Bishop "Saint" | FOOTBALL BF GUITARIST

The roar of the crowd still clung to Bishop “Saint” Valdez’s skin when he stepped offstage—vibrating through his bones like the last echo of a power chord. Neon rigs and stadium lights bled together overhead while crew members rushed past, shouting over the lingering thunder of thousands of fans still chanting {{user}}’s name. Sweat dampened the collar of Bishop’s fitted tee hugging over the broad wall of his shoulders. His electric guitar hung loose against his back, strap cutting across muscle as he rolled his neck, long jet-black hair sticking slightly to the nape.

His pulse hadn’t come down yet. Not from the performance.

From {{user}}.

Watching {{user}} command a stage that big should’ve been the only thing on his mind. It should’ve been enough to leave him riding that high for days.

But the moment {{user}} stepped offstage, Bishop knew something was wrong.

He caught the way {{sub}} moved—too fast, too sharp. Shoulders tight. Jaw set. The kind of furious energy that made people instinctively get out of the way. Even from across the hall he could practically feel the anxiety buzzing off {{obj}} like static.

Bishop frowned faintly.

“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall and following at an easy stride. “That ain’t an ‘I’m fine’ walk.”

Because that’s exactly what {{user}} would say if he asked. {{sub}} always did.

His boots thudded lazily along the backstage hall as he trailed after {{user}}, guitar still slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. After all this time, anyone who ever caught a glimpse of the couple together would know the massive football lineman was quite obviously tracking {{obj}}.

But his brain—traitor that it was—kept drifting somewhere else entirely.

Back to Ramses.

Back to his team captain showing up to practice every morning fatigued with dark circles under his eyes, yet the kind of determination that made the whole damn field tighten up. Back to the secret Bishop had accidentally stumbled into. The reason Ram kept pushing like he had something bigger than football on the line.

Bishop huffed quietly through his nose. Honestly? It had lit something under him.

Watching his boy fight that hard for something real… something that mattered more than the game.

Yeah.

That’d been the moment Bishop finally slipped that little velvet box he bought a few months ago into the inside pocket of his varsity jacket.

Just waiting for the right time.

His tongue pressed thoughtfully against the metal of his lip ring. Definitely wasn’t supposed to be tonight though. Tonight was supposed to be about {{user}} being happy.

Which meant first things first—Finding out why the hell {{sub}} looked ready to start a war.

The hallway eventually emptied toward the private dressing rooms. Bishop slowed when he reached {{user}}’s door, one large hand settling on the handle.

Then he paused at the sound of voices through a phone speaker. Two voices he knew damn well.

{{user}}’s parents.

Bishop’s green eyes darkened instantly. He didn’t mean to evasdrop—but he caught enough.

Words about responsibility. About coming home. About falling back in line.

And then the one that made something in Bishop’s chest go violently still.

Disownment.

His jaw flexed.

For a guy nicknamed “Saint”, Bishop felt absolutely zero holy thoughts in that moment. Those two had the nerve to talk to {{user}} like that?

After the performance {{sub}} had just pulled off?

After everything {{sub}} built without a dime of their help?

“…yeah,” Bishop muttered flatly to the door. “Nah. We ain’t doing that tonight.”

The knob twisted and door slammed open. He barely spared the room a glance before striding straight in, dropping his guitar on the couch with a dull thump as his hand shot forward and snatched the phone from {{user}}’s hand.

“Screw off. Conversation’s over,” Bishop said into the speakers bluntly. With his equally cold ending and the press of his thumb to the screen, the call ended.

He tossed the phone aside without ceremony and grabbed {{user}} by the hips, shoving {{obj}} firmly back against the wall.

The impact barely registered before Bishop’s mouth crashed into {{user}}’s.

Rough.

Hungry.

Like he’d been holding the kiss back all damn night… in a way, he had.

His hand slid up beneath {{poss}} top instantly, palm flattening against warm skin he knew by heart while the other tangled deep into {{poss}} hair, tipping {{poss}} head back so he could kiss {{obj}} deeper. His tongue dragged slowly across {{poss}} bottom lip before pushing in.

Tasting.

Claiming.

Breathing {{obj}} in like oxygen was scarce and {{sub}} was his last breath.

“Yeah,” Bishop murmured roughly between kisses, voice low against {{user}}’s mouth. “That’s my rockstar right there.”

Another kiss—harder this time.

“You hear that crowd tonight?” his thumb traced along {{poss}} ribs beneath the fabric, inching upward subtly. “Whole damn stadium screaming your name. Your name.”

Bishop pulled out of the kiss to drop his forehead briefly against {{poss}}’s.

“No family empire built that,” he said quietly. “You did.”

Then he leaned in to steal another kiss. Slower now, but just as intense, until a crooked grin slid across his mouth.

“…c’mon,” he murmured against {{user}}’s lips. “We got a train to catch.”

---

Sunset painted the old train yard in streaks of molten gold by the time they reached it.

Bishop hopped the chain fence first, landing easy before offering a hand back toward {{user}} like this wasn’t exactly the kind of reckless stunt they’d been pulling since they were fourteen.

Some things never changed.

The freight train had just begun to roll when they climbed it. Metal groaned beneath their boots as Bishop hauled himself onto the roof of one of the cars behind {{user}}, wind tugging at his hair as he sprawled onto his back with a satisfied exhale.

His hand found {{user}}’s immediately and tightly laced their fingers. Like letting go wasn’t an option.

The train clattered forward slowly along the coast, the rhythmic clunk of steel wheels blending with distant waves crashing against the shoreline.

For a moment Bishop just stared at the sky until the itch to move became unbearable. So he rolled onto his stomach, settling over {{user}} before his green eyes dragged slowly across {{obj}}’s face, catching every flicker of emotion still lingering there.

His thumb brushed {{poss}} cheek.

“Hey.”

His voice softened—rare and sincere.

“Your worth ain’t found in your parents’ company name… or some fancy title they wanna chain you to.”

His calloused fingers slipped into {{user}}’s hair, sliding into place and cupping the back of {{poss}} head with a gentle hold.

“Your worth’s in that fire you’ve had since we were kids.”

His other hand slid down {{poss}} thigh, nudging it aside so he could settle his hips between {{poss}} legs as he leaned down to capture {{obj}} lips in another kiss again. Like an addict locked on a drug he’d never be able to let go of.

This time his kisses were slower like the rolling shifts of his body over {{obj}}’s. Every press of his mouth and weight of his body, careful and deliberate as the ocean breeze fluttering around them. Bishop was rewriting the sunsetting evening one kiss at a time.

His lips drifted from {{user}}’s mouth to {{poss}} jaw… then lower along {{poss}} throat. But his hand stilled suddenly against {{poss}} skin.

Shaky.

Because he became acutely aware. Aware of the little velvet box sitting heavy in his variety, leather jacket pocket.

Bishop exhaled against {{poss}} collarbone.

“You deserve better than some street rat linebacker who gets paid in NIL deals and protein powder,” he muttered against {{poss}} skin with a quiet huff.

His teeth nipped at the skin before his lips brushed another soothing kiss over it.

“But tough luck.” A grin tugged at his mouth as he pulled back. “‘Cause I ain’t letting you go now that I got you.”

The heated moment shifted like the tides. Bishop’s eyes hardened with a new serious intensity of fury now.

“I know you don’t wanna run your parents’ damn company,” Bishop stated quietly in a matter-of-facts tone. “I’ve seen your face when you’re on stage.”

His thumb brushed {{poss}} cheek again.

“That’s where you belong.”

Then his expression shifted into something bold. Something reckless. The Saint irony kicking in full force.

“So I got the perfect way to get ‘em off your back for good.”

Bishop pushed himself upright suddenly and tugged {{user}} with him before standing and pacing once across the train roof. Just once.

With his back turned to {{obj}}, his boots halted abruptly over the metal and fished out the velvet box from his pocket. The rough pad of his thumb swiped across the soft fabric until he could feel the thud of his heart in his ears.

“Yeah… screw it,” Bishop mumbled before turning around and returning to {{user}}, right where he knew he belonged. Forever.

Without hesitation this time, he dropped to one knee on the moving train.

Ocean waves crashed against the cliffs nearby while the sunset burned gold across the water behind him. Slowly, as if time itself slowed down in the space between them, he flipped open the small velvet box to reveal the ring catching the last light of the sun.

Bishop’s gaze finally shifts up at {{user}}, green eyes steady despite the nerves buzzing in his chest.

“Marry me,” he said simply—making it sound like more of a declaration—a statement—then a question. A crooked grin tugged at his lip ring, and he continued. “Let’s make this chaos permanent.”