#but for once instead of plotting for part one

[ay0nha]

When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

SUMMARY: Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something heavy, but the words caught in his throat and never came. Instead, he gave a short, quiet nod, like he was tucking whatever that was into his chest for later.

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 27, Prompt: "Even though the road to get here was long, at last I am home." (I reworded it to fit a little better sorry x) Color: Green

PAIRING: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader (physician assistant)

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled confessions, veteran affairs (I have OPINIONS on the care of veterans and today's political climate/military industrial complex BUT held back from making this political but fuck the government), group meeting/therapy, allusions to PTSD and what comes with being a combat veteran, prothesis/amuptation conversations, religious jokes-ish, smoking, mainly just all angst to fluff, NOT proofread so be kind, movie magic plot, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! This was really cathartic to write as it hits home some, so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you to @fuckoffbard for listening and helping. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

The clinic lights always tried to mimic the morning light, but it was always too sterile, too awake. There was no natural gradient to welcome you into a new day. Instead, it was the kind of light that made you feel like you hadn’t slept enough, and never would, even if you had.  

You were the first to arrive. It was hard to lose the habit, but it gave you time to review the backlog of missed calls. The quiet preparation was the only time you had to decompress before the day, but the rusted bell rang, knowing you never truly got reprieve. 

Not many came in this early. Certainly not without appointments. Most regulars were punctual, others late, flustered, avoiding eye contact like the entire hallway and staff were some kind of moral jury. 

Yet, this man was already looking at you. You turned, and there he was. 

You were met with an already long day’s worth of stubble, a jacket zipped halfway, and a UPMC badge dangling low like a relic from a night shift not long ended. His shoulders filled the doorway like he hadn’t quite committed to being inside yet. 

However, you recognized him immediately. Abbot, Jack. Early 50s. Transtibial amputation of rthe ight leg. Two canceled appointments in March. One in April. No follow-up scheduled. 

His chart was one of those you flagged mentally; he was the kind of patient who only walked through the door once a year, just long enough to keep his services active before disappearing for another twelve-month stretch. 

Jack cleared his throat, low. “You take walk-ins?”

You blinked. Technically…no. Not this early. Not without calling ahead. Not when it was a physical rather than an urgent medical concern. Yet, your mouth moved before policy could catch up. 

“Give me a moment to get you checked in.” You nodded, words automatic and practiced.  “First and last name?”

He looked like he might leave right there. But then he exhaled—just enough air to say: Okay. I’ll stay.

“Jack. Abbot. Had an appointment a while back…” He spoke like his confession would make up for wasted time and resources. “...couldn’t make it.”

You hummed, tapping the keyboard, pretending to scroll through the records you already knew by heart. 

“Well,” You stared, standing. “Third time’s a charm.”

Guiding him through the narrow hallway, your shoes hit softly on the tile, linoleum too thin to hide the grout lines from the floor beneath. The overhead lights buzzed in that tired, mechanical way fluorescent bulbs always do after too many years and too few replacements. You moved past mismatched wall sconces and half-peeling placards that still bore the faint imprint of a previous tenant’s brass plates.

This place used to be a law office.

You could see it in the layout; the corner turns that led to nowhere, the heavy wooden doors that didn’t quite fit the newer hinges. Even the break room still had a long strip of polished wood where the receptionist’s counter once stood. Someone had slapped a rack of patient forms on it. A forced transformation.

Rented-out facility. Government-issued furniture. Nothing quite fit. Everything was too small, too sterile, or too hollow. And somehow, that made it perfect for a VA satellite clinic. A place repurposed by necessity. Like most things touched by war.

Jack didn’t make small talk, and you didn’t push. Glancing back, you could see the way he moved, shoulders slightly hunched, but still alert. He walked like someone used to being in charge of emergencies, but bone-tired from them, too. Like the ground might shake, but if it did, he’d know what to do. He just didn’t want to anymore.

Exam Room One. 

You gestured him in, and he stepped through without hesitation. The room was small, cold in the way all clinics are. Pale blue walls, a single high window smudged with old tape residue, and an exam table that creaked when he sat on it, the paper crackling beneath him. 

You picked up the prepared clipboard. 

“Before we get started, any changes in your health since your last visit?”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he might say something sardonic, but it passed. He shook his head.

“Still breathing.” He gave a slight nod. No argument. No complaint. Just a quiet readiness, like someone used to being told what to do in a language he didn’t bother translating anymore.

“Good place to start.”

You ran through the intake questions like you always did, but you kept your tone light, measured. You knew better than to fill silence with something unworthy. Especially not with veterans like Jack; men who’d learned how to hear the things people didn’t say.

You moved slowly, on purpose. You’d learned, over time, that fast hands spooked the ones who carried invisible wounds. As you stepped closer to take his vitals, you noted the small details: the subtle shift of his leg as he adjusted, the way he sat still, like movement required permission now, but his gaze tracked you steadily. Quiet. Present. 

Different than most.

Most avoided eye contact when you got close. Looked at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or the floor that looked like it had been washed a thousand times but never once looked clean. Jack didn’t. His eyes followed your hands, your shoulders, your breath. Not intrusively. Just like someone trained to read a room for danger. Or maybe reassurance.

You wrapped the cuff around his arm, checking the alignment. The Velcro hissed softly. He didn’t flinch.

“BP’s holding steady. Good.” You murmured more to yourself to note. Then, you glanced up at him with a touch of dry levity, “I’ll let you keep your driver’s license.”

That got a small exhale of amusement.

Encouraged by the break in tension, however slight, you reached for the stethoscope slung around your neck. The room was cool, and the metal already had that unforgiving chill to it. Out of habit, you rubbed your hands together briskly, trying to warm your fingers before touching him. The stethoscope, however, was another story. 

You curled the diaphragm in your palm to try and bring it to room temperature, but you knew from experience it would still be cold against skin. Jack didn’t comment, just pulled the thin cotton of his shirt up without being asked.

You stepped closer, moving to his left side, and placed the warmed back of your hand against his ribs first as a courtesy, a warning. 

“This’ll be cold.” You commented apologetically as you pressed the stethoscope against him. 

Jack gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, but didn’t pull away.

The chill made his skin prick instantly. You saw its trail along the slope of his side, pale against old scars and the faded outline of a long-healed abrasion near his flank. 

“Deep breath in.” You instructed gently. He inhaled. You listened. “Again.” 

The sound of his lungs filled the bell, steady, hollow, the faint pull of old tension sitting low in his chest. You knew what clear lungs were supposed to sound like, and Jack’s weren’t far from it, but there was something shallow in the way he exhaled. Something practiced. Measured, like he was holding back.

“Again.”

He breathed in deeper this time, like he wanted to prove something. You moved the stethoscope slightly, trailing it across the muscle between his ribs.

You were close enough to feel the shift in his posture, how still he went once your hand touched him. Not rigid. Just very aware. Another breath. Another exhale.

“Any shortness?” You asked, moving to his back, your hand brushing the curve of his shoulder blade.

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

You let out a small hum in acknowledgment, pressing the stethoscope to the space between his spine and scapula. The hush of his breathing filled your ears again.

He inhaled. You listened. Something shallow in the left lobe, but not worrying. Just tension. The kind that never really leaves the body once it learned the shape of impact. You noted the way his shoulders resisted it, like his ribs had forgotten how to fully trust their own expansion.

You placed the stethoscope lightly to the left of his sternum first, where the apex beat lived beneath the ribs and years. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath under your palm as you steadied yourself. The silence narrowed around you.

His heartbeat thudded into your ears: slow, firm, echoing.

“Heart sounds good.” 

Normal S1 and S2 heart sounds. No murmurs, gallops, or rubs auscultated. You knew he knew this. 

You pulled the stethoscope away gently, but your hand lingered, resting for just a second longer over the center of his chest. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you just wanted to feel it. Really feel it.

That was the thing about hearts. You could listen all day, but you never really knew what they were holding until they trembled under your palm.

You scanned his chart again, thumb grazing the line that made you pause the first time. Chronic low back pain. No follow-up. Recommend monitoring posture w/ prosthetic use.

Still unresolved. You moved behind him, palm resting lightly between his shoulders.

“Your last visit flagged some lower back strain.” Your tone was neutral, leaving space for more. “Flares up when you’re on your feet too long?”

Jack gave a faint grunt. “Sounds like something they’d put in just to make me come back.”

“Well—” You applied gentle pressure down his spine. “—if that was the plan, it worked.”

He didn’t respond, just sat steady as your fingers pressed lower, feeling through the tension under his shirt. When you neared the curve, you slowed, palpating carefully on either side of the spine. You knew where to look, especially with someone bearing the uneven weight.

“It’s important to check for overcompensation.” You continued quietly. “If the alignment’s off, you’ll feel it in the back long before the leg.”

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low. 

You looked up at him. “Do you ever rest the site? Or let it breathe?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

“The hospital isn’t exactly known for scheduled rest periods.” He spoke, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even if he didn’t turn. “If I sit, it’s to chart. If I stand, it’s to fix something.”

You pressed your thumb a little deeper, just left of his spine, right above the sacrum. He flinched, just a little. The smallest involuntary grunt, like a breath caught the wrong way. You let your hand settle there for a moment. Not scolding. Just noting.

“Right.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt the faint shift in his posture. Not defensive. Not defeated. 

You made the mental note and stepped to the cabinet without a word, retrieving the otoscope. The instrument clicked softly in your hand as you turned on the light. It cast a warm glow between you in the still room, humming faintly as if to fill the space your fingers had just left behind.

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently. 

Jack turned slightly, letting you tip his head the way you needed. Your fingers were light under his chin, at the hinge of his jaw. The otoscope glinted softly as you angled it toward his ear.

But while you worked, Jack watched you. You could feel it, his gaze not just drifting but reading. Like he was still deciding what kind of person you were. Still trying to place you.

“You new here?” Jack finally asked. “You don’t seem like the city type.”

“Bold assumption to make so early in the morning.” You teased, pulling the light back and moving to the other side.

“Just an observation.”

“I was born here, actually…” You answered the question you always got casually. “...left for a long time. Transferred back this year.”

“VA brought you back?” Jack tilted his head slightly. You checked his pupils next, flicking the light across his eyes as they adjusted, one at a time. He didn’t squint or shy away. Just let you look.

“God, no—” You cursed. And then, to cover what threatened to leak out around the edges: “—I just sleep better here. Can’t fall asleep without the noise.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Most people say the city keeps them up.”

“I like knowing something’s still moving out there,” You laughed lightly through a huff. “Ambulances, garbage trucks, people yelling outside bars. Need to fall asleep to a world still spinning…”

Jack adjusted his scrub top absentmindedly, the material wrinkled from a long shift and a longer week. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, clinical, unforgiving, same as the ones he worked under most nights. But here, in this quiet exam room with your back against the counter and your arms folded, something about the hum felt less surgical. 

“Silence gets loud, y’know?” He’d said it like a joke, but you could tell it wasn’t one.

You tilted your head, watching him—not with pity, but with that quiet, observational calm some people wore like armor. He recognized it. Carried the same kind of thing into trauma bays.

You nodded, but said nothing. You knew better than to fill the pause.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in. Better here than my apartment, staring at the ceiling with my ears ringing.”

“So this is a drive-by enrollment renewal?” You smiled softly. 

“Don’t act like that’s the worst thing you’ve seen in here.”

“It’s definitely in the top ten.” You replied dryly.  “Right between the guy who thought 'disability claim' meant show-and-tell, and the Marine who cried when I told him to hydrate.”

Jack didn’t laugh, not really, but something in his posture eased, like he was letting himself rest against the moment for the first time all day. Maybe all week. His hand brushed over his knee, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm, restless in that way only people wired for emergency ever were.

He watched you write like he wasn’t used to being on the other side of the clipboard. The subject instead of the observer. It wasn’t shameful. It was something quieter than that…displacement, maybe.

“You okay over there?” You asked, teasing just a little.

“Yeah. Just...weird.” He blinked like you’d pulled him out of a thought. 

“What is?”

“Being the one getting charted.” He nodded toward your pen.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Honestly?” You thought for a moment, tapping the pen against your thigh.  “I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor.”

That got a real look out of him. Not disbelief, just confirmation. That quiet, private awareness: Of course. You too.

“It’s hard…” You admitted. “When you’re used to being the one who knows the systems. Knows what they’ll say before they say it. Harder when you can’t picture someone on the other side knowing what to do with you.”

You watched him for another beat, then let your gaze drift to the clock. Not rushed, just reminded. You were still working. 

The rhythm of the clinic moved on, woke up, even when the air between you had stilled. Somewhere down the hall, a printer coughed. A phone rang and went unanswered. Staff clocked in.

You cleared your throat. “Regardless, everything looks good— I’ll send the go-ahead so your enrollment stays active.”

Jack gave a short nod, business-like again. Like a door had been pulled mostly shut, though not all the way.

You stepped away from the counter, your hand brushing the edge of the sink as you crossed the room. He rose at the same time, out of courtesy and instinct. 

“I’ll walk you out.” You held the door open for him.

The hallway outside was waking up,  the liminal space between morning chaos and whatever came next. Jack walked beside you, not hurried, not tense. You both moved like people who’d learned how to conserve energy in sterile places.

You waited until you reached the corner near the exit, the spot where patients usually asked about paperwork or turned around to remember they’d forgotten something.

Instead, you spoke up, “We run a group. Off the books.”

Jack glanced sideways at you.

“Thursday nights—” You went on, like you were reciting a neutral fact. “—across the street, at the church. It’s in the community room. It's unofficial. No sign-in, no rank, no talking if you don’t want to. Just people who prefer the noise.”

Jack said nothing, but you didn’t mistake silence for disinterest. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out the angle. But there wasn’t one.

You didn’t fill in the rest. Didn’t say for people like you. Didn’t have to.

He nodded slowly. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information, but he understood it wasn’t being handed out lightly.

“I know you work nights. It probably doesn’t fit your schedule.” You couldn’t help but encourage, continue. “But in case it ever, you’re always welcome.”

Then, you pushed the front door open, holding it just long enough for him to pass through. The morning was bright out there, harsher than the lighting inside. He squinted against it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He answered finally, voice quiet but deliberate.

As he stepped out, you said, without ceremony, “You already did the hard part.”

He turned halfway, brow raised. “Which part was that?”

“Walking in.” You made it sound so simple. Maybe it was.  “Letting someone see you before you’re bleeding.”

Jack stood there for a breath longer, the door propped open between you. You were close enough to see the small shift of his jaw, the ghost of tension at the corners of his eyes, like something flickered through him and caught behind his teeth.

He nodded, then he left.

—

The room smelled like burnt coffee and whatever detergent the janitorial staff bought in bulk. One of the folding chairs was broken, so you’d leaned it in the corner, hoping no one would try to use it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, indifferent. Outside the windows, dusk hovered like it wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

Late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe—but still, you glanced up instinctively, ready to gently redirect whoever came in. And then you saw him.

Jack Abbot.

He was still in scrubs, jacket thrown over the top, collar slightly wrinkled like he’d wrestled with whether or not to come and only won five minutes ago. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him, older somehow, even if it had only been a few weeks.

He hovered in the doorway, one boot inside, the other not. Caught between the hall and the possibility of something uncomfortable.

You felt the shift in the room. The group noticed him how he carried himself. It wasn’t just his build. It was the posture. That straight-backed, high-alert bearing you only ever saw in two kinds of people: soldiers and people trying very hard not to fall apart.

You stood slowly. Smiled like you weren’t surprised to see him, even if a small part of you was.

“Hey.” You were warm.  “Come on in.”

Something in Jack’s shoulders eased, just slightly. You turned to the rest of the group, your voice calm, unforced.

“This is Jack. He’s joining us tonight.” No last name. No backstory. Just the gesture of arrival. That was enough.

A few nods, murmured hellos. One guy said, “Welcome,” like it was a rule. Jack gave a chin-dip in return.

A man, Martin, shared first,  talking about how his daughter stopped calling in March. Two others chimed in with variations of the same wound. The room did what it always did: it stretched itself to hold whatever pain it was given, without fixing it.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget either. He sat still, eyes forward, but not glassy. Listening. Taking inventory. And you watched him. Subtly, out of the corner of your eye, like you weren’t waiting for the moment he’d stand and say he didn’t belong here because you could feel it.

He looked like he was scanning every word, every crack in the ceiling tile, trying to make it make sense. His eyes occasionally drifted to the door. His hands stayed in his lap, steady, but his foot tapped once—twice—before stilling again.

He wasn’t unsettled because it was a group. He was unsettled because, for the first time in a long time, no one needed him. No one was coding. No alarms were beeping. No one called Doctor Abbot.

He was just Jack.  And that didn’t feel like enough.

So, he didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Instead, Jack sat like he was made of poured concrete: solid, unswayed, unmoved. But the stillness wasn’t ease. It was maintenance. A posture that said: Don’t look too long or you’ll see the cracks.

The others took turns with practiced vulnerability. Another veteran, Lisa, talked about the baby next door who cried at night and how it sometimes made her want to knock on the wall and scream. 

Someone else recited their weekly mantra about how small talk at the gas station kept them tethered to the world. Every voice added weight and oxygen to the room in that strange way group therapy worked: no one fixing, no one solved, but everyone surviving, together.

You didn’t push Jack, but when the lull came, when the air went quiet in that half-second of unclaimed silence, you turned to him. Not a spotlight, not pressure, just an open door.

He shifted, as if preparing to run, though he didn’t. His fingers rubbed the side of his leg, slowly. You saw the muscle clench in his jaw before he spoke. “I traded my shift to make it here.”

It came out simple, but the effort behind the words was unmistakable. He paused after that,  long enough for it to seem like he might leave it there.

Yet, he exhaled, glanced toward the window, and you could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, searching for a safer way to say what he meant. Something polite. Digestible. 

And then he gave up on that,  letting his tone drop into something flatter. Colder. Not harsh—just clinical, like he was delivering bad news to a patient’s family through a closed curtain.

“This isn’t a waste of time.” He started defensively, scared to offend your effort. “But sitting… idle like this for something I can’t even name… feels wrong.”

A few people looked up. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. He kept speaking, as if he didn’t let the silence in, he wouldn’t be so measured.

“I don’t talk about things unless they have names. Symptoms. Patterns. Diagnoses. That’s the trade. You name it, we treat it. That’s how I work. That’s how I stay upright. But this…”

Jack trailed off again. Then shrugged, a short, tired motion.

“...this doesn’t bleed the same way.” He finished. 

The words didn’t land like a dramatic revelation. There was no gasp, no cinematic hush—just the steady hum of a room that knew the texture of what he meant.

Jack’s fingers stilled against the side of his leg. He looked down at his hands like he half-expected them to be covered in something—blood, maybe. Or purpose. But they were clean. Still. Useless.

“I spent my whole career knowing what to reach for,” he said. “Chest compressions. Epi. Clamp and cut. Even when it was bad, even when it was too late, at least I could do something.”

He leaned back slightly in the folding chair, the metal legs creaking faintly beneath him. The gesture made his prosthesis shift under his pant leg, and he winced, not in pain, but in awareness.

“But this?” His voice dropped, vulnerable now. “This is like watching a code slow down in real time and realizing you’re not the one running it. You’re just watching the monitor. And the line’s not flat yet, but it’s close.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but you could feel it hanging in the air: I traded a shift. I changed my whole night. I said yes to something I barely believe in. And this—this silence, this seat, this half-truth I just spoke—is all I have to show for it.

So, the quiet held. 

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present. The way it got in that room—when someone finally said something so honest it didn’t need embellishment.

No one jumped in to reassure him. No one offered clichés. That wasn’t what this space was for.

You didn’t speak yet, either. You just sat with it. With him. The same way he’d done for the last thirty minutes. Like the room itself was trained to carry the weight for a while. He stayed, and that was what mattered.

Finally, Martin, the same man who had spoken first, shifted forward in his seat.

“I get it.” He agreed. “Post service, I became a firefighter…After I retired, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without looking for exits, looking for a problem.  Couldn’t sit in my living room without wondering what the hell I was doing just sitting there.”

Jack didn’t nod, but he didn’t flinch either. He just stayed where he was, breathing evenly, like the effort of being in the room was more taxing than a double shift.

Lisa spoke next.

“It took me a year to figure out I wasn’t broken. Just… not useful in the way I was trained to be. No one ever tells you how to exist when there’s no task in front of you.”

Jack swallowed, his throat working hard against nothing. He blinked slowly, then glanced your way, but only for a beat.

The group kept moving, circling. No one tried to fix him. They just laid their pieces down beside his. You waited until the conversation had stretched on, shifted. Until someone made a dry joke about how the snacks were always good, and the weight in the air lightened just enough to carry again.

Only then did you speak—quietly, but clearly to everyone in the room.

“Remember, it’s now always about coming here to feel better.” You didn’t pose the sentiment to be questioned. “You can always come to not feel alone while it’s bad.”

The rest of the session moved on. The others began to speak again, and Jack stayed silent for the rest of it. Not because he didn’t want to be part of it, but because that was his part. The kind of sharing that left your bones hollowed out afterward. Like saying anything else would cheapen the breath it took to get that out.

Even after the session, when the folding chairs had scraped back across the linoleum and the regulars had filtered out with their usual half-smiles and murmured thanks, Jack lingered. Not awkwardly. Just unhurried, like his body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the talking was over.

Lisa was the first to approach him. Extended her hand, firm and sure, and told him where she served. Jack didn’t flinch, just nodded and returned the shake.

Someone else, Curtis, Navy, chimed in with a timeline, a base. The names passed like currency. The kind of shared vocabulary that didn’t need to be explained.

You were still inside, tossing coffee cups into the trash, wiping down tabletops that had already been clean.

By the time you stepped out into the night, the group was gone. The lot was nearly empty except for your car and one old truck idling at the far end. 

The sharp chill of early spring hit your neck, and you hunched your shoulders as you reached into your coat pocket. Keys. Lighter. Cigarettes. A ritual, half-forgotten.

You moved toward the concrete steps at the front of the church, letting yourself exhale for the first time all night. You sat, letting the cold seep through your pants.

It was a habit, really—staying much longer than needed. No one around to clock you. No rules left to follow.

You tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slid it between your lips. Lit it with a tired flick of the thumb.

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

You startled. Jack’s voice came from the shadows, dry as whiskey left out overnight.

You turned to see him leaning against the stone railing, just out of reach of the yellow glow from the overhead bulb.

Then, you let out a soft huff. “It’s medicinal.”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded toward the cigarette. “What’s that treat?”

“Empathy fatigue.” You deadpanned. “And low-grade moral despair.”

Jack laughed, really laughed. Not loud. Not long. Real.

You glanced at him, surprised to see he was still here. Even more surprised by what his presence was doing to your posture, you weren’t standing straight anymore. You weren’t leading anything. You were just here.

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

“Come on then. You’ve already seen me sin. Might as well sit through the confession.”

Jack hesitated, then climbed the two steps and lowered himself beside you. He sat with the same precision you’d seen in the exam room, like even resting was something to be executed properly.

You flicked ash to the concrete. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“Didn’t want to go back yet.” He admitted.

You both looked out across the street, quiet for a moment. He didn’t seem rushed now. He was just untethered. 

“You know, this is the first time in five years I haven’t done a night shift.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were still on the street, jaw set like he’d said too much.

“It’s killing me—” Jack added. “—sitting still. Watching the hours pass without something bleeding or burning or breaking.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let the weight of the admission settle.

“You could’ve gone home.” You said eventually.

“I wouldn’t have stayed.” He looked at you then. And you saw it, clear in the way his green-hazel eyes softened; this wasn’t just a delay tactic,  it was survival. “Don’t know what to do with the quiet.”

You offered the cigarette pack, not pushing, just holding it out in case. He didn’t take one, but he didn’t recoil, either.

Jack scratched his head in thought, looking sideways at you. “I don’t mean to unload on you, I know you already—I’m just—

“Don’t worry, I stayed for the same reason.” You cut him off, unwilling to entertain something so wrong. “Company makes it better.” 

You looked at him in the glow of the streetlight, noticing how different he seemed outside the exam room, outside the group. How strange it was, seeing someone become real right in front of you.

His eyes flicked to yours, then, briefly, but steadily. A flicker of something like recognition passed between you.

“You’re different out here, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking around the filter. “Different how?”

“No clipboard. No script.”

You huffed a little, dragged the cigarette again before flicking ash to the side. “You say that like I’ve been reading off cue cards.”

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. Just—” Jack leaned back slightly on his elbows, letting the stone of the step press cold against his back.  “You’re quieter. Less… contained—wasn’t expecting it.”

“What were you expecting?” You gave him a sidelong glance.

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

That, more than anything, made something ache behind your chest. You looked away. Let the ember of your cigarette burn a little too long.

“Well…” You were gentle with the thought. “Not all of us know how to leave.”

You don’t continue  right away. Just let the silence sit between you, a low hum of nothing but the wind moving along the street, the overhead lamp buzzing faintly like a broken thought. Yet, Jack knew the thought wasn’t through.

“...out here, I don’t have to keep anyone upright” You’d never said it aloud, afraid the guilt it would bring, but it was so relieving to admit.  “...I don’t have to hold my own spine so straight either.”

Jack nodded slowly, gazing forward again. “That sounds nice.”

“It’s not.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, but sometimes honesty read that way. “It’s just true.”

Another car rolled past, headlights stalking across the sidewalk and over Jack’s boots. The beam caught the tired set of his jaw, the way his eyes had sunk slightly into their sockets from too many nights that didn’t end the way they should have. 

Still, Jack looked better in this light. He looked less sharp, less made of stone.

“You ever try to quit?”  He turned his head slightly, demeanor ticking in quiet acknowledgment of your cigarette.

“Ever the doctor.” You gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “Every other week I think about quitting, and then someone tells me they still remember the weight of the body they had to leave behind, and suddenly I’m outside again with a lighter.”

“Guess I should thank you for staying out here long enough for me to loiter.”

“Loiter?” You echoed, glancing sideways. “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

The lull between you had settled into something companionable.  A mutual endurance, like you were both learning how to be still in the same moment.

Jack shifted, like he had something else on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t sure how to give it shape. His gaze dipped to the cigarette now crushed out beside your shoe. Then, to your hands, your sleeves pulled down over your wrists like instinct.

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held out a hand, patient and palm-up. “Your wrist. I’m being serious.”

A smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. “Jack, you trying to hold my hand outside a church?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m offering you a free exam. Since you admitted it’s been years.”

You laughed, not quite believing him, even as your heart gave the smallest thud of something unexpected. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” There was a new wave of confidence as he spoke. “A licensed PA, going around telling people to take care of themselves, but too stubborn to schedule a check-up? That stuck with me.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, still holding them out. You let out a long, amused sigh—but gave him your wrist.

Jack took it carefully, cradling it like it was something breakable. His fingers were warm, steady. He glanced at his watch, brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

He kept counting. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk, but when he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and something shifted in the air between you. It was heavy and new.

—If I’m doing your first physical in however many years.” He clicked his teeth. “No way, I’m cutting corners.”

The line landed harder than he meant it to. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second too long. Neither did he. Then, without fanfare, Jack released your wrist, like he was afraid of making it mean more than it already did.

Jack’s eyes skimmed your face, thoughtful, quiet. Not searching for a reaction, just weighing something. Whatever hesitation had held him off earlier was gone now, replaced by a kind of gentle stubbornness that to you felt more him. 

Jack lifted his hand again, slower this time, and brought his fingers to your jaw. He said nothing, just let the touch land carefully, fingertips warm beneath the edge of your cheekbone.

His thumb shifted slightly, pressing beneath the hinge of your jaw, then slid up toward the curve beneath your ear.

You didn’t move, not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. There was nothing performative in the gesture, nothing flirtatious. It wasn’t about romance or pretense or asking for more.

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

You tilted your head without thinking, letting him trace the side of your neck. His thumb swept slowly beneath your jawline, feeling for your lymph nodes.

His movements were sure, practiced. Not clinical in the cold sense, but precise. Tactile. Like each step in the exam was tethered to something older than routine.

“You had to do all this in the field?”

Jack nodded, his touch moving to the base of your neck. “Every day. No machines. Just hands and instincts.”

You heard something shift in his voice with a quiet flick of gravity. That subtle weight people carried when they weren’t talking about the past so much as living in it again.

“Vitals were all manual. Pulse checks. Respiratory counts by ear. Skin temp by touch. No monitors, no steady beeping to tell you who was slipping.”

Jack’s thumb passed gently along the tendon at the side of your neck, and for a moment, you forgot what the street sounded like. You were suddenly aware of the shape of your body in space, of the parts of you he could feel ticking beneath his fingers.

“At night we worked in blackout conditions.” He murmured, continuing a ritual he’d never forget. “No headlamps. No lanterns. Just stars, if we were lucky. Used the North Star to orient when GPS failed. Checked pupils by moonlight. You’d learn to tell cyanosis from normal by feel, not sight.”

You swallowed, but didn’t pull away. His hand was still there, anchored lightly against your throat. Not gripping, not holding. Just witnessing.

“And you trusted yourself to get it right?” You asked, not doubting him, but wondering what it had cost.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Jack’s gaze met yours again. And this time, something flickered in it, something bigger than both of you.  “When someone’s slipping under your hands, you either learn the difference or you lose them.”

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

Jack moved to your collarbone, pressing lightly, checking along the line where lymph nodes would swell. Your eyes flicked up to him at that, but his gaze was steady on your shoulder, his hand still carefully mapping the shape of your body like it was a page he needed to memorize. 

“You’re tense.” His fingers paused at the base of your neck.

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said. 

There was a stillness between you then full of something else. A thread tied between memory and presence. Between what he’d once done to save lives, and what he was doing now to feel human again.

You shifted, giving him a small, crooked smile. “This what you pictured for a night off?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours, thoughtful, like he was weighing how honest to be.

“Not exactly.” He confessed. His hand dropped from your collarbone then, the air between you still carrying the weight of his touch.  “But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“My health that riveting?” 

Then, with a faint smirk, Jack returned to himself.  “You’ve got a hell of a resting heart rate.”

You pealed with laughter. The grin tugging at the corner of Jack’s mouth softened everything in him.

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

You sat back a little, feeling your own body again; your neck still tingling faintly where his fingers had been. He hadn’t lingered to touch you, not really. He’d touched you because that’s how he knew people. That’s how he made sense of the living.

And tonight, for once, he wasn’t too late.

The streetlight above flickered once, then steadied. The night still buzzed faintly with the sound of spring creeping in, but the world, for a moment, had gone small; just the church steps, the two of you, and the unspoken admission that this, whatever it was, had been needed.

And maybe, you thought, that was what healing sometimes looked like. Not talking.  Not explaining.  Just letting someone check for signs of life and finding them.

There was a kind of reverence in that. And you hadn’t expected reverence tonight.

You rubbed your fingers slowly along the fabric of your pants, grounding yourself with the texture. The quiet stretched again, but softer this time. Less like the end of a conversation and more like the lull before the next thing.

Eventually, you straightened, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the cold stone steps. Jack’s movement followed yours like a reflex;he stood, not with purpose, but with you, shadowing your motion, the way people do when they’ve been through long shifts together. When the silence between them means something understood.

Neither of you said Let’s go. But you both started walking.

Down the worn church steps, your shoes thudding softly on old cement. Gravel cracked beneath your weight as you crossed the narrow lot. It had gone almost fully quiet, just the low hum of the power lines, the wind slipping through the trees like a passing thought.

Your car sat waiting beneath a crooked lamp, light flickering as if undecided. Jack’s truck was parked a few spaces down, dust settling on the hood like it always did when someone stopped moving long enough.

You stopped at your door, keys already out but untouched in your hand. You didn’t unlock it. Jack didn’t walk past. He hovered there instead, just close enough to share the moment, just far enough to leave you room if you wanted to step away.

He rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat. It wasn’t a nervous sound—just a nudge. Something that bridged the quiet without breaking it.

“You think that group’s got space next week?” He asked, his voice shier now, like he didn’t want to spook the stillness you’d both earned.

“We don’t do headcounts.” You smiled.  “Just chairs. If one’s open, it’s yours.”

Jack considered that. Nodded once, brows drawing slightly inward with the thought. Then, a faint smile, tired around the edges, but real in the center.

“Alright.”  He murmured, agreeable. “Might do that.”

You leaned your weight gently against the side of your car, letting yourself rest into the shape of the night for a breath longer.

“You know, Jack—” You started confidently. “—you don’t have to wait for Thursdays to talk to me.”

His brows twitched in the faintest flicker of surprise and confusion. The kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t quite manage, the suspense too enticing. 

“I mean, if something comes up.”  You smiled subtly.  “Or if you need anything. Or just… if it’s late, and things are too quiet again….”

You trailed off and held out your hand, palm open. He blinked once, the weight of your words landing slowly.

 “Your phone. So I can give you my number.” You kept your tone light. Gentle. “I’ll type it in for you. Easier than calling the front desk and pretending it’s about a referral.”

Jack hesitated, just for a second, but reached for it. His phone was warm from his pocket. The screen was still open. You clicked into his contacts, typed in your name, and entered your number without comment. No title, no clinic.

Just you.

Before handing it back, you paused with your thumb hovering over the message field, but you didn’t text yourself. Didn’t give him that easy opening. You locked the screen and gave it back.

“There.” You said, brushing your fingers against his as the phone changed hands. “If you want to reach out, you can. If not… no pressure.”

Jack looked down at the phone in his hand like it might bite back. The contact glowed softly on the screen—your name, simple and unadorned.

“You’re giving me an out.”

“Or an invitation.” You shrugged. “Depends on what you do with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just thumbed the edge of the screen, eyes distant for a moment. Processing. Weighing.

“You don’t give this to just anybody.” He realized quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered across his face and spread through his body. The road to something like this was never clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight, but this? This felt like rest. Or more like something unfolding, slow and tentative, in the center of his chest. A warmth he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something bold, but the words caught in his throat and never came.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long to be casual. Like he was still cataloging something he hadn’t named yet.

Not attraction exactly—but something adjacent. Something measured. Careful. Like he hadn’t let himself think about hope in a long time, and didn’t want to touch it too directly now in case it vanished.

You didn’t break the moment either.

Eventually, he stepped back, nodding once—not goodbye, just a shift in posture. A soft signal that he’d give you your space.

You watched him walk back to his truck. His gait was slower now, less formal than before. Shoulders slightly hunched, but looser. Like he’d left something behind on those steps and wasn’t sure yet if that was a loss or a relief.

You stood still until he opened his door.

He didn’t look back. But he didn’t rush, either.

And when the engine turned over and the headlights swept across the lot, you didn’t flinch from the brightness. You let it pass through you.

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

Like something in the dark had turned to face the light again. And maybe next Thursday, you thought, when the chairs were pulled out again and the coffee burned a little on the bottom, maybe there’d be two people left sitting under the sky.

Still not talking. Still not explaining. But quietly, unmistakably—staying.

[matcha3mochi]

GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[warfaredoll]

𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

[𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐞] 𝐬𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Sam loves nothing more than getting sucked off for the first time by his girl

smut w 🤏 plot, smut smut, wc 2k, SAMMYYYY

the couch was warm beneath you, the long forgotten documentary still playing on the TV. but neither of you had been watching for a while. you were stretched out over Sam, your body perfectly on top of his, his hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled loosely in your hair, while his other arm rested across your back, palm stroking through the thin fabric of your top. your hand had slipped under his shirt hours ago, or minutes, who could tell? and now it rested over his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat

your hips shifted just slightly, innocently enough that it couldn’t be blamed for the way his cock had grown thick and hard beneath you. but you felt it now, nudging your tummy

you exhaled slowly, your cheek resting on his chest, you’d imagined this before. so many nights alone, under the covers, hand beneath you panties, mouth open as you pictured him just like this… him under you, the look in his eyes when you moved lower, between his legs, the gasp you could get out of him if you just-

your lips twitched up into a small smile, as you lifted your head from his chest just enough to look at him. he met your eyes immediately, you had that look when you wanted something. when you really wanted it. the one that made it hard to say no to you

your voice was so soft, the weight of your chin pressing lightly into Sam’s chest. the pause before your question was quiet, and when you spoke, it came out barely above a whisper

“Sam… can I try something?”

his brow quirked up, his lips twitching in that way he always did when he was intrigued, like he couldn’t wait to see what your shy little mouth would say next “yeah? what is it?” he murmured, his hand rose, fingers brushing gently over your temple, tracing slow circles like he could get the secret out of you through touch

you bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. you didn’t look up at him, couldn’t. instead, your fingers moved downward, toying nervously with the drawstrings of his sweats, tangling and untangling

he shifted slightly beneath you “what is it?” he asked again, softer this time “what is it that you want to try?”

you opened your mouth once, but nothing came out. and then finally “can I suck you off?”

you said it so quietly, your eyes were down, stuck on the way your fingers fumbled with the strings at his waist. you didn’t see the way his face lit up, but you felt his body react, the sharp inhale through his nose, the subtle flex of his stomach beneath you, the slow curl of his fingers against your head

he didn’t say anything right away. you rushed to fill the silence, heart pounding in your chest “only if you want! and if you’re okay with it, Sam I just- if you don’t want me to, that’s okay. I just thought maybe….”

“Hey.” his hand slid from your temple into your hair, fingers threading gently, but tugging just enough to make you look at him

that grin. that slow, fuck I’m the luckiest guy alive grin.

“you wanna suck my cock?” he asked

you nodded, face burning up, lips pressing together like you were trying to hold something back, but he wasn’t having that

“look at me” he said softly

you did, hesitantly at first, and then fully. your lips parted, breath shallow, and he could see it now, all of it. the curiosity, the nervousness behind the question. it made his cock twitch beneath you, already half hard and growing by the second

“you really want to do this?” he asked again, not because he doubted you but because he had to hear you say it

“I do” you whispered “I really do.”

his hands slid down to your waist, holding you on his lap, your weight pressing into his bulge now, you felt the way his fingers squeezed your hips, a low grunt leaving his throat

“Fuck, baby… then yeah” he said “yeah. you can suck me off. I want that so bad.”

his voice dipped lower “you want to take my cock in that pretty mouth?” his thumb brushed your lower lip, slow and teasing “you want to know how I sound when I fall apart for you?”

you nodded again, he cupped your face gently, thumb dragging across your cheek

“then cmon baby” he whispered “Show me.”

Sam’s legs stretched wide on the couch, knees spreading as far as the cramped couch would allow, making room just for you

you settled between his legs on your knees. your hands reached for the waistband of his sweats, and he lifted his hips, letting you tug them down past his hips, past his thighs, until they bunched loosely at his knees. he was left in just his boxers, and you could see him now, his cock hard beneath the cotton, stretching the fabric

his shirt had ridden up, exposing the faint trail of hair that led down from his bellybutton to the band of his boxers. you glanced up once and he was watching you, eyes hooded, slightly biting his lower lip

then he began to pull down his boxers slowly, eyes on you the whole time like he wanted to watch your expression as he revealed himself. the waistband slipped down over the thick base of his cock, then over the length, until it sprang free, veined, flushed, and stiff. it barely moved, so hard it stood tall, the tip glistening with a bead of precum

it made your stomach twist with nerves. you’d never done this before and now that you saw him, fully, you weren’t sure how you’d ever take all of him in. he was… big and intimidating. your lips parted slightly as you stared at it, your hand instinctively coming up to wrap around the base

“Don’t be scared now” Sam said, his voice warm and quiet

“I’ve never-” you started to admit

“Take your time with me” he said, gently cutting you off “start with the head.”

you looked up again. he wasn’t impatient, his hands rested on his thighs, open, relaxed. his face was calm. wanting, yes, desperate even, but patient. willing to let you learn him at your own pace

you swallowed hard, and leaned in

the head of his cock was flushed pink, already slick with precum. you brought your lips close, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and then flicked your tongue out for a tentative little lick, just a small stroke across the tip

Sam’s breath hitched

you kissed the head next, soft and shy, like you were kissing his mouth. you pulled back and did it again, slower this time, letting your lips press into the sensitive skin, then flicked your tongue around the tip again, tasting him. his cock twitched in your grip, and he groaned low in his throat, his hand moving to rest lightly on the back of your head, barely touching, just there

“you’re doing perfect” he murmured “Just like that.”

feeling bolder, you wrapped your lips around the tip fully, letting it rest on your tongue. he was so warm, so firm against your mouth, and the girth of him made your lips part wider than you expected. your cheeks hollowed as you sucked gently, your tongue flicking slow around the ridge of the head

“fuck” Sam’s hand tightened in your hair just slightly

you bobbed your head, just a few inches, getting used to the size, to the way he tasted, to the way he responded to every flick of your tongue and suck of your lips. you could hear the sounds now, wet, intimate and each one only made him groan louder, chest rising and falling faster with every breath

you stroked the base of him with your hand while your mouth worked the head

“Shit- your mouth feels so good” he breathed, his eyes closing for a moment “so fucking soft… i’ve thought about this so many times.”

you moaned softly around him at that, and the vibration made him curse again “fuuuckk…” his hips twitching slightly beneath you. you adjusted, taking him a little deeper, the stretch in your jaw making your eyes close shut. your spit coated the shaft now, your strokes growing smoother, and bolder

the first time you tried to take all of him, it surprised you how much there was, how deep he reached. his cock slid against the back of your tongue and further still, until your throat clenched and your breath hitched in panic. you gagged softly, your head lifting quickly with a wet sound, your lips flushed and wet, eyes wide with surprise

“Baby careful” Sam murmured, hips twitching as though stuck between pulling you back and not ruining the moment. his hand hovered near your jaw like he might lift your chin until he watched you lean back down

the next time, you went slow. you relaxed your jaw, opened wider, and inhaled through your nose. you pushed forward again, slower, his cock pushed past your lips, past your tongue, and then you felt your throat begin to stretch for him, as you breathed through it

“That’s right” he groaned, mouth slack, eyes on you “Breathe through your nose… just like that.”

you felt the air go in and out through your nose as your throat worked to take him, your hands gripped his thighs tightly now, fingers digging into him. his thighs were solid, his skin warm beneath your palms, and trembling slightly

you started moving again. up, down, then deeper. your rhythm slow but growing more confident with every pass. you paid attention, watched him, took mental note of what got a reaction out of him

his lip trembled when you swallowed around the head, his eyes closed shut when you dragged your tongue along the underside on the way up, his breath caught when you sank all the way down again and held him there, nose buried in the soft skin at the base of his cock

his hand stayed gently on your head the entire time. never pushing, never guiding you. just there rubbing softly and letting you lead

but your hair wouldn’t stay out of the way. strands kept falling forward, slipping from behind your ears and sticking to your lips, your cheek, even brushing against his cock as you moved. you huffed annoyed, pulling them back with one hand while the other still worked his shaft, but they kept falling, again and again

Sam noticed. he didn’t say anything, he just leaned forward, his fingers finding the strands falling across your face, and gently swept them back. you moaned softly in acknowledgment, his cock twitching in response inside your mouth, and then his hand gathered your hair completely

he held it up for you, out of the way, his hand still resting on top of your head. his fingers tightened a little

“You look so fucking good like this” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly “Taking me like that…”

you looked up at him again, your mouth full of him, cheeks hollowed, eyes glassy but on his. you wanted to see everything. his face when it all overwhelmed him, when he stopped thinking and started trembling. you wanted to memorize what made him groan deepest, what made his voice crack into that desperate little whimper you’d only barely heard before

so you pushed deeper again, your throat tightening then relaxing, your mouth sliding down the full length of him until you felt your lips kiss the base. he gasped, his entire body tensing, and you could feel the way his thighs flexed

“Fuuuck… baby”

your mouth moved over Sam’s cock now more confident, no more hesitation, no more small licks or timid passes. your mouth knew Sam now. how deep to go, when to swirl your tongue around the head, when to stroke his shaft in time with the bob of your head. your spit glossing his cock until it glistened. strings of saliva connected your lips to his shaft every time you pulled up and slid back down, and your nose was beginning to run

and still he looked down at you like were you the most beautiful thing in the world

“I’ve always wanted you to suck me off” Sam groaned suddenly, hand still holding your hair up off your face “didn’t know how to ask…”

you whimpered around his cock, and his hips bucked just slightly at the vibration. he moaned, head falling back against the cushion, then rolling to the side again so he could keep watching you

“baby, look at you” he whispered, eyes on your face “so fucking pretty like this… lips all swollen, cock deep in your throat…”

you pulled off of him with a slick pop, a long strand of spit stretching from your lips to his tip, and he sucked in a sharp breath, but then you shifted lower, mouth trailing down his cock until his shaft pressed against your cheek, heavy and hot, as your lips found the sensitive skin of his balls

he hissed through his teeth, fingers tightening in your hair but he didn’t stop you, you kissed the soft skin first, then let your tongue drag over it, slow and wet. his thighs twitched under your palms. then you sucked one into your mouth, gently, carefully, while your hand kept stroking the shaft beside your face, his cock smearing your cheek and jaw with wetness

“Oh fuck” he choked out, his voice cracking. his hips bucked again, and his hand clenched fully in your hair now, tugging

you moaned, your mouth sealing tighter around the delicate skin, sucking gently before switching to the other. you were just beginning to learn how much pressure he could take

until, “Shit- no, no balls today” Sam gasped suddenly, his voice high and panicked with pleasure, tugging you up by your hair “too sensitive, baby. too much.”

you looked up at him, flushed and dazed, mouth and chin slick with spit, your nose damp, lips shiny. his cock twitched in your hand as you slowly rose, and he released your hair only once your mouth was away from the base of him

he exhaled hard, one hand wiping down his face

“you’re so fucking good” he muttered through gritted teeth “if you kept doing that, I’d cum right now.”

you smiled, stroking him slow and teasing “that a bad thing?”

he groaned, head falling back “It is if I want to remember this for the rest of my fucking life.”

you laughed softly, and his cock twitched in your hand again, begging for your mouth

you leaned back in eagerly, lips parting as you wrapped them once again around the flushed, slick head of Sam’s cock. his cock filled your mouth easier now. you sucked deep, just the way he liked it. your pace steady, not quick, but enough to let him feel every stroke, every wet slide of your tongue as it curled along the underside of his shaft, tracing that sensitive ridge that made his thighs tense and his fingers tighten in your hair

his breathing changed immediately. the soft groans and stuttered moans from earlier we’re gone, now it was louder, messier

“Fuck. going to cum soon” Sam gasped, hips rocking just barely up into your mouth, trying to hold himself back but already trembling beneath you

your eyes widened, this was what you wanted, have wanted since you first imagined this moment. the thought of him cumming into your mouth was dizzying. you moaned around his cock, desperate for that final release, and he twitched against your tongue like he could feel exactly what you were thinking

“not going to finish in your mouth” he panted suddenly, and your brows furrowed, confused, the beginning of a soft protest already on your lips

“but Sam-” you pulled back just enough to whine, licking the tip as you spoke, your hand now stroking the shaft

his fingers gently combed back your hair, cupping your head “don’t want you to gag” he said “you don’t know how much it’ll be. I don’t want it to be too much for you.”

you blinked up at him, but before you could argue again, he sighed and smiled down at you

“okay baby” Sam whispered, eyes closing shut for a moment as his cock twitched in your fist “I’m close… just- just keep looking at me…”

his fingers tapped lightly against your head, you let his cock slip from your lips with a lewd, slick pop, then shifted back just enough so his shaft hovered in front of your face, glistening with your spit. you kept stroking him, fast now, tight and wet, and watched every second of him coming undone for you

he looked right at you, right into your eyes as his hips jerked, and then he moaned low and deep from his chest, one hand fisting in the couch cushion while the other stayed in your hair. his entire body tensed

“Fuuuckk baby…”

he came hard, warm streaks of cum across your face. the first rope landed on your cheek, thick and white. the second across your lips, the next across your chin and nose. you kept stroking him through it, milking every last drop, and he couldn’t stop staring

eyes wide, mouth parted, as he looked at you

“You… god, you look so fucking good” he groaned, watching his cum drip down your face “you’re perfect.”

Sam was still catching his breath, chest rising and falling, as he stared at you kneeling there between his legs, his cum glistening on your flushed cheeks, your lips parted and slick with spit, some of his cum slowly sliding down your chin

his hand came down gently. he swept his thumb across your cheek first, slow and careful, smearing a strip of his cum off your skin, the pad of his finger soft against your face

“you were so fucking good.” he whispered, almost in awe

you swallowed, your lips curling into a smile despite the mess. he brought his thumb to your lips next, rubbing gently, then trailing down to your chin where the thickest drop was. he swiped it up slowly with two fingers

“Open.”

your mouth fell open obediently, and he brought his fingers to your tongue, watching as you closed your lips around them and sucked. you cleaned him off, even now. when you finished, he pulled his fingers back and cupped your face fully in both hands

“I’m so fucking glad you asked” he murmured, rubbing his thumbs over your temples now, gently clearing away the last of his cum “I didn’t even know how bad I needed that until it was happening. until you were looking up at me like that”

you pressed your cheek into his hand a little, your own breath finally slowing, your body warm all over

“I wanted to make it good for you” you said softly

he smiled, pulling you up gently by the waist until you were straddling him again, his arms folding around you, not even bothering with the cum streaked mess still drying on your face. he kissed your shoulder, your neck, your cheek

“You did” he said “better than good. you blew my fucking mind.”

#callmethroatgoat #noTMI #weareALLbestfriendshere

@https-junebug @ilovecheriies @sharpayslilo @iron-rot @cosmosbabydoll @joelmeller @willowpains @violetcamryn @meetmeatyourworst @f4nfic-lover @k-ilisi @iheartgrayson @glassbxttless @gallaghrh @samslvrgirl @vinecstasy @illyrianbrat @livelaughl0v3 @ilovecheriies @eddiemunsonsbabygirl @babble28

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

[munchhmm]

Hehee hiii!! Can I get luffy x fem reader fluff to smut😛 (I might be the same person..)

So basically the reader is being really cuddly for the whole day and teasing him so at night he gives her the same treatment but more intimate!!

Please and thank yewwww💕

Messy Love

luv your energy babes (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝) i give you drum roll sexy goofy boy!

Pairings: Luffy x F!reader

Warnings: NSFW, insertion, slight(?) choking.

Word count: About 2.1k ꪆৎ

Poke… Poke… Poke…

“Y/n, I can’t eat if you keep doing that!” Luffy shouts playfully as you continue to push your finger into the soft skin of your boyfriend’s cheek. A giggle escapes as you turn your focus back to the plate sitting on the table meant for you, taking small bites while glancing at Luffy, plotting your next move.

Later on the deck, your captain sits perched on the railing, fishing rod in hand with a big grin across his face. Slowly, you creep behind him, careful not to make any noise—Luffy was very attuned to his surroundings, so this part took extra effort. Before he could even turn around, you had snatched his hat, running off laughing with pride at a successful heist. Luffy chases after you with his own laugh trailing behind, stretching and wrapping his rubber arms around your waist to pull you back to him.

“You’re being silly, is it a special day or something?!” he asks excitedly, taking his hat out of your hands and placing it on your head.

“I just want to give you some attention~” Your words slip past his ear like silk, making the weird feeling in his chest come back—just like it does every time you lean into him this way.

Luffy plops down against a nearby wall, keeping you in his lap as he wraps his arms around you more intimately now, keeping one hand on your lower back and the other holding your head against his chest.

“Like this?”

The feeling of his voice rumbling in his chest makes you feel at home, making you bury your face further into him.

“Exactly like this.”

Even though the relentless sun poured waves of heat down below, neither of you cared about the possibility of uncomfortable sweat sticking you together—hell, Luffy probably invited the idea. A few hours passed like this: small circles being drawn on your back, conversations about favorite foods, and, of course, your captain challenging you to a staring contest (which you lost three times).

Sanji calls everyone for dinner right before the sun is about to set. You and Luffy are the last ones to join, much to everyone’s surprise, knowing how much Luffy loves food. Instead of attempting to tease him like you did at breakfast, you lean over lovingly with a fork full of some type of chicken and rice, offering to feed a bite to Luffy. He gladly accepts, giving you the most adorable face in approval. The crew groans at the sight of the lovey-dovey couple, continuing to eat like they weren’t about to barf.

You didn’t care. Your boyfriend gave so much, and the least you could do was give back—even if it was a bit mushy.

After dinner, you stayed back with a few others to help clean and put away dishes. With the help, it wouldn’t take long, but Luffy was growing impatient. All day he had been thinking about some way he could show his love back in a way you weren’t used to experiencing—finally coming back to the thought of your words from earlier, the way they immediately went straight to his dick and made wearing shorts uncomfortable.

You had both had sex together, just not as often as other couples. Sanji had explained the importance of keeping your partner happy in more ways than one. Luffy took the advice to heart, making sure he memorized every part of you—the way your lips part when he kisses your neck, the way you grip his hair when he flattens his tongue against your clit, even the way you arch your back and how it perfectly fits against him.

Tonight would be no different. He was going to make you feel just as loved as you made him feel today.

Once you were the last one in the kitchen, finishing the last few glasses from dinner, Luffy walks in, coming to give you the biggest hug from behind. Slightly startled, you jump—accidentally pressing your ass to his crotch, earning a genuine grunt from your boyfriend. His hands find your hips and grip them tightly, pressing you even closer to him. You can feel his length through his shorts, the thin material leaving nothing to the imagination.

“I like it when you touch me…”

His voice is deep, sending a shiver through your body. You turn to face him, letting a hand trail down his stomach but stopping right before the hem of his shorts.

“When I touch you how? Hmm?”

The feeling flows back into Luffy’s chest, overwhelming the restriction he’s set for himself. Instead of responding, Luffy crashes his lips into yours, messy and rough with emotion. Only you could make him feel this way. He wanted nothing more than to love every inch of you, show you how much you mean to him.

His kisses trail to your jaw, then your neck, pulling back only for a moment to hoist you onto the kitchen counter, careful not to hit your head on the cabinets behind. Fingers tangle in his hair as you giggle, gasping every so often at the soft nibbles Luffy leaves on your skin.

“We can’t do this here, what if someone sees?”

You wanted to sound serious and composed, but instead it came out shaky and needy, highlighting your arousal.

“Let ‘em, don’t care…”

He says between open-mouthed kisses that are now trailing to your chest. He has half a mind to just rip your shirt but opts to just lift it over your head quickly, exposing your bra-less chest.

“So pretty.”

His eyes are wide with admiration, simply in awe at your body. A slight blush grazes your face—Luffy was a very straightforward person. He says what he means and nothing more, meaning he truly thought the highest of you.

The open red shirt that usually hangs off your boyfriend’s body drops to the floor along with your shirt. Eagerly, Luffy attaches his lips to your right nipple, toying with your left in his hand, licking his fingers before rolling the sensitive bud. A loud moan escapes your lips, quickly covered with a hand to hide the sound from the rest of the crew.

Luffy laughs playfully at your reaction, moving your hand and pinning it above your head against the cabinet.

“You’re too serious, just have fun!”

His voice is cheerful but still laced with something darker, something dirty.

You relax a bit into his words, letting him fondle you just the way you like. He knew you better than any other guy had been able to prove—showing it through his worship of your body. His eyes flicker to yours for a moment as he reaches your lower stomach, clenching the fabric of your shorts between his teeth. You nod, letting him know to continue.

Swiftly, your shorts are slid down, Luffy’s lips dragging across the skin of your legs on the way. The cool air feels foreign against your now exposed core, causing goosebumps to litter your arms. Luffy kneels in front of you, taking in the sight of your pussy leaking onto the counter.

“Look at how wet you are!”

A finger swipes up your slit, gathering the juices easily. You gasp at the sudden contact, looking down at your boyfriend with crimson-tinted cheeks. He pulls his finger away to hold it up in front of you, showing how your slick drips down his knuckles onto his wrist. You lean forward slightly to take his finger into your mouth, sucking every last drop of yourself off of him.

The sight makes his tip push a small stream of precum over his shaft, soaking into his shorts. Frustrated at the tightness, Luffy rips his last piece of clothing off, cock springing to slap him in the abdomen. A breath hitches in your throat—you could see him a million times but still be surprised at how big he is.

Before you can reach for him, he’s kneeling again, quickly working his mouth against your soaking core. His tongue is fast but calculated—flicking, sucking, lapping your juices until the room starts spinning. When you grip his hair and moan his name, the grunts he lets out against your heat make your knees shake.

The small gasps turn desperate as you near your orgasm, telling Luffy to pull away. His mouth and chin are covered in you. He kisses your lips passionately, full of love and wanting—you can taste yourself on him, and he makes sure of it by pressing his tongue against yours. You whimper while bucking your hips against his, missing the contact his mouth once had on your pussy.

Luffy removes his lips from yours, watching how you pout while looking up at him with those beautiful eyes. He can’t deny you anything when you look like that.

“I’m gonna make you feel good.”

He leans low to your ear, voice barely above a whisper when he speaks. You could almost cum just from hearing his words. He had you wrapped around his finger, and soon you’ll be wrapping around his cock.

Without warning, Luffy slams into you, causing a loud squeal to echo through the kitchen. He sets the pace quickly, relentlessly shoving his tip against your cervix. The small amount of pain is covered by the immense pleasure shooting through your body. His hands are everywhere—thighs, ass, tits, even wrapping around your neck slightly just to see your reaction.

Your moans and cries fill Luffy’s head, fueling him better than any meal ever could. His left hand settles between your legs, rubbing small circles on your clit as you beg him to go faster—words never falling on deaf ears.

The fear of someone catching the two of you vanished the moment you started clenching around him, the feeling causing both of you to see stars. Lips find your chest again, leaving hickeys on the underside curve of your breast, licking and sucking your nipples.

The pleasure is overwhelming—your vision became blurry moments ago and isn’t showing any signs of letting up soon. The knot in your lower stomach only grows stronger and tighter.

“So pretty… So tight…”

Luffy struggles slightly to get his words out, his own orgasm around the corner as well. He feels a pair of legs wrap around his waist, looking down at you with sweat dripping from his forehead.

“Don’t pull out, please, Captain~”

The way your mouth drops open from his thrusts, the flushed look of your body, the way your tits bounce in his face while he fucks you—now you’re calling him Captain in that sweet little needy voice?

His thrusts become sloppy and snap quicker, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Gonna… Cum soon. Get ready.”

Luffy grabs your hips, pulling you closer to him. The noises he makes against your skin send you over the edge, gasping and sucking in his cock with the way you pulse around him. His orgasm follows soon after, spilling himself inside your plush walls.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he kisses your neck sweetly, catching his breath while taking in the scent of your clammy skin. Fingers trail down his back softly, trying to ground themselves against him, your breathing matching his for the time being.

After a few moments like this, Luffy slowly pulls himself out of you, causing a sigh to leave your mouth and a small smirk to spread across his face as he watches his seed flow out of your hole, dripping down the sides of the counter.

“Guess I made you messy, huh?”

His usual grin flashes while grabbing a clean rag off a shelf to clean you with.

“Yeah, but I don’t mind this mess,” you say with a small laugh, watching Luffy take care of you in the softest way he knows how.

Grabbing your clothes to quickly throw them back on, you ask,

“So, why the sudden change in plans for tonight?”

Your boyfriend, after getting dressed himself, embraces you in the biggest, softest hug.

“Because I wanted to make you happy!”

No hint of hidden motives, just pure love and affection. Luffy truly wanted you to feel special—nothing more, nothing less.

The rest of the night is filled with snacks and cuddling in your shared bedroom.

“I love you.”

Three simple words that felt like pure bliss, rarely said by your boyfriend—not because he didn’t want to, he was just better with actions than words.

“I love you too, rubber boy,” you say with an affectionate smile, before eventually falling asleep on Luffy’s chest—the most comforting place in the world.

[hard-core-super-star]

cards on the table [L.Calderu]

pairing: lilia calderu x vampire!reader

summary: the morning after, you can't bring yourself to leave lilia again. instead, you let the desire you still feel for her take over.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT -> morning sex; mommy kink galore [because it's lilia, duh]; SO much biting [because vampires duh]; desperate switch!lilia is SO important to me; grinding; making out; unholy uses of magic; fingering; praise kink go brrr; lilia's boobs deserve their own warning fr; plot and feelings randomly thrown in because i can't write porn without it; so much banter

wordcount: 2.6k

a/n: HELLO! this part took longer than i planned but i'm really happy with how it turned out. i couldn't write vampire!reader without throwing some smut in before more plot 😌i'm having a lot of fun writing for lilia so i hope i've delivered. as always, my inbox is open and i hope you enjoy <3

part one |

* * * * * * *

When your eyes open, the first thing you see is the way the sunlight bounces off the ceiling. Unlike what most vampire myths said, you weren't afraid of the sun. At least not any more than a mortal with secrets made far too vulnerable by the light.

The second thing you notice once your eyes focus and your mind starts clearing is the comfortable weight settled on top of you. Reality's quick to crash into you after that.

For some reason, you had expected Lilia to be up and about by the time morning came. Even though she had made fun of you for wanting to run away, she was the same way. Actually, she tended to be worse. But of course, she would never admit it, preferring instead to throw the blame on you.

Seeing her like this, though, soft and vulnerable, reminds you why you hated leaving her in the first place. While you knew it had to be done, it didn't change how awful you felt about it. How lonely the years that have passed have been.

"How are you already so tense?" Her words break the silence and draw a sigh out of you. It really isn't fair how easy she can read you, even now.

"I'm just not used to waking up under a beautiful woman," you reply, the corners of your mouth tugging up into a lazy smile.

"I find that very hard to believe, sweetheart."

You suppress the urge to laugh and instead give in to the easy atmosphere. "Ouch, are you calling me a whore, Madame Calderu?"

The eyeroll you earn yourself is more worth it. "I'm calling you charming, my dear."

"Oh, my mistake."

She laughs, the sound rich and soft and capable of turning all your thoughts to mush in a second. "I've missed this."

You know what she means, but you don't allow yourself to linger on her words too much. A part of you feels undeserving. It wasn't like you didn't have good reason for leaving and yet…the guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

"Insulting me?" You ask as your fingers draw random patterns on her back. The fabric of her robe is thin enough for you to feel the warmth of her skin beneath it.

With a soft sigh, she lifts herself enough so she can stare down at you. The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes are as soft as her smile. "Laughing with you."

It's impossible to ignore the truth in her tone. "Yeah, I guess that's nice too."

"You guess?" She responds, attempting to sound offended. It doesn't work very well, though, since she's still grinning too hard. "You're a hard woman to please, my darling."

It's impossible to stop yourself from laughing at that. "You of all people should know that's not true."

Instead of instantly replying, she allows her eyes to drift down your face, lingering on your lips. You're not sure if she knows exactly what she's doing, but you do know you can't stop yourself from craving more.

And you can't even be mad at yourself for it.

You never even tried to lie about your feelings for her. Even after the visions, the prophecy, the knowledge that she'll be your undoing, you still love her. You've always loved her. How can you fight against that part of your fate?

One of your hands comes up, fingers slowly grazing against the side of her neck. The only thing left of your bite is the memory and yet she still shivers. Still leans into your touch.

"y/n," she whispers, her eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"I find that very hard to believe," you reply, your voice just as soft as hers.

She lets out a soft huff of air, something halfway to a chuckle, before you steal whatever teasing words were on the tip of her tongue away with a kiss.

Despite how strong your longing for her has been, you still surprise yourself. You almost assumed you'd walk out of her life again without doing exactly what you'd been thinking about since you left.

Clearly, you're a fool in more than one way.

Your fingers move back to tangle in her hair and even though you try to keep yourself in check, you can't. You want more. Need her in ways that scare you and excite you at the same time.

Lilia pulls away from the kiss, her heaving breaths fanning across your lips. "I missed this too."

"I missed you," you admit, your face warming up exponentially.

It's dangerous to say it out loud, but there's no use in hiding. Not when her eyes can see everything you don't say. Everything you feel without meaning to.

"Yeah?" Her head tilts to the side, wide pupils scanning your face. "Show me."

You grin, sharp teeth poking out from under your top lip. "Gladly."

Your hands travel down her body in an instant and your fingers grasp the fabric of her robe. A laugh escapes her as you hurry to slip the garment off of her, shifting around until your lips can meet the exposed skin of her shoulders.

"Impatient as always, little one?" She questions, using her words to distract you from the way she's moving above you. It's subtle, but you can't ignore the feeling of her heat pressing against your thigh.

"Only when it comes to you."

You let your fangs graze her skin, dragging along her shoulder blade until she's shivering above you. The urge to bite her is far stronger than it should have been considering how much you'd drank the night before. Then again, your thirst for her has always been stronger than anything else. Including your common sense.

"Such a flatter," she mutters.

Her hands move to her robe, helping you get the rest of it off, while your attention is captivated by her warm skin. You sink your teeth into her shoulder, not hard enough to actually draw blood, but enough to feel the connection that thrums beneath your veins.

"And so eager too," Lilia hums.

There's no way you can deny her claim. Especially with the way your hands start exploring the newly revealed contours of her body. Your fingers trace the lines of her muscles, mapping out the freckles you can't see but know are there.

As much as it pains you, you remove your fangs from her without drawing any blood, focusing on her hunger instead of your own. "I'm not the only one, I think you're soaking my pants."

"Oh, very funny." Her voice lacks humor but her eyes dance with a mischief she was sure she'd lost years ago. "Maybe if you weren't so preoccupied with biting me, I wouldn't have to be doing all the work by myself."

"All the work- oh-"

Your question is answered by the way she shifts her hips, slowly grinding against your leg. One hand lands on her hip to steady her as she sits up slightly to get better friction. You move with her, rising into a slightly uncomfortable position just to latch your mouth onto her chest.

"There you go," she coos. "You remember what mama likes?"

You don't think you could forget if you tried.

Your lips wrap around one of her nipples, feeling it harden under your tongue. Her back arches into your touch and you can't stop yourself from letting your teeth graze her sensitive skin.

The noise she makes in response is more than enough of a reward, but then her hand tangles in your hair and pulls you closer. "Fuck, darling. You're so good for me."

Her whimpered praise sends sparks of electricity up your spine. Not even your own pleasure can distract you from your mission, though.

One hand stays on her hip, slowly guiding her movements when her hips stutter, and the other one comes up to toy with her other breast, lavishing both of her nipples with the attention you know she needs. If your mouth wasn't so busy, you would have teased her for how frantic her movements against you are.

And she was making fun of you for being eager.

"y/n," she whispers, her voice shaking almost as much as her thighs.

All you do is hum, biting down on her nipple just enough to hear her gasp. Her movements speed up and you double your efforts, flexing your thigh and pushing up into her as much as you can.

It makes you a little dizzy due to the proximity but you force your eyes to travel upward until you can take in the curve of her neck and her parted lips. The puffs of air she lets out sound more like whines than anything and you let them wash over you like a wave.

You wait until she starts muttering curses beneath her breath to move again. Your hand leaves her breast and glides down the front of her body, easily slipping under the waistband of her ruined underwear.

You detach yourself from her nipple only to trail kisses up the valley of her breasts. "Cum for me, mama, I know you need it."

Your fingers press against her swollen clit and you watch as her whole body shudders in response. It's the most beautiful sight you've seen in years.

You work her through her orgasm, feeling as she soaks your fingers and her underwear all in one go. It's sinful and delightful all at the same time.

When she slumps forward, worn and overly sensitive, you instantly wrap your arms around her waist and lie back against the couch once more. For a moment, it's like no time has passed at all. Like you managed to cheat both time and space just to be with each other.

As silly as it might be, you allow yourself the fantasy.

Your lips press against her temple as the two of you lay there, her head on your shoulder and her nose nuzzling your jaw. As hard as it is, you don't move. You don't dare break the moment.

Because you know once you do, you won't get to have her like this again.

The runes may be strong and the wards may pulse with life every time you make her heart skip a beat, but you're being hunted. And every second you spend with her only puts her in more danger.

You know that.

But then she's shifting again and her lips find yours and it's hard to think about anything else except her.

When she pulls away, you're both breathless, gripping onto each other like you're afraid you'll disappear. The helplessness that simmers beneath the surface is hidden well under desire and desperation, but you can still feel it. Thrumming to life after every kiss.

"You were so good for me, angel," she murmurs, almost like she doesn't want to risk breaking the moment by being too loud. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes please," you reply as your arms wrap around her neck to keep her close.

To your surprise, she makes no move to make fun of you for how clingy you are and instead her arms move down your arms, caressing your skin like she's commiting every touch to memory. You don't doubt she is.

Once she reaches your shirt, she simply smirks down at you and with a flick of her wrists, your clothes dissapear. "Cute trick."

Lilia just raises an eyebrow at you, hovering over you with a borderline dangerous glint in her eyes. "Trick? Are you insulting my magic, little one?"

"Oh, I would never dare," you tease.

Of course, she doesn't believe you, and you honestly don't blame her.

"You just can't stop yourself from being a brat, can you?" Her question is completely rhetorical, especially considering her next idea.

She hovers above you, watching your face closely as one of her hands trails down your body to the heat eminating from between your legs. Her fingers part your folds, revealing your clit to her before she murmurs something ancient under her breath. You have no idea what she's doing…until you feel a sudden shock on your clit.

"Lilia-" you gasp, your thighs attempting to close.

She clicks her tongue in dissaproval as she lands a warning smack to your inner thigh. "Don't you dare close them, I'm just getting started."

Your cunt clenches around pure air at that and the pleasure sends another shock-like sensation through your cunt. You quickly realize you don't mind, though, as the pain morphs into unbelieable pleasure.

"Oh, fuck."

"You read my mind, baby."

You don't get anther second to react before two of her fingers are teasing your already sensitive clit, pressing down until your thighs shake and then moving down to gather your wetness on the tips.

She's absolutely playing with you and you can't find it in yourself to mind. Not when the way she toys with you feels so damn good.

"Please," you all but whimper. "More."

"Always so needy, it's adorable."

You whimper again and she finally takes pity on you, sliding those same two fingers into your wet cunt. It only takes a few thrusts and another well placed shock for you to near the edge.

"Mama- please-"

"Already?" Despite her teasing tone, she can't hide her excitment. "You wanna cum for me, sweet girl?"

You desperately nod, your hips bucking up into her without meaning to as you chase your incoming orgasm. "Yes, need it, please."

"I've missed hearing you beg like that. Go ahead, baby, don't hold back."

She doesn't have to tell you twice.

Your body instantly reacts to her, clenching uncontrollably around her fingers while her thumb plays with your clit. You cry out as your orgasm crashes into you and you're left whining and shaking underneath her.

She leans down to pepper kisses across your face, her tongue darting out to lap up the few tears that escape the corners of your eyes. "Always so sweet for me."

All you can manage are a few incoherent mumbles and she chuckles as she removes her fingers from between your legs. Another incantation is mumbled and the ache on your clit subsides.

"Better?" She asks, shifting around once more so she's on her side, arms bringing you closer to her.

You nod and mirror her, tucking your head beneath her chin and wrapping yourself around her warmth. "Did you melt my brain so I wouldn't leave?"

"Not on purpose," she replies with a laugh. "Does that mean you'll stay?"

You allow the question to hang in the air for a few seconds. There's nothing you want more than to stay. Not only are you technically still injured, you'll have to drink from her again soon or risk growing weak once more.

You know the risks, the ones that go beyond simply being a vampire in love with a witch. Between the Guild, your family, and the prophecy that looms over both of your heads…staying with her will do nothing besides bring you more pain.

And yet, the answer forms before you can stop it.

"Yes. But only because I'm still hungry."

Lilia knows you're lying, but she doesn't call you out on it. Instead, she simply holds you closer, her fingers tracing the area where you'd been stabbed by the Guild's hunter. "Just give me a few minutes, then we can get up."

You know she's lying too, but all you do is smile and burrow into her chest.

* * * * * * *

taglist: @p00ki3-m0nst3r

[ao3-shenanigans]

For the ask about the chapter summary box, I don’t write but as a reader I really appreciate a few things in there:

1) a couple sentence recap of the previous chapter - only really relevant while a fic is being posted over time - less so once it’s complete. Chances are I’m reading several fics at once and will forget where we’re at in this one specifically, especially if it’s been a week or more since the last update. If it’s been several months, maybe even a summary of the whole plot so far

2) a word count for the chapter - a nice quick way to judge roughly how long it’ll take to read, so whether I have time before I get up, over lunch, before bed, whatever

3) a heads up if the chapter ends on a cliffhanger or unresolved angst - personally I’d like to avoid reading until it’s resolved and may check comments or the last part of the chapter for clues if angst seems likely. This caught me out three times in one day recently, and sure, it’s a me problem - I certainly didn’t complain to the authors and should’ve remembered to check for other clues first, but the warnings would’ve been nice and I doubt I’m the only one. Some might call it spoilers but I don’t

No-one is obliged to provide these, of course, but the first one is especially helpful for incomplete works. Some might use notes rather than the summary for the others. I also appreciate content warnings though those are often put in end notes instead.

Basically when it comes to new chapter updates, I wanna remember what’s happened, judge if I have time to read, and judge whether I’m in the right headspace to read

Thank you for sharing!

[diarylogbook08]

🌈 𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐙 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐬 🏁

“Welcome to the underground—where speed is law and ATEEZ rule the roads.”

Headcanons for the crew tearing up the streets one race at a time—chrome, chaos, loyalty, and adrenaline. Each member's got their own vibe, their own car, and their own way of dominating the blacktop.

Pairing : Ot8 Genre : Racer AU, action, found family, slice of chaos W.c : ~ 1,5 K Requested : Not at all. Just a full-throttle gearhead girly obsessed with cars, street racing romances, and everything in between — This AU was surely inevitable. Warnings : no specials warnings to give here Taglist : If you want to be tagged in future headcanons or updates? Drop a comment or DM me anytime! I Requests : OPEN ✨click here to send yours. Please note that I may politely decline if I don’t feel comfortable with the topic. Kindness only here 🫶

Fasten your seatbelt—this ride’s about to get wild !

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Kim Hongjoong — The Mastermind

Is the tactician of the crew—meticulous, sharp, and always thinking two steps ahead. He doesn’t always go for brute force or showy stunts, but instead beats rivals with precision and planning. He’s the one who plots the route, finds weak points in opponents, and keeps the team unified. Off the road, he's a passionate artist, often customizing parts of his car with his own hand-drawn designs. His rebellious creativity bleeds into every race.

His car : A red crimson Nissan GT-R35 Skyline with a Liberty Walk Widebody Kit. A fusion of precision and power. A blend of modern tech and raw racing heritage, his R35 is a custom-built beast. Wrapped in a deep metallic crimson red with a carbon fiber hood, lip, and spoiler. Under the hood: upgraded twin-turbos, titanium exhaust, forged pistons, ECU tuning — the works. He's added an active aero kit for better cornering and a custom interior with LED interfaces to monitor every stat in real-time.

“Every race is a puzzle—and I never leave one unsolved.”

Park Seonghwa — The Tactician

Cold under pressure and flawless in execution, Seonghwa is the crew’s razor. Every turn, every drift, every gear shift is timed with unnerving accuracy. He doesn’t race with brute force or flair—he races with mastery. He’s the cleanest driver on the team, making impossible lines look effortless. Calm, collected, and impossible to shake, Seonghwa is the one you never see make a mistake. Off the streets, he’s composed and thoughtful—almost too perfect to be real.

His car : A deep British Green Manhart TR 900 Porsche 911 GT2 RS. A barely whispered legend dressed in British Racing Green and brushed-gold accents, this Porsche is as much a work of art as it is a weapon. Customized with a full carbon-fiber wide-body and aero kit (splitter, diffuser, fixed wing), 900 hp twin-turbo flat-six with titanium exhaust and custom ECU tune, adjustable coilovers with anti-roll bars, center-lock gold forged wheels on semi-slicks, and six-piston carbon-ceramic brakes.

“I don’t need chaos to win. Control is power. Every turn, every second—I make it count.”

Jung Yunho — The Juggernaut

Is the most reliable and consistent driver on the team—a dependable beast. Once he locks onto the finish line, nothing stops him. He’s got speed and power, but also a warm, goofy energy that keeps the crew’s morale high. A gentle giant off the track, he becomes a beast in the driver’s seat—pushing his machine to the limit with ferocious tenacity. His driving style is loud, confident, and relentless. Loves to show off with burnouts, drifts, and thunderous take-offs. Often has music blasting mid-race because why not?

His car : A radioactive green Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat Widebody with black accents and glowing green halo headlights. The ultimate muscle car. Painted in neon green with black racing stripes and neon underglow. Upgraded with a massive digital wide-body fenders and front splitter, carbon-fiber hood with oversized scoop, forged black multi-spoke wheels wrapped in drag-spec radials, and supercharger and high-flow intake for an extra 200+ hp, fully adjustable coilover suspension, line-lock burnout system, and a straight-through titanium exhaust that rattles the pavement. The inside is custom with LED-lit dials and a booming sound system.

“If you can’t handle the thunder, get off my road.”

Kang Yeosang — The Phantom

Mysterious, calculating and deadly quiet on the roads — Silent, precise, and utterly untouchable on the street. He is the team’s silent sniper, the crew’s ghost: you never see him coming, but you feel the presence of something unstoppable in your rear-view mirror. He speaks little, but his eyes never miss a detail. He values finesse over flash, exploiting every ounce of grip and aero to slice through corners with surgical precision. He often appears out of nowhere in a race often shocking rivals with unanticipated overtakes and deadly speed and vanishes just as fast. Off-track, he’s calm, elegant, and introspective, with a sharp edge when it counts.

His car : A stunning metallic white McLaren 720S, with exposed carbon fiber accents and a matte black hood. The aggressive widebody kit gives it a planted, track-ready stance, complemented by massive concave forged wheels and ultra-low air suspension. A roof scoop and oversized rear wing hint at serious performance, while the sharp front splitter and extended side skirts cut through the air with purpose. Underneath, the suspension’s been lowered for optimal grip, and the car likely hides a tuned ECU and upgraded exhaust system, pushing well beyond the stock 710 hp. Subtle in no way—this build screams speed and precision.

“If you hear me coming, it’s already too late.”

Choi San — The Wildcard

Is pretty much unpredictable and spontaneous, making him the wildcard of the group. He's always trying out new tricks and techniques on the road. The risk-taker of the group. He thrives in chaotic situations and isn't afraid to push the boundaries of what's possible behind the wheel. His fiery personality matches his aggressive driving style. Off track he’s a very sweet guy despite his appearance.

His car : A glossy purple Ford Mustang GT500 Shelby with a matte black hood an purplish-blue LEDs. Would put discreet black decals on the sides of the car just to give it some personality, as well a wide body kit that gives an aggressive stance. He added adjustable coilovers and sway bars for improved handling, the brakes have been beefed up with larger rotors. As well under the hood the engine has been swapped for a high-performance V8.

"Why follow the rules when you can rewrite them? There’s no point for boring races."

Song Mingi — The Titan

Is the powerhouse of the crew, known for his brute strength and intimidating presence. He's fiercely competitive and just like San his driving style is aggressive and also relentless. He likes to show off and impress woman. Is often using his size to intimidate rival racers. Despite his tough exterior, he's a gentle giant that is always willing to lend a helping hand. He’s also fiercely loyal and protective to his friends and loved-ones.

His car : A striking dark blue Lamborghini Huracan STO with big flames decals. His car is a symbol of exotic performance with lots of decals to personalized his car, like a tiger, stripes on the hood, his lucky number and especially big red-orange flames that takes the whole both sides giving it a menacing presence on the streets. As well under the rear hood, the V10 engine has been tuned to perfection, with upgraded turbos, intercoolers, and exhaust system for blistering acceleration and top speed.

"Feeling the power coursing through every rev. That's what drives me."

Jung Wooyoung — The Charmer

Charismatic and stylish, Wooyoung is the showman of the crew. He loves to dazzle spectators with his flashy driving maneuvers. Known for his infectious energy and outgoing personality, he's always the center of attention commanding the spotlight with his natural charisma. Despite his outgoing nature, he's fiercely competitive and always gives his all in races.

His car : A chic expensive sleek black Bugatti Chiron Super Sport 300+. Would keep the outside very simple, no decals or whatever fancy to personalized his car. Only the front grill would be personalized with his lucky number. Otherwise the suspension would been tuned and boosted for both maximum comfort and performance as well. The car would also be equipped with a loud engine and exhaust system. Also would have a spoiler on the back of the car to reenforce it’s aerodynamics and stability. He's upgraded the engine with larger turbo.

"Why blend in when you can stand out? The road is my stage and I'm the star”

Choi Jongho — The Smart Beast

Is unstoppable once he hits the road, with his immense strength and determination driving him forward. Bulldozes through obstacles with sheer force. His brute strength and raw energy. Might be the youngest member, but don't let his age fool you. He's strong-willed and fiercely competitive. Off track, he’s humble and down-to-earth despite his impressive skills behind the wheel.

His car : A sophisticated matte black Aston Martin Vantage GT3 with blue leds. Keeps it simple on the outside, as he’s not at all the fancy type. He's upgraded the engine with with deep black aerodynamic detailing and wide flared fenders, an aggressive carbon fiber front splitter, prominent rear wing, and sculpted side skirts all point to a full track-focused widebody kit. As well the suspension has been upgraded with track-ready dampers and reinforced sway bars for precise cornering. Massive drilled rotors and upgraded calipers peek behind the deep-dish black rims, ensuring serious stopping power. Under the hood, the V8 engine has been tuned for maximum performance, with upgraded intake, exhaust systems for improved airflow and power delivery and reinforced chassis to withstand the impact of his thunderous acceleration.

"I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to win. Try to stop me. I dare you."

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

╭��─────── 𝙁𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙇 𝙇𝘼𝙋 ───────╮ Thanks for riding with me this far 🏁 ╰┈────────────────────┈╯

💌 Got thoughts? Questions? Which member’s is your fav ? Drop a comment or reblog and let’s talk 👀

— want more ? Specific scenarios? Don't be shy drop 'em in the comment sections or directly into my dms !

☠️ Street’s never quiet for long. Have a good day y'all !!

[rorycharles01]

Were-Cats non replica concept lore dump (part one of probably many lol)

ooh okay, where to start...

I guess I should start with some of the backstory lore - Old Deuteronomy and Grizabella were turned around the same time, fell in love and got married. After a decade or so, they decided that they would create a found family of werecats, be they born, abandoned, or turned. They agreed that they would never turn anybody else, as to not put anyone else through the trauma of being turned. Throughout the years, the tribe became so large and spread out, Deuteronomy decided to gather everyone once a year to catch up, celebrate, and sacrifice one of their own to their god, The Everlasting Cat. The chosen sacrifice will get the chance to be reborn into a new Jellicle life. As the years went by, they tried to have children of their own, only to discover in the late 1890's that Grizabella was infertile. Desperate to raise children and have a family of her own, Grizabella found two young orphan brothers (Munkustrap and Tugger) fending for themselves in the streets and impulsively turned them. She lied to Deuteronomy for decades, but accidentally admitted the truth to him in 1987, causing him to banish her from the tribe.

Munkustrap, being the older brother, is next in line to become the Jellicle Leader, and this year is his big test, running the Jellicle Ball - at the end, Old Deut passes over leadership (inspired by Tecklenburg). Tugger is referred to as the "Party Prince" and relishes being the centre of attention.

I think I alluded to it in the tags of my last post, but Victoria starts the show as a human ballerina taking a short-cut home after class, only to get chased down and attacked by Macavity and the Henchcats during the Overture. they drag her off in the climax of the piece, and instead of a car passing by, we hear Victoria's scream of agony as she turns for the first time. she re-emerges where the boot usually drops, and the Mystical Cats (Misto, Jemima, Cori and Tanto) bestow her with the knowledge of the Jellicles.

relationships time!!! so Old Deut and Griz are divorced, obvi. Tuggofelees are together!!! they're monogamous, but Tugger plays into the flirting from his fans, Misto playing the "jealous" boyfriend. they're very healthy in their relationship, though. (I have lots of little choreo and blocking bits between the two of them - including the pas du deux being between them instead of Victoria and Plato, since Viccy's just met these people lol). Munkustrap is poly - he's in a relationship with Alonzo and with Demeter, Demeter is also with Bomba (hopefully that makes sense lol). speaking of Deme - her and Macavity are Jemima's bio parents (let's just say that her conception wasn't entirely Deme's idea... Mac has broken every human law... but Everlasting Cat be damned if she wouldn't protect that kid with her life).

(I'll do more delving into the Jellicle tree later - I've got lore for pretty much every single character lol)

okay, I've gotta eat dinner, but I'll go more into the plot later. (I know I've barely scraped the surface sorry!!)

oh! if y'all have any questions, any specific characters you wanna know about next post and I'll add it!

[hcuyk]

just brainstromed more thoughts and. oh my god. what a fucking RIDE this fic will be

[thornsxcrowns]

She heard the catch in his voice, unsure what it meant, but finding she could sympathize nonetheless. She too knew the experience of being on the outside looking in - had feared it would happen once more with her mother's marriage. Instead she had been welcomed into the fold, with her brother-in-law in the position she had thought she may occupy.

"Do you want it?" She asked, a genuine question. "If you could snap your finger and make it so, would you want to be brought into the fold. To live the life our father planned for you? To give up your chosen family for your birth one?" She suspected what his answer would be, but people surprised her more often than she guessed right.

"Do you truly believe our experiences will be the same in this matter? Perhaps my mother, and our sibling are safe in his affections. Perhaps he would never publicly denounce me - but there are other ways to show dissatisfaction in my choices. Little ways to push me out of a family I have been in for such a short time."

This family dynamic he saw was not by chance. Kit had maneuvered and plotted to earn her adopted father's affection - just as a young woman may maneuver to show a suitors family that she was fit to marry their child. She had played the part, assessed what he wanted and delivered the image of a daughter he had in mind. She had fought to dodge marriage arrangements which could have led to her being shipped away before she had time to make a home at Thorne house, all the while ensuring it was not seen as a slight by Lord Thorne nor a condemnation of his own choices.

She was surprised by his praise - frustrated that their conversation made him seem more human to her, not less. "And yet, I fear there are so many in the Ton who would not agree, who see people making something for themselves as a threat to what they perceive as the 'inherent class structure'. Even the rise in station we gained from our parents marriage has led to accusations of us as being 'upstarts'."

He described himself as a rake, and she wondered at the phrase. Were the gender roles around them less structured she might have found herself drawn to the life of a rake. "I do wonder at the use of that term - rake - we use it both for men who flirt, men who avoid marriage, and men who cause genuine harm to others, who lead them on and endanger their prospects in the future. I do not think these things should be captured together. If you are a rake, which category do you fall into?" If it was the latter he would lose any respect she had for him, but perhaps she would also have another tool in chasing the downfall she had already revealed too much about.

"I want control over my own destiny" she said, it was so simple, and yet so unattainable.

"Home has never been a place for me. I have been pulled from place too many times. Even in my childhood home I could feel the world my mother had left behind, the pieces she tried to find, perhaps to ensure we did not completely leave China behind..." Pieces which are now in the house they both live in. "Home is the communities we build. The people my mother surrounded herself with, the times our halls were filled with people she loved. The community that surrounds Shrewsbury - the people we serve as our vassals."

"Each time I have moved I have had to leave that community behind. Doing that again will feel like the third home I have lost - the third time I have had to rebuild. I am not willing to do that again lightly."

The stress between them was palpable and he wouldn’t have been surprised if anyone around them felt it too. The two of them trying to hold onto something or some sort of upper hand that probably didn’t even exist anyway. There was one person who held the power in their family, and it wasn’t either of them.

“I do?” The surprise is all over his face that fades more into contemplation as he listens to the rest of her words. “I don’t fear you or your mother and it’s not that I don’t see there’s a space for you in the family, it’s quite the opposite. You all fit so perfectly together.” The first thing he noticed when he was forced back into their family home was how different it was. Warmer, for certain. Not to say it wasn’t when his mother was around, as much as it could be, but it was different. Even more jarring was the emptiness of his room. In his youth, he never felt like he fit into the Thorne house and the expectations but when he returned that feeling was only deepened and shown more by the four new siblings that appeared.

There was one that she didn’t say but he thought there would be time for that. She had the ones that counted, and he knew they were such an important type. “Still? You’ve lost some?” That was interesting. “Trying to make a life you want. Whatever our feelings towards each other, that I admire.” It was as close to a compliment as he could get. “If you do it in the context of society, I’m sure Lord Thorne will be ecstatic.” Despite the compliment, there’s an edge to his words.

“Loving is easy, but I disagree on it being overrated. You have to trust to love and risk it too but I’m a rake, I know its different for many people. Here, in this place, there’s not much of either. The only thing people worry about risking is their family’s reputation and money. Sometimes the wrong person you trust is yourself.” Mr Thorne, he gives a small, very subtle chuckle at that. “A lot to gain from our downfall,” he tuts. “I don’t think of you or your downfall but how curious you think of mine. Are you planning on taking me down Miss Rowley?” A jab that he can’t help but do.

“If you think he’ll sour on you or your mother then you do not have eyes. He dotes on the two of you. We share a blood sibling because of them. If, by whatever reason, he sours on your mother, or you then he won’t abandon you. You could dishonour him, enrage him, disappoint him and he would still keep you in the family. People can change but the man is staunch in tradition and family honour, so he won’t toss you aside if that is what you’re worried about. Enjoy his generosity.”

Hearing her voice crack, he knew how much it all must mean to her and how difficult it would be to live just to be the value of someone else. It was how he felt as an heir but nowhere near to the extent she did as a woman. “What is that you do want? A title in your own right and to be the head of some family so you don’t have to work for other peoples whims? He won’t make you head of this house; he has an heir already.” Even if the heir didn’t want it. “Maybe if I’d died at sea,” Tobias laughs but it’s a dark joke.

“Fine,” he huffs. “You probably know already from the whispers of our servants and whatever the lord and lady have said. I lived on a ship for years. I had a bunk in a crowded room below deck that got extremely cold on the water but that was home for ten years.” Nothing of the two years that followed before he was returned to his father’s control. “Your turn.”

[wortaives]

me when. when you. that bad end friends au but here are the draft pages I did

(check tags for additional info)

[renegadeofficial]

going to bed now but i am thoroughly enjoying myself playing elsinore this week. i beat the executive dysfunction demons to let myself try something New as my enrichment/winding down at the end of the day and man is it it funky. sometimes i see with my gamedev eyes how it could be a lil more polished but i am rlly invested in the plot and all its little threads

[todayisafridaynight]

At which point did you realise that the plot of IW is ass? I've seen people complain only about the ending or the halfway point where the teams separate, while I was already actively rolling my eyes like four-five chapters in

i think the moment i fully accepted that IW's story was. Definitely A Story was the moment ebina announced 'bleach japan'. like i think leading up to that point i was thinking to myself 'oh i hope i see X happen' or being like 'i wonder where this is going' and that sort but the proverbial bucket of ice was definitely that moment

[a-little-monotonous]

...oh i was wondering how on earth they were gonna fit all of part II in just seven episodes and the answer is. They Aren't

[aughtpunk]

That Time a Published Author Told Me to Un-Queer My Novel

So, I don't think I ever shared this story on Tumblr before.

As you may know I've spent the past ten years turning my old Welcome to Night Vale fanfic into a stand alone novel called Echo of the Larkspur. Now, I haven't been working on it ten years straight. I'd pick it up, do a bunch of editing and rewriting, submit it to agents/publishers, get turned down, put the book away, wait 2-3 years, dust off the book, re-edit and rewrite, etc etc. A cycle that repeated itself far too many times that I would like.

Well, during one of these cycles when I was in the 'get rejected by every agent and publisher I submit to' stage I asked the writing group I was in what I was doing wrong. Because at this point I had reached a hundred total rejections and I was starting to suspect that the issue was with me.

One of the members of this writing group, a male author who was traditionally published, offered to read my first chapter and give his advice on how to fix it. This was, in retrospect, a mistake. But I was desperate. I sent him the first chapter and waited for his response.

Folks. The email he sent me changed my life.

First he said that agents wouldn't publish my novel because it was Sci-fi with hardcore gay erotica in it. This is curious because while the book certainly is queer, at no point in the conversation with this man did I say it was hardcore erotica. Nor did the first chapter feature any. It's almost as if he assumed that just because something was gay, it had to be hardcore erotica. Interesting.

He went on to say that a Human/Robot pairing was weird and that there was "No Way" my story could seriously address the issues of a relationship like that. Once again, he only read the first chapter. He just...assumed I wouldn't think of that? And that my book wouldn't cover it?

The author then said “I also felt that the LGBTQ inclusion really seems to cloud things.” Direct Quote.

And then this is when he said my favorite quote of them all:

The idea of a book being a sci-fi with romance AND a mystery is a Modern Art Marzipan Owl. It's just too confusing! No one can handle a story that is a mystery in a sci-fi enviroment AND has a romantic subplot! THEIR BRAINS WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE!

Thankfully he had a solution to my book problem. His answer? Turn the book into an Action Spy Thriller and turn S.A.G.E., a robot that identies as a gay man, into a sexy lady robot who needs a MAN to teach her what it means to be human.

(I assume the male lead will teach the 'confused' female robot how to be human via his penis.)

Now my favorite part about this advice is that at no point did he outright say "Remove the gay part". No, instead he sneakily changed the robot love interest into a female robot as if I wouldn't notice. Just sort of swept away the gay bits as something totally unneeded and just mucking up the narrative. Also that's not the plot of my story, I have no idea where this virus thing came from.

(Also note that the female robot can't be robotic-like at all. Must preserve the average straight-man sex drive at all costs I guess)

He then finished his email basically saying that I should remove everything that 'traditional publishers' don't like (aka the queer parts) and make it easier for 'your average reader' to digest and my book will be good as published!

When I said this email changed my life I meant it. Because it made me realize I'd rather be self published and unknown than traditionally publish milquetoast trash like he suggested. Like holy fuck. If I removed all of the "Difficult" to digest stories out of Echo of the Larkspur then there wouldn't be a book left!

So here I am. Self publishing my Marzipan Modern Art Owl of a book. I know it'll never see the inside of a bookstore or top the charts on Goodreads but hey, I'd rather it speak to one person than have a thousand people get excited for the part where the male lead teaches the lady robot how to be human (via his penis).

If a Queer Sci-fi/Romance/Mystery novel sounds like your jam then consider preordering it!

Looking for something to read now? Can't afford the book? Willing to read in exchange for an honest review? You can join my ARC book readers here!

[writeblrfantasy]

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)