kitchen" you spoke when she answered the phone.

"Open it, it's yours" Natasha replied, "I'm going to hang up before you can say anything about it" she chuckled before she hung up. Slowly you unzipped the bag to be greeted with a sight of cash, more than enough to help you get on top of rent for months to come with a little left over to buy general things for your kids. On top of the cash was a note;

"Just a kind person doing a kind thing, don't think too much about it. Thank you for your lovely service, I'll see you again soon.

~ Nat x"

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #marvel #fanfiction

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blindmagdalena · 2 months

Text

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 8 )

homelander x oc 18+ escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: After the disastrous spectacle that was Homelander's birthday celebration, America's "disgraced" hero is forced to reconcile with the demons in his head, and what that means for Layla, the woman standing precariously in their path.

additional tags: unhealthy/codependent dynamics, threats of violence, themes of abuse, canon deviation. 🖤

Sleep is a scarcity. Homelander fades in and out of consciousness, but he never truly rests. It’s strange to sleep somewhere he can't see the comfort of his own gaze endlessly mirrored back at him. Those mirrors make the world so much bigger, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind how small it is. What would normally be a dark, claustrophobic thing is now a great deal safer than the open expanse of a stage.

Layla’s warmth and the faint weight of her arm around him is the only thing that keeps him somewhat tethered. Her heartbeat is a steady metronome against his back, her breaths warmly ghosting over his neck and shoulder. It’s been hours, but it feels too soon when the covers move on his skin as she readjusts in her sleep, pulling her arm from him. He lifts the blanket and rolls to face her.

She’s turned away from him, her dark hair fanned out in a wild splay on the pillow beneath her. Light from the unsleeping city spills in through the window, illuminating her figure. It’s strange to see her sleeping in day clothes and not the sleepwear he’s used to seeing her in. She didn’t have the time to change tonight. She was too busy taking him back into her arms, into her bed, into her life. He brushes his knuckles down between her shoulder blades, the disheveled silk of her blouse soft beneath his fingers.

He’ll find out why Starlight’s scent is lingering on her when she wakes.

Sliding closer to her, he flattens his palm over her hip and noses at the line of her throat, inhaling deeply, chasing the scent beneath shampoo and lotion until he finds what’s simply her. Her wine flush has followed her into sleep, her skin warmer than usual. She responds to his touch with a sleepy sigh of pleasure. Even now, the sound of her voice does so much to quiet the storm in his heart. He screws his eyes shut and buries his face into the soft tresses of her hair, gritting his teeth against the urge to squeeze too tight.

The urge to keep.

The urge to break it all apart and let the storm rage. Instead, he keeps himself perfectly still, trying to swallow the thrumming energy coiling in his tense muscles. End this, the darkness in him hisses, tempting him. How many days has he resisted the urge to reach out, not with his hands but with this thing inside him, and ruin everything? Everyone? A flash of crimson is all it would take to cleave this world in half.

But he can’t afford to. Not then, not now.

The only way he made it out of the cold isolation of the lab, far away from the bad room, was by convincing the staff, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was good. He was their perfect man-made hero. Logically, he knows they can’t ever put him back in the bad room. He’d never let them. It doesn’t stop the nightmares.

He folds in on himself, doing his best to forget that he even has power to wield against others—a whim as sharp as glass. Now, just as then, he orders his body and mind to still, to calm.

If Layla had stayed yesterday morning, things would have been different. His tightly controlled grip on her hip flexes minutely. How can she sleep so deeply knowing that she’s ruined him?

What was she doing with Starlight?

The inkling of a deeper betrayal slithers into his mind. He slides his hand up the length of her torso, traversing the familiar scape of her body, and into her hair, coiling his fingers into a gentle fist of it. One twist is all it would take to quiet her soothing voice forever. Would hair ever feel the same to him again, or would it start to smell like burning tears and cornea? The stench of grief hits him so suddenly that his eyes sting with it, and he recoils from Layla like he himself has been burned.

Has she been scheming against him all along, too?

Fucked. He’s so completely and entirely fucked.

He exhales harshly, curling his hand into a tight fist and biting into the meaty curve just below his thumb, muffling a tearful keen. He can’t think back to that morning without reliving how horribly it went wrong, and how the dominos just continued to fall until he was losing his senses in front of the entire world.

Those moments on stage play over and over in his mind, but each instance of them grows more warped than the last. He’s starting to forget what he really said, conflating memories with nightmares. How much of himself did he really let slip? How ugly does the world think him to be now?

He can see the headlines now.

Homelander: America’s Fallen Hero

Homelander: Vought’s Poster Boy Throws a Tantrum

Homelander: Deranged Freak Snaps On Stage

He’s spiraling worse than he did during Stormfront’s smear campaign against him. It isn’t just dissenting opinions and slander—he’s finally given them real ammunition to use against him. The question is: how much, and how will he refute it? He needs to be able to recover from this.

His voice of reason is treacherously quiet. Nothing but the dreadful echo of I warned you.

With his thoughts twisting in on themselves like a pit of angry, writhing snakes, he finds it impossible to stay still any longer. His whole body is plagued with a restlessness that turns into agony. Carefully, he extracts himself from Layla’s side and slips out of her bed. He needs to see it for himself. He needs to understand the degree of damage that’s been done to him.

Stepping out into her living room, Homelander picks up the remote for her television and flips it on, dropping the volume to such a miniscule level that he’ll be the only one to hear it. He lowers himself down onto the couch and stares, watching his body move and speak, seemingly puppeteered by someone other than himself, operating in ways he’s never seen himself behave in front of a camera before.

“I’m done being persecuted for my strength–”

Erratic.

“Persecuted for my strength–”

Unhinged.

“Persecuted–”

Alive.

If they want to take us down, we’re going to take every last one of them down with us.

The sky is just barely beginning to turn with dawn’s light when Layla wakes to a chill that rolls up her spine. Her bed feels colder than it has any right to, and as the fractured events of last night spill back into her mind, it doesn’t take her long to figure out why.

Homelander—who knows if he’ll accept that name yet—is nowhere to be seen.

Her temples throb with the aftermath of emptying a hefty bottle of wine as she lifts herself from bed, running her hands through her hair, breaking apart the tangles with her fingers.

The breadcrumb trail of Homelander’s suit leading from her balcony to her bed tells her that he hasn’t left. The image of him streaking through the sky in the nude does occur to her, though. Straightening her borrowed blouse and tucking it back into the waist of her skirt, she steps lightly through the dark of her apartment, head on a swivel, until she spots her quarry.

Reclined on her couch, Homelander paints an image somewhere between a renaissance painting and a billboard for depression, his body illuminated by the flashing light of the television. His expression is morose, his hand sitting on the couch next to him at an angle, the remote tilted in his loose grasp. As she approaches, he begins tapping on the volume until his own recorded voice fills the empty space between them.

It’s his tirade from last night.

“Hey, babe,” he drawls from the couch, voice pitched low and despondent. The way he pops each consonant makes the pet name sound downright derogatory. “So, what’s the verdict?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the television with the remote. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His gaze slides from the screen to her, his head lolling to the side with it.

Any concern or lingering sleepiness in her face is swiftly replaced with bewilderment. “Excuse me?”

“‘Excuse me?’” He mocks, pitching his voice up condescendingly. Her expression hardens as he stands, the remote bouncing along the couch cushions where he tosses it. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing anything with you,” she responds tersely. She’s never been a morning person. Compound that with the ache in her skull and the naked pain in the neck standing in front of her, she’s not feeling her usual bounty of patience. Last night, he was a weepy, sopping mess. Now she doesn’t know what to expect from the tight line of his shoulders, or the agitated curl of his upper lip. “I have no idea what it is you think you’re picking at.”

“Since when are you and Starlight pals, then?” He hisses through his teeth.

Shit. Annie. She never sent that text.

“Since yesterday,” she answers, her calm stretched thin. “She saw me at the elevator. She offered a shower and a change of clothes. That’s all.” She doesn’t find it necessary to explain why Starlight might have offered such a thing. He knows exactly how she looked when she left his penthouse, bruised and disheveled.

The memory looks to serve as a crisp slap, some level of clarity filtering into the incensed glaze of his eyes. His grip flexes, and he bares his teeth in an animalistic flash of frustration. He isn’t willing to accept fault for that yet.

“Stop fucking lying to me!” He snaps, the sudden jump in volume startling her. He advances on her sharply, halting her step backwards with an iron grip, his palm against her throat, his thumb and index finger notching perfectly behind the curve of her jaw below her ears. The contact is minimal, and yet the strength in those two fingers alone is more than enough to hold her firmly in place.

“You’re all the fucking same! Agendas, lies, all of you trying to control me, use me, and you—you’re exactly the fucking same. You’ve taken everything from me,” he snarls. Despite his fervor, his grip remains remarkably controlled. Sometimes it’s as if his mind and his body are two independent entities: one an unstable, emotionally malnourished psyche, and the other a finely tuned weapon.

The human mind wants dangerous things to be ugly, but even now, Homelander’s twisted, angry expression is not an ugly thing. Though adrenaline surges the thrum of her heart, it isn’t laden with the fear any reasonable person would have. The thrill coursing through her isn’t rooted in some comfort that he won’t hurt her. It’s the knowledge that he—more devastating than any man she’s ever known—absolutely will if not handled correctly.

It’s like holding a thundering storm in her bare hands.

Layla stares wide-eyed and astonished, so thoroughly unaware of what he’s accusing her of that she struggles to speak around the hard lump in her throat. He leans closer yet, clutching her with all the same strength, tenderness and menace of the ocean cradling a ship.

“I killed her,” he whispers, the words passing between them like a confession to God himself. He’s so near, she could rest her forehead against his if she wanted. “I killed her for lying to me. I’ll kill you, too.”

Madelyn Stillwell. The name returns to her like a ghost, the hairs at the back of her neck prickling. Or was it Stormfront? The unnamed mother of his child? One was the victim of a domestic terrorist, one committed suicide, and the third is yet undetermined. All of them are apparent casualties of Homelander’s turbulent presence in their lives. Is she to be the fourth in a string of tragedies? Rage swells so suddenly in her heart that she almost chokes on the fire of it. What right does he have to interrogate her and threaten her?

“Are you glad?” She asks, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hand holding his wrist in turn. “Are you glad to have killed her?”

His expression flips as if he’s been struck, crinkled brows shooting up. “What?”

“Will you be glad to have killed me?” She asks tightly, her nails biting ineffectual crescents into his titanium flesh. Her tone is sharp and no longer meant to soothe. She speaks to cut. “Or will you just be even more alone?”

Like hers, his eyes turn glassy. “No,” he says softly. She doesn’t know if that’s an answer or a plea.

“Let me go,” she tells him firmly, fighting to hold onto the fires of her own indignant anger. His abrupt flashes of softness and vulnerability compromise her resolve.

“Go where, Layla?” He snaps, suddenly loud again. His broken desperation and seething anger make his voice reedy. “Where the fuck could you go that I wouldn’t still feel you? Kill you, fuck you, love you; you’re in my fucking head!”

You’re all the fucking same!

She isn’t dead, but he’s treating her like a ghost nonetheless. As if she’s already one of the many specters haunting him.

“You love me?” She asks him, snatching that precarious lifeline out of the messy slurry of his words. She’s not sure that he knows the meaning of it.

Does she?

The tension in Homelander’s face goes slack, stricken to hear those words fall from her lips. His mouth opens and closes as he tries and fails to form the right words. It’s too vulnerable to say yes, and too complicated to say no. Ultimately, he can’t bear to answer first.

“Do you love me?” He asks, defensive, as if she were the one who brought the terrifying gravity of love into the equation in the first place. The weight of it turns her tongue to lead.

There’s an adolescent sense of fumbling in this moment that would be endearing if he were not clutching her jaw with inhuman strength, the whispered promise of her death hanging over them like a creaky guillotine. In another life, this could have been a very sweet confession.

“Do you?” He prompts her again, desperate. He cups the back of her head with his other hand, taking a step closer. His chest bumps her forearms where she has them tightly braced, hands clamped tightly over his wrist. It’s a meager barrier to uphold, but she does so steadfastly. His hold on her is suffocating, his agonized ocean eyes filling up her vision. He’s larger than life, leaving space for little else in her life ever since he crashed into it.

Even when he’s gone, she is consumed by him like a fever that refuses to be sweated out. When her career first began, she knew well enough not to entertain superhumans. It wasn’t a bias she held against them per se, but the opposite: she knew from the start that she would become intoxicated on the danger of them. Homelander is the epitome of everything she’s ever been too afraid to let herself love. He’s the first person to ever be enough of a risk to scare her, and enough of a reward to satiate her. She can feel her destruction lurking in him just as plainly as her parents found their own in their shared thrill seeking.

“I want to,” she whispers, a secret she’s denied even to herself until now. “But you’re making it so fucking hard.”

He exhales roughly, something like hope softening the tension in his expression before he screws his eyes shut, another wave of agony contorting his features. His forehead thumps gently against hers. “I don’t know—I don’t know how else to be. I don’t know how. I don’t know how to make it easy.”

Finally, he releases her jaw from the snare of his grip, only to take either side of her face between his hands, pulling away to look at her. He’s always been younger than her in a multitude of ways, but in this moment, the agonized youth in his eyes takes her breath away. “I was—I was made to be loved. I was supposed to be everyone’s hero. They poked and prodded me, manufactured me in a-a fucking lab to be perfect, but no one—”

Layla’s eyes widen, her heart seized. What?

Homelander bares his teeth like a wounded animal, breath hissing in and out of his clenched teeth as tears roll down his cheeks. “But no one does, no one fucking does, no one loves me,” he says through his teeth, nearly choking on the words. “I don’t understand how to make it easy, Layla,” he sobs, hands shaking on either side of her face. She can’t tell if it’s from sheer emotion, or the restraint it takes not to crush her between them.

“So just—tell me what I need to do, please,” he begs her, devastatingly beautiful in the same way the sprawling webbing of a shattered mirror is. “Tell me how to be easy to love.”

Breathless, Layla stands there with her heart bleeding so freely, so painfully, that she swears there’s warm blood soaking onto the pristine white blouse she wears.

There is a monster in Homelander. At times, she can feel the claws of it in his grip on her. Hear it growling in her ear. When it comes to handling monsters, banishment is always the remedy. Slay the beast, free the man. Homelander’s monster is not so easily felled, nor is she certain it should be. He was not born with sharp teeth and claws. From what she’s gathered, they were filed into fine points long before he was a man.

People like to think of the monster within them as an outside force. Corruption, propaganda, the devil. Layla has spent enough time in bed with people’s deviance to know better. The proverbial devil is not outside of humanity, but embedded deep within It cannot be safely extracted any more than a beating heart can.

But corruption isn’t a heart—it’s a stomach.

It craves and yearns, it twists and aches and growls when hungry. Just as Eve ate of the apple, humans take bites of sin to satiate their monster. Like people, monsters come in a wide variety of shapes, temperaments, and cravings. Some beasts can be satisfied with a nibble here and there. Others require more. Some never learned how to know when they’re full.

After all he has been deprived of, Homelander may never be truly satisfied, but does that mean he doesn’t deserve to be fed at all?

No, Layla thinks. It doesn’t.

Both of their faces are streaked wet with tears as they hold one another’s gazes. Gingerly, she brings her own hands up to cup his face, wiping his tears with her thumbs. “Okay,” she whispers, afraid her own voice of reason will hear her. “Okay, my darling.”

Relief helps smooth the crease between his brows, but it doesn’t dissipate entirely. “Say it,” he urges her, the hands still upon her face giving the faintest nudge. “Say you love me.”

“I love you,” she says, teary and quiet, but with conviction. She leans in, and he allows her to, no longer holding her firmly in place for fear that she might suddenly vanish. “I love you,” she says again, a promise that ghosts his lips. He shudders. “I love you. You’re in my head,” she says, echoing his own words back at him. Her lips brush against his in a not-quite kiss. “You were from the start.”

He exhales a pained, keening sound, pushing his fingers into her hair and pulling her deep into a feverish kiss. His hunger for her is voracious, and his desire is a force she might not withstand—not by virtue of its violence, but because of its sheer magnitude. He kisses her fiercely, one arm slipping around her middle to keep her body from bowing under the weight of his love.

“I love you, too,” he breathes, the relief in his voice palpable. She takes the air of it into her lungs like it might save her. “I love you so fucking much.”

It’s dangerous, she knows, to trick herself into believing she can satiate his mountainous hunger. Danger is like an ice bath, though. You grow accustomed to the bite of it.

Morning light creeps slowly into Layla’s condo. Homelander trails her as closely as her own shadow, breathing in against the crook of her neck while she cooks breakfast. He’s partially dressed in his undershirt and underwear, his suit folded neatly upon her vanity for the time being. It’s nice to feel his arms around her without the obstructive padding of his suit. Without the bulk of it, she fits more closely against him, his superhuman warmth like a particularly cuddly space heater pressed against her back.

“One egg or two?” She asks him, plucking one from the container on the counter.

“Mmm… Two,” he says, the deliberation making it sound more like a trivia answer than a preference.

She cracks four eggs into the pan, one at a time. “Over easy, medium, hard…?”

He grins against her neck, and she gives his hand at her hip a playful little swat with the back of her silicone spatula. “I dunno,” he says, nuzzling her. “However you like it.”

“Have you never had eggs before?” She asks, looking back at him.

He’s got his chin propped up on her shoulder. His gaze flickers up from the sizzling pan to meet hers. “Just scrambled.”

…I was made… manufactured in a fucking lab…

She swallows a small lump in her throat, turning back to the eggs. She flips them all over easy and plates them with the toast. When she takes the toast off of the plates and begins slicing them into strips, Homelander makes an inquisitive noise.

“You’ll see,” she says cryptically, shooing him to the table as she plates their breakfasts and carries them to the table.

Homelander sits, and she sets his plate down in front of him. She sits on the adjoining corner to his, but within seconds he has a grip on her seat. The chair legs groan as he slides her closer to him, smiling at her look of surprise. “That’s better,” he says, his knee bumping hers.

He’d likely prefer she be in his lap. There’s always a lingering sense that she’s never quite close enough, even when they’re pressed tightly against one another. He might not be satisfied until he finds a way to open her up and crawl inside.

Huffing a small laugh, she gestures to his plate. “Use the toast sticks to break the yolk,” she tells him, and then demonstrates on her own meal, jabbing a piece of toast into the soft yellow yolk, coating it properly before taking a bite.

Blinking, Homelander does the same. He hums appreciatively, nodding with a mouthful of food.

“My gramma insisted that all food tastes better when it’s dipped. She always made my breakfasts this way,” she explains, her smile tinged with bittersweet nostalgia. “I can’t remember the last time I did it for myself.”

Silence follows. She glances up to find Homelander staring intently at his plate, a cut of toast pinched between his fingers, dripping yolk back down onto the egg. Layla takes a breath to speak, but that inhale is all it takes to snap him from his thoughts, his sharp blue eyes meeting hers.

“Ryan would like this, I think,” he says. She can tell he’s working to keep his voice conversational.

“Ryan?” She echoes, though it clicks a second after she says it.

“My son,” he confirms, clearing his throat gently. She shares his trepidation as he enters this particular topic of conversation, considering the fallout the last time it was broached. He dips the toast again and takes another bite, seemingly buying time with deliberate chews.

Layla bites her tongue, choking back her own knee-jerk response. She likes children just fine, in theory. She’s had very little practical experience. Still, words of unbidden advice bubble up on her tongue as if she’s an expert. She wants to tell Homelander to go to the boy, talk to him. He told her that she had taken everything from him, presumably referring to his very public meltdown, but that isn’t true in a number of ways. He has a son out there somewhere, confused and without either of his parents.

It sets a sympathetic churn in her gut. Grieving her own parents as a child made an adult of her far too soon. She may not have raised any children herself, but she can speak as a child who was left behind.

“He’s nine. He’s strong,” Homelander continues tentatively. “I mean, really strong. Strong like me,” he says, pride underlining each word, driving out the hesitance. “He’s so much like me. I never thought I’d see it, but he’s real. He’s—” he breaks into a small, incredulous laugh. “—He’s a miracle. A real, born miracle.”

Unlike you, she surmises from his tone. He said that Vought had made him. The world has been rocked by the revelation that supes are the result of Vought’s pharmaceutical ventures, but the way Homelander talks of his son makes him sound different. An exception to that fact, somehow.

“You should go to him,” she encourages, still holding onto a level of cautiousness on the matter. “I was left behind by my parents. I don’t wish it on anyone.”

“I didn’t leave him behind,” Homelander corrects sharply. She was right to tread lightly. “He left me,” he says, though he doesn’t speak with anger so much as he does woundedness. He’s never expressed anything but love—bordering on reverence—for his son, and yet he has completely roadblocked himself from reaching out.

It’s complicated, he told her before.

“He’s nine. It’s not his job to uncomplicate things or bridge the gap,” she says as gently as she can muster, though even she can hear the weariness in her own voice. “It’s yours. He needs you to be the adult, to help the world make sense. It’s one thing to give him space, but you can’t abandon him.”

At first, there is a flash of petulant defiance in Homelander’s eyes, obvious in the tight set of his jaw. To Layla’s relief, however, it fades into quiet consideration. He looks back down to his half-finished plate.

“You can’t take personally what anyone, much less a child, does out of grief,” she says softly, reaching out to put her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “Ryan needs wisdom. Support. People who love him. He needs his father.”

He looks up at her with a level of vulnerability in those ocean blue eyes that never fails to pull her into the depths. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says firmly. To this day, she can’t imagine what she wouldn’t do for just one more day with her own father.

Slowly, the wateriness of his gaze becomes a sparkle. Homelander smiles. He has as many smiles as an ice cream shop has flavors, and this one says he’s just had an idea.

“What?” Layla asks after a beat, an edge of suspicion to her tone.

“Nothing,” he says placatingly. His smile shifts. She knows that flavor of smile. That one means he’s lying. “Just relieved is all. Could I use your phone?”

It’s a wonder the ease with which Homelander glides from mood to mood, as if he puts each one neatly in a box before he takes out the next one. Layla only hesitates for a second before she nods, sliding out of her chair to go and fetch her cellphone. She still needs to text Annie.

“Jesus,” she says softly, staring at her screen with a deep crease in her brow.

“What?” Homelander asks, leaning in his seat.

She has thirty missed calls, and about as many text messages.

THIS IS ASHLEY BARRET. HAVE YOU SEEN HOMELANDER? IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS, PLEASE CONTACT ME. PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU KNOW WHERE HOMELANDER IS. MISS ALDEN PLEASE CONTACT ME AND ONLY ME IF YOU HAVE SEEN HOMELANDER. IF YOU CAN PLEASE INFORM HOMELANDER HE IS UP.

Ashley Barret. Layla recalls the name from Homelander’s initial booking. She had been the one to handle the details and arrange payment.

“Ashley Barret is very desperate to find you,” she says, reading the texts as she walks back towards him. “She says that you’re… up.” She stops at the table, looking at him. “What does that mean?”

The chair legs scrape audibly against the floor when Homelander stands up. “Give me that,” he says, taking the phone from her outstretched hand. His expression pinches tightly as he scrolls through the messages, lips parted. “I’m… up,” he says slowly, processing the words that mean nothing to Layla. With a tap, she hears a dial tone. Homelander holds the phone to his ear.

“Miss Alden–” answers a feminine voice immediately.

“What do you mean I’m up?” Homelander interrupts, a harshness to his voice that Layla doesn’t expect to hear outside of an argument.

“21 points with your base,” Ashley says breathlessly.

Homelander’s expression softens, becoming wonder-like. “What did you say?”

“21 points. They loved your speech!”

He looks at Layla, familiar glassiness returning to his eyes. He lifts his loose hand, which curls slowly into a fist, as if he’s taking hold of something precious, some nebulous concept of grace he had thought lost.

“A massive 44% uptick with white males in the Rust Belt.”

“Yes,” Homelander hisses through his teeth, pumping his fist triumphantly. “Fuck yes! Yes!” With that same hand, he suddenly takes hold of the back of Layla’s neck, pulling her into a deep kiss. Her noise of surprise is muffled against his lips, his tongue a slick demand on hers.

“They’re saying you’re confident and unapologetic!” Ashley’s voice continues to prattle from the phone, though Layla’s finding it hard to pay attention with the way Homelander’s taking a fistful of her hair, bowing her back, kissing her hungrily. “That you’re not afraid to be yourself!”

He outright moans against her lips. She breaks away from him with a gasp, hand pressed against her chest. “Should I give you a moment alone with Ashley?” She asks breathlessly, only half-joking. The man is absolutely alight against her, heat radiating in his touches. The news trips an alarm bell somewhere in the back of Layla’s mind, but she’s struggling to process it in the wake of his voraciousness.

“Christ, no,” he says. The phone hits the ground with a clatter, Ashley’s confused voice continuing distantly on the line. He cups both sides of Layla’s face and pulls her back in, exhaling a pleased little growl against her lips. “Did you hear? They love me. They fucking love me,” he says between kisses, breathless and downright giddy.

Drawing back, he strokes her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs, his smile broad, eyes shining with relief, joy, and something Layla can’t quite place, though it causes a small knot to form in her gut.

“They want me to be myself.”

#this chapter took everything out of me but it's here and i hope to god it doesn't take this long for the next chap #bc i already have portions written and i know where it's all going!!!#blood sweat and tears in this fic fr lmao #homelander x oc #homelander x original character #homelander fanfiction #eat your ego #my writing

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hazbin-but-good · 26 days

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another hazbin hotel rewrite/redesign?

yup! and i'm so serious about it that i made a whole blog for it. i'm a white queer ex-cath tran doing this as an art and writing exercise, so feedback from other creatives + jewish and/or racialized folks is especially welcome.

i'm putting this post and only this post in the main tags for visibility. also, not gonna link my main, but i do make my own original stuff, and i encourage fans and haters alike to do the same.

anyway, here's a mostly good-faith 1.7k-word essay on the original. i think it's pretty funny and brings up some less talked-about points. correct me on the facts, disagree with my opinions, and ask clarifying questions, but don't come at me with any piss-poor reading comprehension.

the hellaverse is garbage, and here's why

cw: strong language, stronger opinions, intersectional feminist critical discourse analysis

1. vivienne medrano, the person

medrano was born as a well-off white-passing latina (salvadoran-american) in bougieass frederick, maryland. while attending new york's top art school, she got popular on deviantart-tumblr-twitter by being a prolific multifandom fujoshi furry who's more into ornamental character design than storytelling. upon graduation, she leveraged her fanbase and industry connections to make the hazbin and helluva boss pilots, get helluva made for youtube, and get hazbin made for amazon prime.

like every woman online, she gets harassed for no good reason, and as a certified autist, i will defend her right to be dumb, weird, annoying, and bad with words. however, there are legit reasons to criticize her:

racism, misogyny, homophobia, fatphobia, some antisemitism, past transphobia, past ableism

shitty boss, bad friend

cowardly, vindictive, manipulative, thoughtless behavior

skeevy friends

sucks at taking criticism

in short, i think she desperately needs a PR person and someone to clean up her digital footprint.

2. medrano's art

incurious

inauthentic

noncommittal

creatively stagnant

overindulgent, and the indulgence isn't even fun

shallow and childish framed as complex and mature

bland and boring framed as shocking and subversive

to be clear, i'm at peace with the existence of suckass art like this; i just think the money, attention, and praise it gets are unearned and should go to more interesting works, of which there are infinite.

medrano's had the time, money, and social cache to grow as an artist, learn from the best, and take creative risks, but she hasn't. if she truly has nothing more to offer, she should let her collaborators take the wheel, but she doesn't do that either. instead, she keeps getting more and more resources to make the same baby bullshit, and that pisses me off. she could be the nicest person ever, and this fundamental arrogance would still make her art blow.

stop with the pointless guilt: liking medrano's work does not make you stupid or evil. however, if you stay in the kiddie pool of culture, if you refuse to engage with a diversity of art, if the hellaverse is your point of reference for anything media-related, you can't expect to have your opinions on art, media, or culture taken seriously. you have not earned a seat at the table. you gotta hit the books first.

i cannot emphasize enough how much incredible stuff is out there if you're willing to look further than what social media and streaming services put right in front of you. if you come away from this blog having learned about just one new artist or piece of art, i'll be a happy camper.

3. the hellaverse

a. empty and confused

hazbin and helluva's content and marketing has no clear target audience. the subjects are inappropiate for teens, but the execution is too childish for adults, and lemme tell you what i don't mean by that, first.

not inherently inappropriate for teens:

sex and sexuality

violence, including when it intersects with the above

politics and religion

not inherently childish:

animation (any style)

comedy

episodic writing and/or loose continuity

young characters

fun, happiness, optimism, the power of friendship, cuteness, tenderness, sincerity, etc.

what i mean is that these shows are literally about adult characters who fuck, smoke, drink, do drugs, go clubbing, work full-time, manage their own finances, and deal with stuff like bureaucracy, sexual violence, domestic abuse, marriage, divorce, late adoption, and family estrangement.

however, none of these "adult" things are given enough specificity to create drama or comedy. it's all too stock, vague, flat, weirdly sanitized, and thus utterly banal—pure aesthetics on top of bad saturday morning cartoons. it's exactly what i'd expect from a sheltered disney kid who needs to log off and get into their local gay scene ASAP so their only contact with things like poverty, policing, addiction, and sex work stops being facile movies and TV.

if the shows were aware of this and played with it, that could be amazing, but they're not. they give you the mickey mouse version of the world with a straight face and then play looney tunes sound effects to try to make you laugh and sad_violin.mp3 to try to make you cry. now that's funny.

b. old and tired

let's make like americans and pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist. even within the confines of the USA, home of the hays code, the red scare, and reaganite propaganda, this neopuritan fascist state ruled by 1000 megachurches in a trenchcoat, the indie/underground animation scene has been doing crazier shit for decades. anti-war films in the 60's, bakshi movies in the 70's, the simpsons shorts and r-rated movies in the 80's, adult swim and MTV in the 90's, flash/newgrounds/youtube in the 00's, streaming in the 2010's—so what are we doing in the 2020's with this wet white rice drowned in expired ketchup? i feel crazy making this point because it's obvious if you've watched these things, but if you haven't, you're gonna be like "well, there's gotta be something new here". no! there isn't! in the words of jimmy "the scot" jordan, nothing, nothing, NOTHING!

c. ideological purgatory

actually, there is one thing in these shows i've never seen before: the presbysterianism. shout out some interesting or at least intentional presbysterian art in the comments, because the way these ideas are presented here is not compelling. it just makes the rainbow neoliberalism even more confusing and contradictory.

i guess the big presbysterian things are protestanism, calvinism, and, uh, big church government? presbysterians, get your shit together. get your brand down. catholics have BDSM and vampires, evangelicals have TV and corporatism; what do you have? celtic crosses? no wonder medrano has such uninspired ideas on divinity.

d. queer deficiency

when i look at a piece of art, i ask myself: "what does this give me that i can't get from the hunchback of notre dame (1996)?" if the answer is as limp as "uhh, gay people, i guess", i can probably look for my gay shit elsewhere and rewatch the hunchback of notre dame (1996) in the meantime.

but let's say that you have no standards. you've been waiting for ages for a show about gays by the gays for the gays, and by god you're gonna get it. this is it! here we go! time for some

generic twink obliteration

male sexuality as aggression and dominance displays

WLW (sex and chemistry not included)

a couple straight femdoms

and the stalest sex jokes known to man

...yeah, it's not very queer. and by "queer", i mean "questioning or subverting gender norms (including sexual roles) within a given cultural context regardless of creator identity and intent". i'm not a queer studies scholar so LMK if there's a more specific term for this, but whatever you call it, it's not in the hellaverse much.

there's not even any transness, literal or metaphorical, just ancient drag jokes. i guess the writers thought we would've been too controversial. so much for an indie animation studio that prides itself in the diversity of its staff both above and below the line, bakshi-style. i wonder how medrano, a bisexual woman, would've felt if told that a lesbian main couple in hazbin would be "too controversial".

4. spindlehorse and the vivziepop brand

spindlehorse toons underpays its overworked staff and keeps outsourcing more and more labor to even more overworked freelancers overseas to cut costs. a rainbow sweatshop is still a sweatshop, and just because these practices may be "industry standard" doesn't make them any more ethical.

the studio has also been repeatedly accused by current and former employees and contractors of creating a hostile and abusive workplace. AFAIK, it still has no dedicated HR person, and victims are too afraid of retaliation like blacklisting and online harassment to speak out.

this is exactly the stuff that unions exist to prevent. as i'm writing this, the IATSE (the parent union of TAG, which is the parent union of all US animation unions) is negotiating with entertainment industry executives for better working conditions, and if the execs fuck around like last year, it's strike time again. so watch this space, voice your support, and don't cross any picket lines.

i hope spindlehorse unionizes, but until then and for these reasons, i don't think you should give money to the company.

first of all, all content on amazon-owned platforms is ok to pirate, and all youtube ads are ok to block. everyone involved in making the episodes has (or should have) been paid upfront, so you're not taking the bread out of anyone's mouth.

next, let's look at the succulent offerings of the official vivziepop merch shop:

$10 pins and keychains

$15 sticker packs

$20 mugs and acrylic cutouts

$25 shirts

$30 metal cards (not even tarot)

$40 lounge pants

$50 mini backpacks

random $80 skateboard deck

forgive my latin americanness, but this is all stuff you can get made by a local metalsmith, print/sublimation shop, or just crafty people in your life. it's cheaper, customizable, and better for the environment to skip all the shipping and packaging. also, not painting your own skateboard is poser shit.

the hazbin website also has $15 pins, one $20 keychain, and $6 trading card packs. people are weird about trading cards, so if for some reason you wanna gamble for a mass-produced bit of cardboard, plastic, and tinfoil, at least bulk-order for all the vivziepoppers in your area so it's less of a huge waste. better yet, trace the designs and make infinite bootlegs.

at the end of the day, buying merch is not activism. your bulk order of trading cards will not save any wage slaves from getting evicted from their overpriced studio apartments. however, the shop links you to all the credited artists/designers, and more of your bucks will actually reach them if you buy their designs directly, then turn them into body pillows or life-sized bronze statues or whatever the fuck.

go through the credits of any episode of helluva or hazbin, and you'll find even more creatives you might wanna support. get jinkx monsoon's albums on CD. subscribe to actually good artist, animator, and composer gooseworx. lots of voice actors now have patreon, cameo, or self-hosted pages where you can write better lines for their characters and have them read it. these things may not look as shiny as Official Merch™, but we all need less plastic shit and more culture anyway.

#spindlehorse #vivziepop #hellaverse #hazbin hotel #helluva boss #spindlehorse critical #vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel critical #helluva boss critical #hazbin hotel rewrite #hazbin hotel redesign #helluva boss redesign #communism #degrowth

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basedandhygienic247 · 1 year

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Men commit 99% of rapes. Men's favourite porn is just violence against women, pedophilia and incest. Men get off when women share their sexual trauma. The entertainment industry produces what men want to see. Fan service is an established concept. We have established that men enjoy seeing rape.

So why are women still expected to accept that rape scenes,scenes of sexual violence that barely change the story, incest, and pedophilia, why are women expected to accept something that all men around you will tell you..."It's ACTUALLY there to be more realistic 🧐, this movie is gritty", a man will watch something tagged forced,stepsibling, stepmom, barely legal, every night, and then tell you that Game of thrones is the best and rape is horrible and only included for historical accuracy.

#radical feminism #male privilege #tw male violence #game of thrones #tw male

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bonny-kookoo · 1 year

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Jungkook: Velvet Heart 🔞

There's something wrong with Jungkook.

Tags/Warnings: Yandere AU, Idol!Jungkook, captivity, emotional manipulation, violence (not against mc), injury, medication and abuse of such, obsession, OCD, blackmail, very shady ways of the company in regards to JKs issues, fluff but its.. You'll see, NSFW mentioned but not descriptive

Length: Short

!! Disclaimer: I do not believe Jeon Jungkook to be like this, God no. This is pure fiction, and meant to be seen as nothing but entertainment. Thank you.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━♡━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

Jungkook has always been an odd kid.

But nowadays, there's no denial that there's something terribly wrong with the now young adult. He's social when needed, a perfect actor in front of the media, shows himself as both sexy and cute to please a broad variety of fans. But he's not quite right in his head, and everybody knows.

Onve you know what he's capable of, what he's already done, that smile of his looses its innocence. Those eyes of his change in their sparkle. His grin is no longer cute- it's dangerous. Menacing. Like a wolf snarling in your face.

It's not a smile of happiness. It's more like a warning.

No one's ever allowed in his hotel room - not even room service. He himself actually has a habit of bringing along his own bedsheets, so you'll never leave a trace of yourself anywhere, but at his own home, he shares with you. If he has to bring you along to schedules, no one's allowed to look at you, speak to you, nothing. You're basically to be treated as invisible. Only he can ever interact with you.

And you? Well.. you don't have many memories apart from him.

Found by him at the side of a lake, washed up from your own failed act of jumping out of life, you'd suffered harsh injuries to your brain, leaving you with not only amnesia, but other problems as well. When he'd taken you home, late at night, you couldn't even talk, didn't know how to hold cutlery. He'd instantly done his own research, had looked up ways and therapies he could manage by himself- and so, he somehow helped you learn to exist again.

Maybe that's why you're so attached to him. Horribly so.

You still have a hard time speaking most of the time, but he understands you just fine. Or maybe he doesn't care. You don't mind.

You remember however, when you'd learned the word 'hate'.

You'd spoken it to him one day, randomly to ask what it meant, and he'd suddenly developed an entire mental breakdown. Hands on your shoulders slightly shaking you on the couch, eyes wide open and filled with terror. "No." He said, chanted almost. "No, no, no, no, no!" He shook you, back and forth. "Dont say that, don't ever say that to me! Ever!" He barked before he stilled. "I know you hate me. Everybody does. It's because I'm me, isn't it?" He'd laughed, shaking hands holding your cheeks, before they held your neck. "You do, don't you? You hate me?" He smiled, but you shook your head. He copied the action, amused, emotions all over the place. "No?" He chuckled. "You're such a liar, princess." He laughed, thumb running over the front of your esophagus, before his hands traveled again, forcing your face to look at him. "Thats fine. I still love you." He mumbled. "I'll always love you." He grinned, before kissing you softly.

Sometimes he's like that.

Jungkook doesn't trust anybody, not even himself. He's terrified of loosing you, has invested in a simple portable camera to set up in the hotel room wherever you might stay, so he can watch you like now, as he's getting his makeup done. Everyone, including the other members of the band, know this isn't good. This isn't healthy. But he's a major part of the success they all have.

If he's exposed as a high-functioning sociopath who's keeping someone hostage out of twisted love, everything would crumble to ashes.

So reporters are paid off if they ever find hints. Lawyers are always on call if things go south, or if Jungkook breaks another staff's jaw for accidentally mentioning you. Psychologists are there if one of the members has to watch the youngest pull someone's teeth out from their throat again after snapping out of control because the guy had been smiling at you.

Jungkook had even expected a thanks for it. He'd saved the guy's life, after all.

It's not healthy. Not at all.

But money rules the world- and Jungkook makes them all a lot of it.

Without him, the house of cards will fall and burn.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

On the twelfth of January, he always celebrates with you.

You don't know why, and you also dont know what. You're sure you know it's not your birthday, and neither is it his, but then again, you don't really care either way. You live from one day to the next, and you exist because Jungkook wants you to. So you're happy when he's happy.

"Do you like it?" He smiles, holding out another spoonful of cake to you. You happily accept it while your legs swing back and forth from the height of his lap. He likes feeding you. It reminds him of the earlier times, when he'd just found you. Sometimes, when he's feeling gloomy, he'll Revive those old habits. He'll help you eat, help you clean your face or brush your teeth.

He loves reminding himself that without him, you'd be read. Rotting next to the waters, eaten by bugs and torn apart by animals.

Instead, you live a lavish life under his watch, enjoying what the world has to offer every day. He's trained you like a dog, after all these years. He can trust you. You won't ever run away.

You're way too scared without him, after all. As you should be.

You fall asleep in his arms a bit later on the hotel bed, filled with sweets and his love, while he scrolls for some stuff on his phone. He smiles when he looks at a photograph from the news on the TV he took on his way home one day.

[Missing girl officially declared dead after only one year and two months, police reports. Parents: "we want to move on." All investigations closed as of yesterday, as the case comes to its end.]

Recorded on the 12th of January, three years ago.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

It's quiet around him, these days.

With the lawsuits wrapping up behind closed doors and far away from the public eye, fans worry about the maknae due to his silence. Meanwhile, he himself couldn't be happier, having spent the third day in a row waking up late during the day next to you, sleepy as ever, still resting. You sleep a lot. Always have.

Sometimes more, when he wants you to. Then you'll get some help slumbering off from him. He knows how to measure the dosage. He's done it a thousand times.

In his dreams, you sometimes scream. He doesn't know why, takes it as a warning to hold you even closer, and when he dreams such things, he will be restless. He will sleep with his length inside your warmth, as far as it goes, so he can stay as close as humanly possible with you. He doesn't mind the mess you both make.

It's proof of your love.

Sometimes he wants to take you outside. Go to dinner, walk alongside Han River, but then he realizes that you might remember what had happened that Night. You might loose all dependency on him, all love for him, all memories- and it makes him angry at himself, makes him pull his own hair in frustration necause he can never let that happen.

Everybody knows he's hanging on by a thread.

And if you ever step out of line, if you ever leave-

That fragile little chain keeping him grounded will snap, freeing the beast.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

Will you ever be free? Do you want to be?

If freedom is away from Jungkook, will it ever be enjoyable?

You don't have to think about that. Not when his hands hold your wrists down into the mattress so hard they will surely bruise. Not when he almost growls like a predator at every thrust he pushes into you. Not whe he kisses you like he doesn't care about breathing.

Not when he's got you all chained up to his side, like a dog, loved and loyal.

You exist for him.

You're alive because he wants you to be.

You've survived because he loves you more than anyone else ever could.

You're his.

And don't you ever forget it.

♥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #bts yandere #yandere bts #yandere jungkook

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weirdmarioenemies · 10 months

Photo

Name: Yellow Shy Guy

Debut: Certainly not Mario Kart Tour! (It was Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island)

Yeah yeah yeah this is a very Regular Mario Enemy. Yes, you are on the right blog! But this is a Regular Mario Enemy, in a Weird Mario Situation... yeah, it’s another post about the specifics of character alt colors in Mario Kart Tour. I hope you like those!

Shy Guys come in all sorts of colors! They always have! Red may be default, but yellow can always be counted on to make an appearance if other colors are present. It makes sense, since Yellow is one of the main characters of Colors. Do you consider the primary colors to be red/blue/yellow or magenta/cyan/yellow? Doesn’t matter! Yellow is there! Please do not bring up RGB. But if you do, I will simply retort that the powers of red and green light must combine to give rise to the mighty Yellow!

Yellow Shy Guy is also very often playable! In older, more limited games, the default red may be the only one playable, but these days you can confidently expect Yellow Shy Guy to be an option. If you were lucky in Mario Kart DS download play, you might be assigned Yellow Shy Guy by random chance! Yellow Shy Guy finally became selectable in Mario Kart 8′s DLC, which to me is more appealing than any of the added characters. While my favorite color is light blue, I am a big fan of Yellow Shy Guy, and find his green shoes more fashionable than Light-Blue Shy Guy’s red ones!

But then, along came Mario Kart Tour. Red Shy Guy was the first one present, no problem with that! We all knew the rest would come soon enough. But they came in a weird order! Black, pink, green, light blue, blue, white, orange... At the time of Orange Shy Guy’s release, it had been nearly three and a half years since the game launched. And yet, still no sign of that classic yellow fellow? I’m normally mellow, but that makes me want to bellow! Even a gold Shy Guy was added... gold. The coward’s yellow!

On the wiki’s list of Shy Guy colors, Yellow is among the only ones not using a render from Tour, instead being shown using one from Dr. Mario World, in a different pose. Yellow looks like an impostor among all these others! I’m here if he ever needs to vent.

According to Mario Super Sluggers, Yellow Shy Guy loves to steal. Hey! Stealing is bad! Is that why you’re not allowed in Tour, Yellow Shy Guy? Green Shy Guy loves to hit and run, but that’s okay. Mario Kart is all about vehicular violence. They love that kind of attitude!

This all being said, Yellow Shy Guy is technically playable in Tour, though as a variant in the form of Yellow Shy Guy (Explorer). This is an act of community service, as Yellow Shy Guy is graciously role-playing as an old-timey prospector as seen in the new version of Sunset Wilds, replacing the racist usage of Shy Guys from the GBA version of the track. Thank you, Yellow Shy Guy! But still, he should not have to hide himself behind a costume to get a place in the roster. Or I guess a second costume, in this case. When will being a humble Yellow Shy Guy be seen as enough...?

Poor Yellow Shy Guy. But oh? What is that, under the read more of this post? Wow! I can’t believe it! What a thing to behold! You should click Read More, so you can see it!

Donkey Kong is finally getting a costumed variant, and about time too! Congratulations to him! Sorry to Yellow Shy Guy though. Yellow Shy Guy is not Donkey Kong, you see. Unless he IS Donkey Kong under his robes and mask, and gorillas can be compressed into much smaller states than I was aware of.

...Huh? What’s that, live studio audience of children? There’s something I’m missing? There’s something else of note in this tour? Oh! Thank you for letting me know! Let’s see...

HOORAY!!!!!

Yellow Shy Guy loves to steal, it’s true. And he is especially great at stealing the show! I am so proud of Yellow Shy Guy for finally making it into Mario Kart Tour! #YellowShyGuySweep! It makes me want to play as Yellow Shy Guy in Mario Kart 8, which is a much better game where you can access Yellow Shy Guy quickly and easily.

To celebrate our friend’s victory, if you have Mario Kart 8 Deluxe, you could play the custom Yellow Mode I made up! Here are the rules:

1. All humans must play as Yellow Shy Guy, and use only the yellowest of kart parts!

2. Only yellow items may be used! This means Coin, Banana, Triple Banana, Golden Mushroom, Star, and Lightning!

3. Only yellow courses are allowed! There are not that many yellow courses, so you can use your imagination here. For example, Toad Circuit features a big Yellow Toad balloon, and untextured Yellow sand! Wario’s Gold Mine is about mining some Yellow Minerals! Ice Ice Outpost features a whole yellow track, but don’t even think about driving on the green one!

And speaking of yellow tracks... I hope everyone’s looking forward to the Simpson Tour, featuring the new Springfield Streetrace track! Mario Kart Tour? More like Mario BART Tour! Aye carumba!

#yellow shy guy #mario kart tour #mario #mario enemies #mod chikako

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sugar-grigri · 11 months

Text

Not really an interpretation, just a clarification!

ok little Yoshiden fan approaching... I'm afraid we're not happy with the same thing

If I'm shouting Yoshiden content, it's because it's been a long time since Yoshida last appeared. And even longer since he interacted with Denji.

What I loved about this chapter was seeing them in even more opposite positions, but still seeing Yoshida's slightly silly side. Always wanting to provoke Denji and trigger angry emotions.

Now... interpreting an entire scene in a sexualized way is disturbing. I've even seen people say that Fujimoto deliberately set up a strange yaoi-style atmosphere with consent bias. Fans see it as confirmation of a sadistic Yoshida who dreams of having a hold on Denji.

I hope I don't have to go on and on about how strange I find it to interpret these things in this way, not least because Yoshida and Denji are both minors, but also because to interpret the whole scene as gay bating or fan service is once again to miss the point of the chapter entirely.

Let's stop and think. It all makes sense, and nothing but absolutely NOTHING has been set up just for fan service. If Denji is almost naked, it's for two reasons in my opinion. A punishment from Yoshida, but like a frustrated teenager punishing another for not listening to him (Denji showed too much of himself as Chainsaw Man and came close several times to revealing his identity to Asa).

Then, in a symbolic way, to show Denji's vulnerability, as he's left with nothing. Far from Nayuta. Far from Asa. Far from his beloved dogs.

Finally, to contrast with the famous plan to do everything in his power to protect Chainsaw Man. Boom. On the next page, we see Denji in a rather humiliating and dehumanizing position. Symbolizing that NO, this isn't really in his best interest.

I don't want to unpack this old debate yet, but the reason I'm producing more content about Asaden is because fans see them more as a couple between two teenagers. I don't like the interpretation of Yoshiden fans, who are always on the verge of consent, imagining Yoshida as a sadist in his thirties when he's a teenager whose only way of communicating is through manipulation and provocation. I like Yoshiden because I think it's funny to see Denji explore an unexpected bisexuality. I'd like some sweet content in between.

Denji is a victim of abuse. Yoshida seems like a victim crushed by the equally biased system. I don't want them to hurt each other.

Queer content has to stop being tinged with violence, whether physical or sexual.

It can also just be cute.

#chainsaw man #csm #csm part 2 #my thoughts #yoshiden #csm spoilers #csm 132

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jinitak · 6 months

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Why I think much of Only Friends discourse here is flawed

TL;DR Western audiences expects Only Friends to be more progressive than it can be considering its situation. Only Friends is already a gamble by GMMTV as it is one of the first prime time series focusing on queer sex life to be aired on TV. As Thai audiences and censors are still quite conservative, GMMTV probably added some conservative messaging on sex and relationships to appease those people and for the series to be able to be aired during prime time. Much of the discourse didn't factor in these aspects.

--------------------

Note: I think I did a shitty job building up to the conclusion, I did not proofread this. I think the TL;DR captures the gist of my argument already.

I have noticed that much of the negative reaction surrounding Only Friends finale has been coming from Western audiences, this might just be me being in an echo chamber where people don't discuss BL series or it shows a divide in audience

I think the ending is catered to the Thai audience rather than Western audience which creates a crash of worldview. Thai dramas has always been filled with moralistic messages and almost always ends in a happy ending, this is already the case in plays as early as the late 1700s.

Even into the TV era, Thai audiences are also accustomed to the moralistic storytelling that ends in a happy ending, most Lakhons basically boils down to this. Branded ships also began in this era (I remember the Channel 3 heterosexual ships getting much popularity, although many of the couples actually married later on so IDK). Although as time progressed, audiences are more accepting of less moralistic storytelling, but still a general sense of good triumphing over evil is still present.

Coming into the BL boom, despite BL being a new genre at the time, Thai audiences still expected the same kind of things they expect from heterosexual lakhons and most Thai BLs still follow that. With the popularity of BL ever rising and fan service being an expected part of promotion, happy endings are kind of mandatory for BLs.

I think Only Friends ended the way it did because GMMTV understood Thai audiences. Much of the Thai audience watches a series for their favourite actors and only some watch for the story (as you can see from the amount of boring university BLs). Deviating too much from the standard pattern would only alienate viewers away.

Despite the picture the tourism board may be trying to presenting, Thailand is still a conservative society, many people still cannot separate sex and relationships. Open relationships and polyamory relationships are still being frowned upon.

Combined with conservative censors which rate BLs for a higher age level than heterosexual dramas with straight up domestic violence, without moralistic messaging, the show might get an 18+ rating and has to be aired after 22.00 (like Friend Zone) or even worse, not being able to be aired at all.

GMMTV probably understand this very well, pushing Boston's separation of sex and relationships as normal might as well be suicide. Much of the audience does not appreciate that view and the censor probably would not like that very much.

I think in their minds, pushing a show so involved with queer sex life into prime time is already enough of a gamble for them, risking that spot being taken away or alienating their (somewhat) conservative audience too is not a chance they's like to risk.

I think the production still should've pushed more for Boston to be accepted but in the end that was what we got. The negative reaction is justified.

I think the issue in the discourse right now is that Western audiences expect a liberal viewpoint being presented in this series, but in reality, Thai audiences are still quite conservative and for a boundary pushing show like Only Friends (Gay OK Bangkok amongst other works are not prime time shows and maybe not even shown on TV at all, that's why I said Only Friends is boundary pushing) has to make compromises to appease those audiences which ended with Boston ending up the way he did.

--------------------

Afterword: I think my analysis mainly focuses on cultural viewpoints rather than the content of the series, whilst Western audiences tend to do the opposite. This probably stems from my background in advocacy, which focus on cultural aspects when it comes to analysis.

--------------------

Feel free to respond or criticise, I want to hear differing viewpoints from mine as well. I agree with much of the analysis about the series here but feel that they are too overly critical because their analysis lack the cultural background that explains the thought process behind the decisions the production team made.

#thai bl #only friends #only friends the series #i said what i said

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kneelingshadowsalome · 11 months

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Hi! I wanted to ask you something, since I really enjoy how you characterize the relationship between a grumpy, lonely, stoic, angry etc. character like Ghost (though I don’t know if I’d say he’s angry) and a love interest. What would those first few interactions be like, (would she seek him out, and would it annoy or confuse him) and what characteristics would he see early on in her to realize that he likes her. I can see someone like him avoiding her initially, until his feelings are too strong and then he’s all in. I don’t know, maybe that’s an incorrect interpretation. Also you kind of already answered this question in a previous ask, but I just love how in depth your character analysis is!! Hope your day goes really really well and thanks for giving us all some fantastic stories!!

First of all, thank you for your interest and praise! Also, this is such a lovely, cute question ️🩷✨️ I certainly don't consider myself as any kind of a Ghost expert, but I absolutely love to share my thoughts on him and love to hear other people's thoughts on this man too 💕

My thoughts on this under the cut ->

"I can see someone like him avoiding her initially, until his feelings are too strong and then he's all in."

Yes, me too, definitely! Trust issues are one reason for avoidance, but I have this HC about Ghost having an ominous feeling that he's born with bad luck. He has this almost superstitious belief that shit will hit the fan whenever he turns his back. That's why he's so gloomy: quotes like "People you know can hurt you the most" and "Choices have consequences" come to mind... The latter imho is a perfect example on Ghost's instinctual belief in Murphy's law instead of being a neutral, logical take on how laws of cause and effect work.

This inner conviction that tragedy and disaster follow him wherever he goes is why he subconsciously steers clear of relationships and, in fact, any chance of happiness: because happiness is always followed by immense pain in his world of experience.

But like you said, if he gets "trapped," it's challenging for him to pull back anymore. He's curious by nature and gets a kick out of physical intimacy and extremes - and love and lust are one of the most intense experiences there is! Violence can be viewed as a profound, distorted form of intimacy (like... this guy is an expert in hugging people from behind and plunging a knife in them 🫠), so of course passionate sex is like a drug to him. Tender lovemaking or rough rutting – as long as he's present and his partner is present too.

So I'd say he's drawn in by physical attraction and sex first (not that he would be into superficial hookups, I think he'd rather deprive himself of sex altogether than have a series of shallow one-night stands), and this would eventually lead to feelings which grow in depth until he cannot keep himself away any longer.

I think people like Ghost could be compared to a wild animal or an abused dog 🥲 so it's better to let him "sniff" you first. Smothering him with attention and demands will only drive him away. But after he sees you 1. are not a threat 2. accept him as he is 3. give him the occasional treat (lol), there's a good chance he will eventually trust you and attach himself to you.

(Again, I can't believe this is my life now: talking folk psychology about a traumatized fictional man on Tumblr, but here we are, this is fine ☕️✨️)

Ghost also has to feel he's needed in the relationship, just the way he wants to feel qualified and capable in his work. If you try to force him to be something he's not, he will likely leave – simply because he doesn't want his partner to settle for anything but the best. But if he gets a feeling that he is needed and can provide and be of service to his partner, he will do anything in his power to make them feel protected, safe, and content (in that order). I also think he prefers to feel useful rather than be admired – that's why he would consider a friends with benefits setup insufficient. Also, feelings! If he senses he's just being used while slowly developing something more than just horny feels for the other person, it will only make him resentful and, again, drive him away.

"-what characteristics would he see early on in her to realize that he likes her."

It's difficult to say because I don't think Ghost has a particular "type." It's more about the chemistry and little things to him: I see him as a man of detail, so it might be something very fleeting and minimal in a person that catches his attention.

But if by characteristics you mean what kind of behavior he appreciates (not sure if I got this question right), then perhaps patience paired with acceptance and compassion. I think he wants his partner to be independent... and dependent on him. Like I said earlier, he wants to feel needed but doesn't want to be smothered. He wants to feel useful but not used. He demands unconditional loyalty but despises childlike codependency.

I wrote a standalone sequel to Refugee a while ago and will post it here soon, in it I explore your question on what the first interactions would be like (from Ghost's POV). 💞

I'd love to hear people's thoughts on this! Or any Ghost & relationships topics for that matter 😍

#answered #ghost headcanons #simon riley headcanons

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rreskk · 6 months

Note

Im a huge fan of all your writings, your page is my all time favourite on Tumblr and I jus noticed you’ve taken requests and was wondering if you can write some smut of Trevor x his Therapist or Doctor

I fucking love this idea! Sorry it took long, I've been having a brain-rotting phase about my OC :)

Summary: Your favourite client has become more... Of a "friend."

TW: -Smut

Pairings: Therapist Fem!reader/ Trevor Philips

Word count: 1265

AUGUST, 26TH – 1985

You’ll see grieved people hover in and out of your office with a suicidal tendencies, more likely than never. You’d also have people who’ve been through wars, people who have slept with family members, confessed murderers, suicidal drug-addicts, sociopathic teenagers, depressed elderly ladies, wealthy white men, menopausal women, schizophrenics, sexually confused religious men, teenage dirtbags; the list going on and on and on and on. Your folders only stack up with every unstable being paying brain-surgeon bucks to talk about how crappy life is. Some stories you wept alongside them, some you had to give them the cold-shoulder, some you had to refuse service. All in which was based in the memo when you began working within the professionality.

However, there was this one man with mountains of issues and emotional depth, some criminal, some traumatic, some petty; but he interested you greatly. A so-called trainee pilot for the Airforce. Personal record was fresh, great skill in flying, physically active, single, citizen of Canada. However, he was referred after his team had identified slight dangers in his emotional intelligence and anger management. He was once called “a fucking pyscho” by his referral, which had caused some mishap of violence. Nonetheless, the front page had suggested he was aggressive when “provoked”.

The first session was tricky, as predicted from his difficulties on concealing emotional bondage. But as the sessions became a regular occurrence, he slowly loosened up. Only recently had he talked about his childhood. Through painful cries and many times of walking out of the office eruptively, in which he returns hours later to continue, believing you are “the only person who cares” – his words exactly when you question his behaviour.

Unconsciously, you both grew close. After a good few weeks of working along side him, Trevor had named every person in his life; mother, father, brother, past lovers, past friends, etc… He trusted you with this information, and when he spoke freely about them, his eyes would stare into yours with tensity. He self-indulged in the eye-contact. You understood that it was his way of seeing your internal reactions and thoughts. Trevor’s constantly assessing you like you are with him, and whether it was meant to happen, it fell into this hole of deep relation. He relied on you. Extremely clingy. His sessions would extend from an hour to 3 or 4. It had gotten to the point where you with drawled other patience, just so you could invite him in again. Your managers assumed he needed more focus, so they allowed. But was it about focus?

No.

It was something more personal than that. A transference. Therapist and patient romance. Forbidden touches of his hands against your thighs turned into extreme penetration in your office. From the desk to the sofa, from the floor to your bathroom. At some point, he had been everywhere with you. Trying to overcome this situation was flawed, and every-time you tried to give him this professional support, it turned into a lustful beg of his fingers and filthy tongue.

“Fuck – “ You panted when he crawled over you on the sofa-bed, his penis frantically searching for the entrance as he used his tongue to leave trails of his saliva against your jawline. Whereas the moments prior to this, he was talking about the lack of love given from his mother, and he instead admitted that the maternal need had been transferred onto you. Trevor struggled to explain his insane attraction to how “caring” you are, forgetting that it was your profession. But the way you’d reassure and rub his back – it always gave him a reason to go home and relieve that naughty arousal. And every session, he’s excited for this specific reason.

“I tried to book a session last week,” He murmured darkly as his cock injected into your pussy, “The prick downstairs told me you were busy – with what?” His voice crackled a bit at the pleasure of having your warmth surrounding his erection.

Holding onto his shoulders, you breathed out a shaky moan, his name staining the tip of your tongue. The question went ignored until you found the capacity to give him the deserved answer.

“I had training.” You could barely say.

Trevor huffed in jealousy, his hips finding a steady pace as he gripped your hips to line up the act of penetration. Despite the angry frown plastered on his face, you knew he was enjoying himself. The way his tongue curled up between his lips, the concentration dilating his pupils. You had analysed his behaviour from day 1, so it became an easy job to predict his overall mood.

“I’m more important…” He breathed softly and ushered you to wrap your legs around his hips.

“I know…”

“I fucking love how loose you are,” Trevor desperately kissed your quivering lips before breaking away to increase the speed and groaning your name. “Oh… Oh, fuck. Yes. Mmm…”

The clock was ticking and when he was occupying your cunt, eyes began to fall upon the ticks and the toks. You’ve mentioned before this that a patient was planned to arrive within the next hour, so the nerves were beginning to boil your blood. The last thing you’d want is to be caught; especially with one of your most dangerous clients who’s supposed to have “professional” support.

“Look at me.” He soon begged when noticing your lack of attention. His hands fell onto your breasts and gave them a loving squeeze, continuing the thrusting.

“I ought to…” It was hard to be vocal, so you tried a little harder, “I ought to prepare for the next – “

Trevor whimpered angrily and fucked you harder than before. His hands gripped onto your breasts, teeth grinding. He repetitively shook his head and silenced you from saying anything more.

“No, no, no!” He pled. His temper starting to spark.

You grasped his wrists, moaning out of pure bliss. This encouraged him to thrust a little faster, his shaggy mullet falling into different directions and flows. For a young pilot, he was especially rugged and quite ill-looking, but it made this more exciting. You were fucking an ill client… That was such an exciting experience, but why? The psychology was hard to work out, even for you. So his witchery could be blameful, the way his mouth casted spells on you.

“Please – “ You moaned and closed your eyes.

“Look at me!” Trevor whined again, his hands cradling your face as you both came close. He winced. The sluggish rock of his hips slapped against yours for the last time before he pulled out, cock ejaculating white fluids upon your stomach. “Oooohhh… Fuck!” Your patient ecstatically exaggerated.

You too had came. To refrain noise, it became a squeal of pure lust. When his warm semen painted your stomach, your fingers instantly rummaged through your clit, feeling how much cum he made you squirt. And with a moan, you felt him take charge of the inspection and licked up the white strands with his tongue. Trevor brushed your pussy and slurped up your taste with a puppy glimpse in his eyes. He looked at you when licking, begging to be praised.

“Fuck… Yes – “ Then the door knocked.

With quick motion, you threw on your shirt and zipped up your skirt as he groaned. Trevor wiped his mouth and gave your cheek a last kiss before throwing on a shirt and walking out. You noticed on the way out, he had gave your next client the meanest look to man-kind.

And the next week; that client had never returned.

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dystopicjumpsuit · 5 months

Text

Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 16

Falls the Shadow

Rating: M - Minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 3.9k

Warnings and tags: SMUT; hand job; service kink; command kink; fluff; bonding; angst; flawed characters; smoking/drug use (depending on how you HC death sticks); DJ chose violence after seeing one too many shitty fanon takes about Gregor; remember how I said Chapter 9 was the last of the heavy angst? I lied, I'm sorry.

Suggested Listening:

Summary: The strike team makes their final preparations for Balmorra; some difficult conversations are had.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings and "Do It Again," but all three fics can be read as stand-alones.

Between the essence and the descent falls the Shadow

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

Riyo awakened slowly, feeling blissfully relaxed and wonderfully safe. The gentle light of a Coruscant dawn spilled through the window, bathing the room in a golden haze. Her back pressed against something solid and warm, and soft breath fanned against her bare shoulder. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, and it tightened ever so subtly as she took a slow, deep inhale and shifted her body. Echo’s scent surrounded her, and she took a moment to revel in his nearness.

He stirred, and his lips grazed across the sensitive skin just where her shoulder curved up to her neck—right where he’d bitten her only a few hours earlier. She let out a small, content sigh and rolled back against him until their bodies were pressed fully against each other, his thighs tucked in behind her knees. He’d taken off his prosthetic legs the night before, and she felt a deep sense of happiness that he felt safe enough with her to put himself in that vulnerable position. His hand flattened over her belly, large and strong, and she couldn’t repress a smile when she remembered exactly how that clever hand had touched her the night before.

“You’re not a morning person, are you?” Echo grumbled quietly.

“Afraid so,” Riyo confessed. “Is that a deal-breaker?”

“Nobody’s perfect,” he said, shifting their positions so her head rested on the shoulder of his scomp-arm. “Besides, I’m in too deep to end it now.”

She sucked in a small breath. “Are you?”

“Mmm,” he said, stroking his hand down the curves of her waist and hip and pressing a gentle kiss behind her ear.

She rolled over to face him, gazing into his beautiful, sleepy eyes. His face was soft, and his mouth curved in a small smile that made her want to kiss him all over, so she did. She covered him in tiny, light kisses, her lips just brushing over his skin, as she swept her hands over the hard, wiry muscles of his torso, and lower. She brushed against his cock and found it rigid and hot, and she pushed back the blankets so she could see him as he rolled onto his back.

She began to tease him gently and soon discovered a strand of her long, lilac hair had somehow gotten wrapped around his shaft. She pulled it away carefully, and he hissed and thrust his pelvis away from the mattress.

“Did I hurt you?” she asked.

“No, it felt amazing. Do it again,” he said.

He probably didn’t intend it as an order, but Riyo’s breath kicked up, and she looked up at him with wide, startled eyes. She brushed her fingertips over him with the lightest touch imaginable, and he groaned quietly.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I just—”

He looked at her inquisitively.

“I liked it when you told me what to do,” she admitted. “When you—commanded me.”

“Did you?” he asked, a hint of speculation in his eyes. She nodded, and he smiled. “Lie down next to me. Rest your head on my shoulder again.”

She obeyed.

“Now touch me again, just like you did before. Nice and soft.”

She licked her lips and reached for his cock, barely touching his skin, circling it with her fingertips, drawing the faintest lines up and down his shaft.

“That’s it,” he rumbled. “Keep going.”

She did as she was told, tilting her face up to look into his eyes. His gaze was riveted on her small lazuline hand as she caressed his cock with utmost tenderness.

“A little harder,” he said.

She took him in a loose hold, stroking up, down; twisting her wrist slowly. His breath hitched, and he pressed his lips into her hair. She traced a fingernail lightly down the underside of his cock, and he moaned as his head fell backward onto the pillow.

“Harder,” he grunted. “And a little faster.”

She squeezed and began to work him at a steady pace, feeling a rush of slickness between her thighs at Echo’s commanding tone. She loved knowing that she was giving him exactly what he wanted—that even though he was giving the orders, she was the one taking him to pieces with agonizing precision, just the way he liked. His breath became ragged in her ear, and she shifted to straddle his thigh, desperate to find relief for her aching cunt.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Squeeze it harder.”

She tightened her grip and increased her speed. He wrapped his scomp-arm around her back and pulled her tight up against him. She rolled her hips, feeling the familiar tension begin to gather in her core muscles. He thrust into her hand, panting and moaning.

“Squeeze me as hard as you can,” he ordered, his voice tense.

She wrung his cock in her hand until she was sure it must be agonizing, working fast and hard as the muscles in her forearm began to cramp. Abruptly, Echo reached up and pulled her into a kiss, latching his mouth onto hers as a groan wrenched from his chest. His body convulsed, and she felt the hot spurt of his release jet into her palm, coating her skin in thick, glossy pearls of cum. Pleasure flooded her mind, nearly as intense as a physical orgasm as she felt him come apart in her hand. She continued to stroke him lazily as his cock softened, until his body relaxed back into the mattress and he loosened his grip on her. His breath came loud and rough, and an expression of utter bliss settled on his face.

She gave a satisfied little smile as she raised her hand to admire the shiny fluid covering her palm and fingers.

“Kriff me,” he panted. “You’re amazing.”

“What’s the plan?” Echo asked as he surveyed the retired mining vessel on which their entire mission depended. “New hyperdrive and weapons?”

Cerra had called it vintage; Echo thought she was being too kind. Antique seemed more appropriate. Or scrapheap.

“The hyperdrive will have to wait until I can steal—I mean, source one,” Cerra replied. Echo smirked as Rex narrowed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “This one isn’t the fastest, but it’s in good shape, and for this mission, sublight speed and maneuverability are more important. I figure I’ll upgrade the ion engine and the maneuvering thrusters while you install forward cannons.”

“Makes sense,” Echo said. “Shields?”

“It already has a pretty impressive shield generator onboard, probably to protect it from asteroid impacts,” Cerra said. “We can recalibrate it for plasma weapons. Should be able to withstand anything a standard Gozanti-class cruiser can throw at you.”

“What can I do to help?” Rex asked.

“Try to convince Echo that this plan is insane,” Cerra said in a sardonic tone.

Rex shrugged. “That’s why he’s the ARC trooper.”

The upgrades and calibrations took several days. As Echo and Cerra worked, Fireball and Nemec bickered good-naturedly about what they should name the ship.

“Jango’s Revenge,” Fireball suggested.

“Not bad,” Echo called from his position at the front of the ship.

“Bit on the nose, no?” Nemec objected. “Might as well hang up a sign that says ‘Clone Deserters Inside.’”

“Then you probably also don’t like Kamino’s Fury?” Fireball asked.

“Immediately no,” Nemec said.

“What’s your brilliant idea, then?” Fireball retorted. “Shippy McShipface?”

“Miner Blues,” Nemec said. “Get it? Because—”

“No puns!” Cerra declared from where she dangled beneath the ship, suspended by a work harness.

“Killjoy,” Nemec muttered.

“Did you call me?” Echo asked.

“What about Remora?” Fireball suggested.

“What does that mean?” Nemec asked.

“It’s a creature Commander Gree told me about once,” Fireball said. “He always used to read all about different animals from around the galaxy. Remoras latch onto bigger fish, like the leech vessel latches onto the main ship.”

“Clever,” Cerra called. “I like it.”

“You’re just siding with Fireball because he’s your favorite,” Nemec said.

“Guilty as charged,” Cerra said dramatically, flipping upside down in her harness so Fireball could see her as she blew a kiss at him. He ducked his head with a bashful smile, and she cackled as she hoisted herself back up and continued her work.

“I like it, too,” Echo said.

“It is pretty good,” Nemec admitted begrudgingly.

“What’s pretty good?” Gregor asked as he and Rex strolled into the shop, back from whatever Force-forsaken errand they had been running.

“We’re naming the ship,” Fireball said.

“Oooh,” Gregor replied. “I was thinking something like—”

“No puns!” Cerra and Echo yelled in unison. “Jinx—Double jinx!”

“Now what happens?” Nemec asked, looking from Cerra to Echo and back again, but they both refused to respond, each determined to win.

“With neither of them allowed to talk? I’ll finally get some peace and quiet,” Rex sighed.

Once the major upgrades were complete, Cerra turned her attention to the smaller repairs and maintenance tasks that were inevitable on a vessel as old as the Remora. As she worked, she had plenty of time to listen to Echo and Gregor hammering out the logistics of the Balmorra mission. As they refined the details of their plan of attack, Cerra grew more anxious. Everything relied on precise timing, and if a single thing went wrong, the entire operation could end in a bloody catastrophe.

She tried to take comfort in the fact that Gregor would remain on the Remora, but the closer they came to zero hour, the more she began to imagine the many ways the mission could fail. Her anxiety came to a head when Rex was abruptly called away to meet one of his endless mysterious contacts, meaning that he would not be accompanying them on the mission.

It was the night before the strike team was scheduled to depart. Fireball and Nemec had gone on a munitions run, and Echo was in the shower after a long day of cleaning the Remora’s life support conduits. Gregor sat on the sofa, inspecting a crate of grenades as he pulled out a few last-minute additions for his personal arsenal. Cerra flopped down next to him, and he immediately abandoned his task, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and tugging her against him.

“Sticking with EMPs?” she asked.

He nodded. “And maybe a few smoke bombs. No thermal detonators. Wouldn’t want to blow a hole in the ship and launch us all out into space.”

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“Nah. This is a picnic compared to what I used to do in the war.” His thumb traced lazy circles on her shoulder.

“If it’s so easy, maybe I should be the one piloting,” she said, and his hand abruptly stilled.

“No.”

She tilted her face up to look at him. His jaw was set firmly, and his eyes held an uncharacteristic hardness.

“Why not?” she asked.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said.

“But you just said it was a picnic,” she argued.

“For me,” he said, pulling away and turning to face her. “Do you have any idea what kinds of missions they sent me on in the war?”

“Of course, I do,” she said, incensed.

“Then you should know I can handle this,” he replied curtly.

“I know you can,” she said. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need you to protect me, Cerra!” he said, raising his voice. “I am a grown man. I know what I am doing.”

“I know that, but—”

“There is no ‘but,’” he said, rising abruptly from the sofa. “You need to stop treating me like I’m some weak, defenseless child!”

Cerra’s jaw dropped in shock. “That’s not—I don’t—”

“Do you think I don’t know that you’ve been trying to get Rex to bench me?” he snapped as he began to pace. “I’m not a fool.”

Cerra leapt up from the sofa. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to!” he yelled. “It’s obvious that you don’t think I am competent!”

“That’s not true!” she exclaimed. “That’s not why—”

“Then why?” His voice was loud and angry, and something snapped in Cerra’s brain.

“Because I can’t lose you like I lost Fives!” she shouted. “Fuck! I can’t go through that again!”

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, gazing intently into her eyes.

“I—I mean you’re my best friend, and it would break my heart if anything happened to you,” she stammered. “What did you think I meant?”

He stared at her a moment longer before his face hardened. “Right. And how do you think it felt when you ignored me and went waltzing off to Raada?”

“That was different,” she objected.

“How?” he asked. “Because you think I’m helpless?”

“No!” she exclaimed.

“That I need to be protected?” he continued without letting her get another word in. “That I’m not capable of making my own decisions?”

“You know I don’t—”

“Stop!” he shouted. “Just stop, Cerra. What was it you said about Raada? It’s not your call.”

He stormed out of the garage, and she heard the engine of the speeder bike start up and fade into the distance. Cerra dropped to the sofa and cradled her head in her hands, wondering how the kriff that had gone so spectacularly wrong. She jerked her head up as she heard a soft sound behind her, whirling to see Echo standing just outside the fresher, and from his expression, he’d heard everything.

She sprang off the sofa and stalked out of the garage, slapping the control panel to close the door behind her. It slid shut quietly, and she wished it were a hinged door so she could have the satisfaction of slamming it. The landing platform wasn’t the ideal location for brooding, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She found a rolled-up tarp and kicked it open, then flopped down on top of it. It wasn’t the cleanest, but it was a damned sight better than the filthy platform. She pulled a pack of death sticks out of her pocket and lit one, lying on her back as she took a deep inhale.

If there was one good thing about the deafening roar of Coruscant’s underworld traffic, it was that it was loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She willed her mind to empty as she stared up into the spiraling lights of the skylanes. She always loved watching the traffic. It was her favorite way to unwind after a mission—except usually Gregor was out here with her, sharing a bottle of spotchka and making her laugh until nothing hurt except her cheeks.

The door hissed open, and she rolled her eyes.

What do I have to do to get some gods-kriffing-damned privacy around here? she thought irritably.

Heavy, metallic footsteps approached. Echo crouched down beside her. She didn’t look away from the traffic.

“You know those things will kill you,” he said conversationally. “It’s right in the name.”

She exhaled a slow, steady stream of smoke before she answered. “I’m sure a blaster will get me first.”

“Fair enough,” he said, sitting next to her on the tarp. She held out the half-empty pack of death sticks in a wordless offer, and he silently waved it away before leaning back to look up at the skylanes. “Better not let Rex catch you with them.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about Rex,” she said, forcing her eyes to unfocus so the lights blended into an endless, eddying stream.

An awkward silence descended between them. Echo shifted uncomfortably next to her.

“You should have one,” she said. “It would give you an excuse to cover why you’re really out here.”

Echo laughed shortly. “Straight to the point, eh?”

She shrugged. “Diplomacy is for politicians. No offense.”

“None taken,” Echo said mildly. “Riyo would be flattered.”

“She should be. She’s a good egg. I’m happy for you two.”

“I didn’t realize you cared,” Echo said.

“Damn. Don’t hold back.”

“I can’t figure you out, Cerra.”

“Nothing to figure,” she said.

“I know that’s not true,” he said. “You and Gregor—”

“That’s none of your karking business,” she snapped.

He paused for a moment, then quietly said, “Fives would want you to be happy.”

Hot, fierce anger coursed through her, and she took a long, steadying drag of smoke before she answered. “So, what, I should just get over it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “I would never say that. Do you think I just got over it? I learned to live with it, Cerra, and it karking hurts, but I’m not the one lying out here on a filthy kriffin’ tarp, self-destructing and pushing everyone away whenever they get too close. Losing Fives taught me that it’s even more important to stick with the people who care about you.”

She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Fives was murdered by the people who were supposed to care about him.”

Echo blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

Her eyes snapped to him, an expression of bleak and utter devastation settling over her features. “Rex never told you, did he?”

“Told me what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Fuck,” she said. “That is just kriffing like him, not to say anything because he thinks he can protect you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded. “What happened to Fives?”

She took a deep breath, trying not to say anything she would regret. “What exactly did Rex tell you?”

“He—he said…” Echo trailed off. He stared into her eyes, and his jaw firmed. “Tell me what happened.”

She spoke slowly, her voice low and trembling with suppressed rage and grief as she told him everything: Tup, the executed Jedi, the malfunctioning chip, Fives’s investigation, the chancellor’s accusations, Fives’s final conversation with Kix, and what came after.

“He was confused and terrified, and they hunted him down and executed him like a rabid hound,” she said hoarsely. “His own brothers.”

Echo’s eyes were wide and horrified. “Who? Who was it?”

Cerra paused, realizing how dangerously close she was to sabotaging Echo’s relationship with Riyo. If he found out that the senator had been in love with the man who’d executed his twin, who knew how he would react? As far as she knew, Cerra was the only person in the galaxy who knew about the connection. She couldn’t betray Riyo’s trust like that. She would take the knowledge to her grave.

“I don’t know,” she lied. “Some Corrie.”

She ignored the quiet inner voice that pointed out she was making exactly the same choice as Rex did when he withheld information to try to protect his people. She didn’t care. She’d rather be a hypocrite than an oathbreaker.

“What the kriff?” he rasped. “Why didn’t Rex tell me this before?”

Cerra shook her head. “We didn’t know the full story until all the inhibitor chips activated at the end of the war. By then… we were just trying to stay alive.”

“Is that why you deserted?” Echo asked.

She glanced at him sharply. “Rex told you, did he?”

Echo shook his head. “It wasn’t too difficult to figure it out, once I knew you’d served.”

Cerra’s hand shook as she lit another death stick. “No. That’s not when I deserted.”

Echo waited quietly for her to continue, and dread swirled in her stomach in anticipation of his reaction. What would he do when he discovered that she’d abandoned her post—not after the disastrous end of the war, but before any of them even had a hint of the carnage to come?

She took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “I left after the battle of Coruscant.”

Echo was silent for a moment, and Cerra held her breath as she waited for the inevitable contempt and recrimination. No matter what he said, it couldn’t be worse than what her family had put her through, or the shame she had heaped upon herself since that fateful day.

“Why?”

She swallowed thickly. In all the time that had passed, nobody had ever asked that question, though she had had plenty of time to ruminate on it.

When she didn’t respond after a moment, Echo asked, “Rex said you don’t know how to back down from a fight. So… what happened?”

“Kix,” she whispered.

Echo frowned. “The medic? I didn’t realize you knew him that well.”

“He and Fives were good friends after Umbara,” Cerra said. “Kix was helping me investigate Fives’s death. He was so close to figuring it out…”

“Was he killed, too?” Echo asked, his voice hard and forbidding.

“MIA,” she replied. “Just… gone. After that, I just—I couldn’t—” She paused to take a few deep breaths before continuing. “I knew that something was wrong, something big. Tup, Fives, Kix—everyone who started investigating the chips either ended up dead or disappeared. And I realized that everything I believed in—everything I’d spent my life fighting for—it was a lie. So I ran.”

“You abandoned your post,” he said in a neutral voice.

“Like you abandoned the Batch?” she asked nastily.

He reared back as if she’d slapped him. “What the kark is wrong with you, Cerra? I didn’t abandon them. They’re just on a different path.”

She launched to her feet and strode to the edge of the platform, flicking her death stick butt into the abyss. She was being massively unfair, and she knew it, which only made her angrier. Her fists clenched, inadvertently crumpling the pack of death sticks. With a ragged scream of frustration, she flung it into the abyss. She swayed dangerously close to the edge, and Echo’s strong hand closed around her wrist and yanked her to safety.

She jerked away from him, glaring furiously. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Because you’re my sister!” he snapped.

Her jaw dropped.

“What?” she asked, stunned. Echo took a step toward her, and she backed up automatically.

“I heard what you said that night at 79’s,” he said. His voice was rough. “I know you and Fives were married. He was my brother, Cerra, my twin. And that makes you my sister, whether you like it or not.”

She stammered incoherently, not knowing what to say or how to react. It had never even occurred to her that Echo would think of her as family—or even want to. He stepped closer to her again, and this time, she didn’t pull away.

“Family doesn’t just stand back and watch each other drown without doing anything to help,” he said.

“Mine did.” Her voice cracked on the words.

“Well, I’m not kriffing going to,” he said.

Her head ached, and her throat felt like it was closing on itself. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a broken, hoarse croak. There was so much pain in the sound that Echo’s eyes immediately softened, and he reached for her hand slowly, giving her plenty of time to retreat. She let him take her hand, and she realized he’d never touched her before that night.

“You have to let him go,” he said quietly.

“How?” she whispered, unable to force her voice to project.

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “Maybe we can figure it out together.”

Tears blurred her vision, and finally, finally, she allowed them to fall. She stepped close to Echo, and he wrapped his arms around her as she buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed. She wept for Fives, and for Echo, and for herself, and for everyone and everything that she had lost, and Echo held her until neither of them had any tears left to shed.

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#echo bad batch #riyo chuchi #captain gregor #captain rex #clone trooper nemec #clone trooper fireball #oc: cerra kilian #star wars #the bad batch #bad batch fanfic #star wars fanfic #dystopicjumpsuit writes #stars beyond number

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