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jacksabbotts · 2 days ago

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. ᵒ .༄ JACK ABBOT x MORGUE!READER ! ࿔* ·˚ ༘ ┊͙ # 🩻 possible trigger warnings heavy makeout ◞ over-the-clothes touching ◞ grinding ◞ PRAISE kink ◞ mention of past sexual harrasment ( not from jack but towards reader ) ‧ 🥼 ‧ ━━ WC 6.2k

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

⤷ ✵ ✧ . · * . · . AFTER THE HEAT ━━ chapter twelve . ⋆ ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ summary after a rough shift, jack joins you in your apartment for a quiet, rain-soaked night that turns into something far more intimate. what starts as soft teasing and over-the-clothes heat transforms into a deeply emotional moment as you reclaim something that was once stolen—jack’s praise guiding you to your first real release in his arms.

the rain hit like static, a low hiss against the windshield that filled every pocket of silence. the kind of late-night rain that felt like it had weight, sticking to the streets, the windows, your skin.

you’d been sitting in jack’s truck for three minutes now, both of you too wrecked to move, letting the defroster hum while the world outside blurred into muted neon smudges.

neither of you had spoken since you left the hospital garage. there was no need. the day—or the night, whatever this hellshift qualified as—had already said everything for you. you could still feel the sterile hospital air in your lungs, the antiseptic bite of it clinging to your hair and clothes. your fingers ached. your knees ached. even your thoughts ached.

jack’s hand rested on the gearshift, steady, unshaking, like it always was. he hadn’t looked at you much during the drive—eyes mostly on the wet stretch of road—but you felt him. felt the weight of his awareness like the slow burn of a space heater.

you shifted in your seat, the vinyl squeaking softly under you. he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “tired?” his voice was low, almost hoarse, like he’d spent too many hours shouting over trauma alarms. like the gravel in it was rawer than usual.

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “exhausted.”

a ghost of a smile brushed his lips. “yeah. me too.”

the windshield wipers squeaked and dragged, filling the silence that followed. you wanted to say something—anything—but your brain was mush. the dinner plans you’d both half-joked about yesterday suddenly felt more laughable than ever. you could barely keep your eyes open, let alone pretend to be a functioning adult at a restaurant table.

“jack?” you hesitated, your voice smaller than you intended. “about tonight—”

he glanced over, his brow lifting slightly. “yeah?”

“could we . . . maybe not?” you asked softly, staring down at your hands. “i just—don’t have the energy for crowds tonight.”

there was a pause. long enough that you risked looking up.

jack’s eyes were on you, warm even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “sweetheart,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in that soft, devastating way, “you think i wanna sit in some loud-ass restaurant after the day we had? hell no. i was kinda hopin’ you’d say that.”

you blinked. “you were?”

he shrugged, hand flexing casually over the gearshift. “figured you’d either pass out in your soup or cry someone who looked at you wrong. neither of those scream ‘first out in public date’ to me.”

a laugh escaped you, shaky but real. “wow. thanks for the vote of confidence.”

jack grinned, tired but warm. “i’m just saying—there are other ways to spend the night.”

your chest tightened. “like what?”

“like . . . ” he glanced at you, his smile softening. “movie? couch? maybe a quiet night in where we don’t have to talk about morgues or trauma bays.”

the words slipped out before you could stop them. “i don’t . . . have a couch.” you were now realizing that jack had never actually seen the inside of your apartment. only the walkway and the front door. it was a studio and the only thing you could afford on your salary in this city but it did it's job alright.

jack tilted his head. “no couch?”

“no.” you fidgeted with your sleeves. “just . . . a bed. and a very tiny tv.” you don't like how suggestive that sentence sounded. because you were not just trying to get jack abbot into your bed.

the truck went quiet again—except for the rain and your heart pounding against your ribs. jack didn’t smirk. he didn’t make it weird. he just looked at you like you’d just told him something important.

“your bed, huh?” his voice was softer now, quieter, with that rough undertone that made you shiver. “you inviting me over, morgue girl?”

your throat worked. “i-i-i didn't mean it like that. i mean-only if . . . you want to. it was your idea.” that last part was definitely not meant for him to hear, it died off into a whisper.

jack’s gaze lingered on you for one long, heavy second. then he smiled—slow, steady. “yeah. i want to.”

the weight of it settled between you—warm and terrifying all at once. he didn’t push. he guiding the truck through the wet streets toward your place like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he chuckled, the sound low and rough, like gravel being poured into something warm. his right hand slid easily off the gearshift and settled on your knee, fingers splayed, the heat of his palm soaking straight through the fabric of your jeans.

you froze.

not because it was unwelcome, but because it wasn’t. at all.

you could feel every nerve ending in your body responding, sparking to life under that single, deliberate touch. you swallowed hard, trying to will your muscles to relax, but your fingers only curled tighter around the seatbelt strap.

the rest of the drive blurred past in a haze of rain and your own heartbeat. every bump of the road, every low hum of the engine felt louder than normal, like the whole night was poised on a knife’s edge.

when he pulled into your street, the truck lights illuminated the slick pavement, glistening like black glass. jack killed the engine, the sudden quiet leaving you both suspended in the sound of rain.

“come on,” he said, already reaching behind the seat for an umbrella.

you hesitated and then he shot you a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, as he flipped the umbrella open with a sharp click.

your lips twitched despite yourself. he came around to your side, pulling the door open with one hand while holding the umbrella high with the other. the rain pelted down around him, beads sliding off his henley sleeves, darkening the fabric over his forearms.

you hesitated again, blinking up at him, and that soft, crooked grin appeared again. “you waiting for a royal escort? c’mon, morgue girl. out.”

you stepped down onto the slick pavement, and the cold instantly hit you. jack shifted closer, holding the umbrella wide enough to cover you but letting the rain soak his own shoulder. his hand found your lower back instinctively—warm, solid, there—and you tried not to shiver from the contact.

the short walk to your apartment felt longer than the entire drive. the sound of rain on the umbrella was oddly intimate, like being sealed into your own little world with him. jack’s body heat radiated close to yours, and every step felt heavier with the weight of everything you weren’t saying.

at your door, he angled the umbrella so you could dig for your keys without getting soaked. “got it?” he asked quietly, eyes scanning your face as though he could tell you were more rattled than the rain warranted.

you nodded, fumbling a little because of course you did. his hand lingered on your back—steady, patient, like he wasn’t going anywhere.

the door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly your apartment—your safe little cave of solitude—felt too small. too warm. too aware of the man now standing just inside, shaking the rain from his hair like he belonged there.

jack glanced around, taking in the one-room layout: the narrow kitchen counter, the scuffed bookshelf, the unmade bed tucked near the window. his presence filled every corner, his broad shoulders dwarfing the tiny entryway. he didn’t say anything, just offered you that slow, crooked grin like he was already picturing you unraveling in this space.

you kicked off your wet shoes, trying not to stare. “uh… here,” you mumbled, darting for the closet. “i’ll get you a towel.”

“sweetheart,” he said behind you, voice warm, amused, “i’m not gonna melt.”

“still,” you shot back, too flustered to look at him. “you’re dripping on my floor.”

you grabbed the first towel you could find—soft but worn, a little frayed at the edges—and handed it over without meeting his eyes. he took it with a quiet, “thanks,” and started rubbing it over his hair, the motion pulling his shirt tighter across his shoulders. you stared at the floor like that would stop your brain from short-circuiting.

“you want something dry to change into?” you blurted, then immediately regretted it. “i—oh, god, i don’t have anything. i mean, i live alone, so obviously i don’t have men’s clothes, and that would be weird, and—”

jack chuckled low, cutting you off. “not a fan of other men’s clothes—unless it’s you wearing mine.”

your brain stopped. like, flatlined. your mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was a strangled, “i—wha—”

he smirked, tilting his head like he was watching you try to form a coherent sentence. “what? i meant it. can’t say i’d hate seeing you in one of my shirts.” his voice dropped, soft and rough all at once. “wouldn’t hate it at all.”

your knees went wobbly. “uh. right. okay.” smooth. very smooth.

jack grinned like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, then tossed the towel over a chair and shrugged out of his damp jacket. “what’s the plan, sweetheart? still want that movie night?”

“yeah,” you said too fast, voice cracking on the single syllable. “movie night. sure.”

movie night was a lie. you both knew it.

your little bed doubled as the couch because your studio was too small for anything else, so you laid perched nervously on the far edge of it, remote in hand, trying to look normal. jack sat next to you, close but not too close, his weight dipping the mattress just enough that you felt every movement.

the movie played on, some half-forgotten dialogue murmuring in the background, but you weren’t hearing any of it. all you could feel was him. jack was right there, an entire stretch of bed between you, but it might as well have been a mile.

his left hand was draped lazily between his knees—close to where you assume he laid limp. too close for your nervous brain to really comprehend.

you kept stealing glances—at his broad shoulders where his henley clung, at the way he sprawled against the pillows like he owned the space. like he owned you. his other arm was propped casually behind his head, bicep flexing with each subtle shift, and the soft flicker of the screen threw warm shadows across his jaw.

he didn’t look at you. not directly. but you felt him noticing. every time you fidgeted with the hem of your cardigan, every time you tucked your feet beneath you or crossed your arms to keep from reaching, you felt his attention like static.

the space between you was literally suffocating you. you hated how much you wanted to fill it.

stop being weird, you told yourself. it’s just jack. he’s literally just watching a movie.

but the silence burned holes in your chest, and your pulse wouldn’t settle. before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted closer. just a little at first. barely enough to be noticeable. but then—jack turned his head.

and smiled.

not a smirk. not teasing. something softer. quieter. like maybe he’d been waiting for you to make that first move. his arm—heavy and warm—shifted down from behind his head, sliding onto the pillow between you. not touching, not yet, but open. welcoming.

you froze halfway through leaning into him, suddenly aware of how close you’d gotten.

jack chuckled low under his breath. not at you—never at you—but like he couldn’t help himself. then he tilted slightly toward your side, closing the last bit of distance until his arm brushed your sleeve.

it was barely a touch, but it made your breath stutter. “better,” he murmured, just once.

you didn’t realize you were holding your breath until his hand shifted—fingers brushing the curve of your arm, slow and deliberate. he didn’t pull you in. he didn’t need to. the quiet weight of him beside you was enough to make you fold.

you leaned closer, careful, your temple brushing his shoulder.

jack exhaled—long and slow. then his head tilted just enough that you felt his lips ghost your hairline. the movement was so slight, so natural, it didn’t feel like a question. it felt like inevitability.

you turned your head, the movie already forgotten, and that’s when you found his eyes.

god.

the way he looked at you. like you were something fragile and wanted at the same time. like he couldn’t believe you were his.

the air between you evaporated.

this time, jack didn’t wait for words. he shifted just enough to face you fully, his hand sliding from your arm to your jaw, and kissed you.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t demanding. it was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor every single second you let him have.

and you melted.

his lips lingered on yours, soft at first—like he was letting you set the pace. he kissed you once, twice, and then his hand slid up, fingers curling against the side of your neck. not hard, not insistent, just there. warm and solid.

your breath hitched. “relax,” he murmured, voice barely a whisper against your mouth. “we’re not in a hurry.”

god, that voice. it coiled low in your stomach, spreading heat through your chest, and you kissed him back harder without meaning to. jack made a soft sound in response—half groan, half approval—and shifted so he was lying back more fully against the pillows, his arm tugging you closer.

you went. hesitant, yes, but you went. the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he leaned just a little sideways, pulling you with him until you were pressed along his side, your knee brushing his thigh.

the kiss deepened. his mouth opened just slightly, and when his tongue brushed yours—light, slow—you made a sound you didn’t recognize. a startled, desperate little noise that had his grip tightening fractionally on your waist.

“yeah,” he breathed against your lips, his voice gone lower. rougher. “just like that.” your whole body burned. you didn’t know what to do with your hands—one was clutching the hem of your sweater, the other hovering stupidly near his shoulder like it had lost all function. jack noticed—of course he did—and reached down, wrapping his hand around yours.

“here,” he murmured, voice coaxing. he placed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. “feel that? that’s all you.”

your stomach flipped. his heartbeat was a steady, heavy thud beneath your fingertips. you swallowed hard, your fingers curling reflexively into the soft fabric of his henley.

“other hand,” he said quietly, nudging your arm from where it was frozen against your side. he guided it to his jaw—warm, rough with stubble—and left it there. “good. now hold on to me.”

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think. all you could feel was the weight of him, the heat of his body against yours, and the lazy, devastating way he kissed you like he had all night to break you apart.

when his hand started to slide up from your hip, you didn’t even register it at first. his palm traced your ribcage, hovering just below your breast, and he paused—pulling back just far enough to murmur, “okay?”

you nodded, too fast. “y-yeah.”

jack smirked faintly, but it wasn’t teasing. it was warm, slow, approving. his hand moved lower, over the curve of your waist, back to your hip again. his thumb brushed the seam of your leggings, and your stomach clenched so hard you gasped into his mouth.

“easy,” he said softly, kissing you again. “i’ve got you.”

and then—oh god—he shifted. just a little. his hips rolled forward as he leaned over you, and you felt it. the hard, solid press of him against your stomach, the heat of his arousal through the denim of his jeans. you jolted, breath stuttering against his lips.

“feel that?” jack rasped, breaking the kiss for half a second to breathe against your cheek. “that’s what you do to me.”

you froze. not because you wanted to stop, but because the sheer intensity of it knocked your brain clean out of your head.

jack noticed—of course he did. he was specially tuned to you whether you liked it or not. he pulled back just far enough to look at you, thumb brushing your jaw. “too much?”

“no,” you whispered. shaking your head. “not too much. just . . . i don’t know what to do.” he smiled—soft and slow and devastating. “then let me help.”

his hand slid down, curling gently around your wrist, guiding it to his stomach. his warmth burned through his henley. he waited—always waiting—before sliding your hand lower, to the waistband of his jeans.

your breath caught. “jack—”

“you don’t have to do anything,” he said, his voice like gravel now. “just feel me. that’s all.”

your palm hovered over the firm line of muscle just below his belt, your fingers trembling. jack leaned in closer, kissing you slow, steady, like you had all the time in the world. and when you shifted—accidentally pressing against him—his breath hitched hard.

a low, rough sound left his throat, deep enough to make you shiver.

jack’s kisses slowed, deepened, his breath mingling with yours as his hand left your wrist and slid back to your hip. his thumb traced lazy circles there, the pressure feather-light but maddening. then, lower—fingers brushing the outside of your thigh, inch by inch.

you stiffened—because every nerve in your body was suddenly screaming awake. “hey,” jack murmured, pulling back just enough to see your face. his lips were swollen, his voice rough. “just breathe, sweetheart.”

“i am,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound convincing.

jack’s grin was soft but knowing. his palm swept up your thigh again—slow, deliberate, the kind of touch that wasn’t trying to rush you but still sent heat blooming low in your belly. “can i . . . ?” he didn’t finish the sentence. he didn’t need to. the way his fingers hovered near the edge of your leggings, just shy of where you were throbbing, said everything.

your pulse spiked. you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. not right away. “baby, look at me,” he said gently, hand still and waiting. his tone wasn’t a command, not really—it was an anchor, a thread pulling you back into the moment.

your gaze flicked to his.

he searched your eyes, patient and steady, like he’d wait all night if that’s what it took. “do you want me to touch you?”

the breath you dragged in was shaky. you nodded.

“uh-uh,” jack said, soft but firm. “use your words, baby. remember what we talked about?” your stomach dropped, heat crawling up your neck. "you want me to touch you. you gotta say it out loud."

“i… yes. please.”

he shakes his head, disapproving. "uh-uh, gotta say the words."

"i-i-i want you to . . . touch me, jack." his exhale was low and harsh, like you’d just knocked the wind out of him. “that's my girl,” he muttered, his voice hoarse—jack’s words were molten, reverent, like he was praising you for trusting him.

and then his hand slid between your thighs.

not on your center yet—just the inside of your leg, his palm warm even through the fabric. he started low, just above your knee, his thumb tracing lazy, featherlight strokes up, up, up—pausing at the edge of your leggings where the heat of your body radiated through the cotton.

you gasped. your hips shifted without meaning to, trying to chase the warmth of his hand.

jack groaned—soft and restrained—his forehead dropping briefly to yours. “fuck. you’re killing me, sweetheart,” he breathed.

he kissed you again—slow, deep—his fingers brushing over you now, the lightest pass over your clothed cunt. not pushing, not rushing, just enough to make your entire body shiver. “like that?” he whispered against your lips.

you couldn’t even answer. just a breathless, shaking nod.

jack’s hand is warm, heavy against your center, sliding in slow, deliberate passes. every stroke of his palm feels like it burns, like the fabric of your leggings can’t hold back the heat pooling there. his mouth is everywhere—kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your lips—while his fingers toy at the edge of where you need him most.

“relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough velvet. “you’re wound up so tight you’re shaking.”

“i—” the word dies in your throat when his thumb skims right over the seam of your leggings, close to your clit. no pressure, not really—just enough to make your hips twitch. he groans into your mouth when you gasp, a low, hungry sound that vibrates against your lips.

“that’s it,” he whispers, coaxing. “just feel me. nothing else. yeah?”

your breath hitches. you nod, though it feels like your brain is melting. he takes that as permission to press a little more firmly, his fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over the fabric, each one tighter than the last.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you,” he soothes, kissing you slow and deep, his hand molding against you like he’s learning every inch of your body by heart. “just like that. keep moving for me.”

it’s instinct. your hips roll—hesitant, unsure—but when you grind against the heel of his hand, the sound jack makes is nothing short of sinful. his head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he grind his cock into your thigh. “fuck. you feel that? you’re making me crazy, baby.”

heat sparks through you like lightning. you can’t stop the way you rock into him, desperate and trembling, chasing the friction. his hand guides you—steady, encouraging, the pressure of his palm firm enough to make you dizzy.

“you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice breaking with it. “you don’t even know how good you feel like this. god, i could stay here all night, just watching you.”

your whole body jerks when his thumb finally drags slowly over your clothed clit, a shudder ripping through you. he kisses you hard when you gasp, like he can’t stand to let the sound escape.

“such a good girl.”

the words hit like a brick to the chest.

everything stops.

your breath catches, and not in the way he means. it’s too sudden, too sharp. all at once, you’re not here—you’re standing in that sterile morgue again, shepherd’s voice slimy and low as he said the same words, good girl, like you were something to belittle. something to control.

your body freezes. jack feels it instantly.

“hey.” his hand is gone from between your legs before you can process it, his palm cupping your cheek instead, his voice low and concerned. “sweetheart. what’s wrong? did i—shit, did i go too far?”

“no,” you blurt, too fast. too desperate. you don’t want to think about shepherd. you don’t want this to stop. you grab jack’s wrist with trembling hands and try to guide him back down, back to where you need him. “please, jack. i’m fine. just—keep going.”

but jack doesn’t move. his hand stays right where it is, fingers brushing your hip but not pushing further. his eyes are dark, tinged with worry.

“you froze up on me,” he says gently. “sweetheart, talk to me. what happened?” you shake your head, frustrated, embarrassed. “nothing, i promise. i’m fine.”

jack’s jaw tightens. he doesn’t believe you. “no,” he says, voice firmer now. “something’s happened and we're not doing anything until you tell me what.”

your throat works, but no words come out. jack is still watching you, all warmth stripped from his expression—his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, his hand still stubbornly resting high on your hip instead of where you want it.

“sweetheart,” he says again, quieter this time, though there’s steel under the softness. “look at me.”

“i said i’m fine,” you whisper, but your voice cracks right down the middle.

“sweetheart.” his tone leaves no room for argument. it’s not harsh, not even close. but it’s steady, grounded, the kind of voice that wraps around you like a hand at the back of your neck. “you think i can’t tell when something’s wrong?”

your throat feels tight, unbearably so. you squeeze your eyes shut. don’t say it. don’t bring him here. not into this. not into jack.

but jack’s thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “talk to me,” he murmurs. “you can tell me anything. always.”

your voice is a whisper. “it’s nothing. just—something stupid. i don’t wanna ruin this.”

the words hit something in you—deep, aching. it’s not like shepherd. it’s not like anyone else. and maybe that’s why the truth spills out in the smallest, ugliest whisper.

“you’re not gonna ruin anything,” jack murmurs, leaning in just enough that his forehead nearly brushes yours. “but if something’s in your head, i need to know. i’m not gonna let you sit here and pretend you’re okay when i can feel you aren’t.”

his thumb rubs an absent circle on your hip—comforting, not demanding. you shake your head, breath catching. “it’s not you.”

“ok,” he says firmly. “but i can’t fix what i don’t know, baby. what happened?”

you’re silent for a moment, wrestling with the words. the memory of shepherd’s voice slithers through your mind, unbidden, good girl. you flinch just thinking it.

when you finally speak, your voice cracks. “he said it. that . . . that name.”

jack doesn’t move. but the temperature in the room changes. he pulls back just far enough to see your face, his expression shifting—slowly, dangerously—from confusion to realization. his brows knit tighter. “who?”

you swallow hard, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. “shepherd. dr. shepherd. he . . . he called me that once.”

jack’s brows knit, confusion flashing into something sharper. “called you what?” you wondered for a second how someone so observant could be so oblivious.

your chest is tight, tears stinging at the back of your eyes. “good girl,” you whisper, and the words taste like ash. “and it didn’t—it didn’t feel right. it felt . . . ” your voice trails off, trembling.

jack’s whole body goes rigid. his jaw clenches so hard you can hear it. “that son of a—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand down his face like he’s fighting the urge to throw something.

“jack—”

“no.” his voice is low, rough with fury. “no, sweetheart. he doesn’t get to do that. he doesn’t get to leave his shit in your head, not when you’re here with me.”

your breath stutters.

jack looks at you then—really looks, with that dangerous softness you’ve only seen once or twice. he taps two fingers lightly against your chest, right over your heart. “he doesn’t get this. he doesn’t get you.”

the tears come faster than you can stop them. “i didn’t want to ruin it,” you admit, voice breaking. “it felt different when you said it. better. but i couldn’t stop thinking about—”

“hey, look at me.” his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing away a tear like it’s an offense to his hands. his eyes are steady, warm even through the storm brewing in them. “you think i’m gonna let him take that from you? not a damn chance.”

you choke out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “jack—”

“no, listen.” his forehead tips to yours, his voice lowering to something so soft it wrecks you. “when i call you that? it’s because you are good. because you make me feel things i can’t even put words to. because you’re perfect to me. you hear me? that’s all it means. nothing about him. just you and me.”

something in your chest caves. you nod, shaky.

“say it,” he murmurs.

“say what?”

“tell me that you understand it,” he says, not rough, not claiming, but with a quiet conviction that makes your pulse skip.

“i understand,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he breathes, kissing your forehead like it’s the only answer that matters. “you’re my good girl. and i’ll say it until it feels like yours again. not his.”

the words wreck you. utterly. you nod into his chest, clutching his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

your other hand slinks around his wrist and tightens around it. jack’s hand freezes midair when you push it back down, pressing his palm into the heat between your legs through your leggings.

“sweetheart…” his voice is tight, warning, but his eyes darken instantly. “you sure? we don’t—”

“say it,” you whisper, breath shaky but fierce. “say it again.”

his throat bobs, and for half a second, he just looks at you—like he’s trying to decide if you mean it, if you’re ready for what that word will feel like when it’s his.

then his lips curl into the faintest, roughest smile, and he presses his hand down firmer, fingers dragging slow against the seam of your leggings.

“good girl,” he rasps, and your body jerks like it’s the first time you’ve heard it. his. not shepherd’s. not poisoned or cruel or degrading. jack says it like it’s the only thing you’ll ever be—like it’s holy.

your breath stutters. “again,” you demand, your voice a whisper that somehow sounds more like begging than commanding.

he groans low in his chest, his hand moving with deliberate, steady pressure, rubbing you in slow circles through the soft barrier of fabric. “god, you feel so good under me. so wet already, aren’t you? that’s my good girl, letting me take care of you like this.”

your thighs tremble, hips twitching into his hand. “jack—”

“shh,” he murmurs, his tone roughening as his fingers speed up just slightly. “don’t stop saying my name like that. you like me touching you? you want more?”

you nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes, yes, i—jack, please…”

“please what?” his words come between hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his voice rough against your pulse. “please don’t stop? please make you come? tell me, sweetheart. use your words like i asked.”

“please—don’t stop,” you gasp, your hips rocking now, chasing every drag of his fingers over the damp spot growing in your leggings. “say it again. say i’m your—”

“my good girl,” he growls into your throat, this time harsher, more desperate. “you’re mine. all mine. nobody gets to touch you like this but me. nobody gets to make you feel this good.” his hand presses harder, fingers curling like he’s trying to mold you to his palm, and your body arches.

“again,” you cry out, because the word feels like fire in your veins now. “jack—say it again.”

“good girl,” he repeats, rougher this time, his voice breaking as his thumb finds a rhythm that has you keening, your leggings slick and hot under his hand. “good girl, taking it so well. fuck, you’re perfect. that’s it. just like that. you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”

your head falls back, mouth open, a sound tearing from your throat that you didn’t even know you could make. his free hand grips your hip to hold you steady as you rut against his palm, breathless and shaking.

jack’s hand is relentless now, the slow, teasing patience gone, replaced by something darker and hungrier. his fingers press hard against the damp fabric between your legs, working you with a steady rhythm that makes your breath hitch with every drag of his palm.

“you’re soaking through these,” he mutters against your jaw, his voice low and frayed. “christ.”

you can feel him—hard and heavy—grinding against your side where you’re pinned beneath him. each rut of his hips sends a fresh bolt of heat through you, the friction of his jeans against your thigh paired with his hand on you too much to handle.

“jack,” you gasp, nails clawing at the fabric of his henley. “i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, his forehead pressed to yours now, every line of his body shaking with restraint. “you’re so close, sweetheart. i can feel it. don’t hold back on me. be my good girl and come for me.”

the words hit like a lightning strike—raw, rough, too much. your hips jerk up against his hand, chasing the friction, and jack groans loudly, his breath ragged against your mouth.

“god, that’s it—ride my hand, baby, just like that. fuck—” his voice cracks as his hips grind harder into your side, the roughness of his jeans brushing the soft curve of your waist.

you whimper, desperate and shaking. “say it again.”

“good girl,” he snarls, his tone rough and desperate as his thumb presses down over your clit through the fabric, circling with just enough pressure to make you see stars. “my good girl, taking everything i give her. you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

your head tips back, lips parting on a sharp, breathless cry as you chase the pressure, rutting against his hand while he works you faster. jack’s other arm braces beside your head, holding him above you, his bicep flexing as he moves with you. he’s sweating, groaning, losing it.

“jack—jack, i—”

“yeah, i know,” he pants, his hips jerking faster now as he grinds against your side, chasing his own high. “i’m right there with you, sweetheart. come for me. come with me. i wanna feel you fall apart while i do.”

the combination of his words, his hand, his body moving against yours pushes you over the edge with a sharp, broken cry. your thighs clamp around his hand, your body arching as wave after wave crashes through you.

“yes, fuck, that’s it,” jack groans, watching your face like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. his hips stutter against you once, twice—and then he’s falling with you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his groan muffled against your skin as he comes in his jeans.

the world goes quiet for a moment. the rain outside. the sound of both of you panting, hearts racing. his hand slows, soothing, as he eases you down from the high, fingers brushing lightly against your trembling thighs.

“jesus christ,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. he shifts just enough to cradle you, pulling you into his lap while you’re still shivering. “you okay? sweetheart, look at me.”

your answer is barely a sound, just a soft hum as you bury your face against his throat, clinging to him like you’re afraid to let go. his chest shakes with a quiet laugh, warm and fond.

you are glued to him. melted. dissolved. a trembling, boneless heap in jack abbot’s lap, clinging like the world might fall out from under you if you let go. your arms are locked around his neck, your cheek smushed into that perfect, sweat-warm spot just under his jaw, and you are not letting go.

he shifts just slightly to reach for something and you whine—an honest-to-god, unconscious little whine—and hold tighter.

he huffs a soft laugh against your temple. “god, you’re clingy after you come, huh?” he teases, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “not that i’m complaining. i could hold you like this all night.”

you don’t even deny it. you can’t. your voice is half-gone and your brain’s still buffering. the only thing that comes out is a soft, shattered hum and the barely-there whisper of—“jack…”

and his arms tighten immediately. big, broad hands splayed across your back, cradling, grounding.

“i’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he’s soothing a spooked animal. “not going anywhere.”

you’re not sure how long you stay like that—folded into each other, hearts still racing, breath slowly evening out—but eventually, you feel him shift again. this time, he eases you back just enough to see your face.

your cheeks are flushed. lips kiss-bitten. eyes glassy and dazed. you look thoroughly wrecked, and he looks so proud.

“stay here,” he says gently, brushing your hair off your face. “i’ll be right back.”

and true to his word, he’s back in less than a minute with a towel—warm from the dryer, because of course it is—and a bottle of water. he sets the towel down and unscrews the cap, coaxing the bottle into your hands.

“c’mon, sip for me,” he says, guiding it to your lips when you don’t move fast enough. “there you go. that’s my good girl.” he mumbles when you do begin to sip.

you flush all over again. you try to argue, something weak and croaky like i’m fine, but he cuts you off with a look.

“you were perfect.”

you shrink a little at the praise, still half-embarrassed by how much you needed it—how much you liked it—but he just grins, wicked and fond, and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. you open your mouth to argue that you didn't even do anything but whine and moan, but again he stops you cold. "don't argue. you were perfect, baby."

“you always clingy after?” he teases quietly, fingers lazily stroking your thigh. “or is this just a me thing?”

you don’t answer. you can’t. your eyes are fluttering shut and your breath’s gone slow and even. he chuckles again, low and fond, and shifts the blankets over both of you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, tugging you close, “that’s what i thought.”

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#★ 彡 . . . ❪ fic : good girl confessions ❫#jack abbot x morgue tech!reader #the pitt x morgue tech!reader #morgue tech!reader

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russo-woso · 2 days ago

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We’re in this together | Month 4

When Alessia has an away game on the other side of the state, and reader has a scare, reader and Theo end up stuck in hospital for hours upon end.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Alessia had asked as she finished packing her bag.

The team had an away game on the opposite side of the state which was the longest distance you and Alessia had been apart since the pregnancy.

“I’ll be fine, baby. I promise. Theo’s here if I need him but you’ll only be gone for two nights, I’ll be fine.” You reassured her, stepping forward as she rested her hands on your hips.

“You’ll be fine.” Alessia repeated, a small smile appearing on her face.

“Now, go. You’re gonna miss the bus.” You laughed, Alessia still holding you close, refusing to let go. “Lessi…”

“I know. Goodbye, darling. I love you.” She mumbled against your lips.

“I love you too, less. Ring me when you get there.”

She hummed before pressing her lips against yours.

She quickly dropped to her knees, pulling away from the kiss.

“Hi bubba, it’s lessi. You look after your mummy for me, okay?”

Over the past few weeks, Alessia had connected with the baby. She wasn’t afraid to rest her hands on your bump anymore or she wasn’t scared to talk to it.

Her hand caressed your bump gently whilst your baby kicked back at her hand.

When you were 16 weeks pregnant, you felt the first kick and now two weeks later, you felt them every single minute of every single day.

Alessia stood back up, lifting her bag before placing a final kiss to your lips.

“Love you.”

“I love you too.”

She walked out, closing the door behind her.

“Well, bubba. What do we do now?”

You had just done a small workout session in the gym when you felt the first spike of pain.

You rested a hand on your lower bump as you felt it.

You’d had a few aches and pains all throughout the pregnancy so far but they’d never been that bad.

You had pushed it to the side - thinking you’d just overdone it in the gym.

But on the way back to your dorm, the pain appeared again.

You doubled over, breathing deeply and wishing for it to go away.

“Y/N?” You heard Theo’s voice from behind you. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

His walk turned into a jog once he saw the pain on your face.

“I think it’s the baby.” You revealed, pure panic along with pain in your voice.

Theo’s face paled as he stilled.

“Okay — umm… where’s Alessia? I’ll call her and we’ll go to the hospital.”

“She’s away for a match. The team went this morning.” You explained, your jaw clenching as another sharp pain occurred. “Theo, this really hurts.”

“I know.” He whispered, his voice sincere and gentle. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

He wrapped his arm round your waist, holding you up but the more you walked, the more it hurt.

You winced as you took a step, theo stopping and without a second thought, picked you up.

He walked you to his car, placing you in the passenger seat and doing your seat belt.

You couldn’t remember much of the journey, pain and panic filling your mind.

Roads turned into one, 20 miles feeling like 100.

All you could think about was your baby.

You were sitting in the waiting room for must have been three hours before you were actually seen.

The nurse called you to a room, making you lay on the bed.

“Hiya, I’m Gemma, I’ll be your nurse. I’m just going to get the ultrasound machine ready. I’m guessing you’re the father?” She questioned, looking at Theo who sat nervously in the chair.

He was leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers played anxiously with the stubble on his chin.

“Yeah, I am.” He said, clearing his throat.

You took a deep breath in, thinking the worst as the nurse began the scan.

Theo took your hand in his, as a gentle reminder that he was there.

The room fell silent as the nurse tried to find a heartbeat.

Your heart was racing, your eyes shut, your breath caught in your lungs.

Before finally, a Loud, strong heartbeat filled the room.

Theo let out a relieved laugh, squeezing your hand.

“That’s a very strong heartbeat.” She told you with a smile, your baby filling the screen in front of you. “From the scan, your baby looks perfectly fine but there’s clearly something that’s caused the pain and that might not show from the scan. So we’re going to have to run more tests and in order to get them done, I’m going to have to keep you in overnight.”

You nodded, your nerves slightly calmed as you kept your eyes on the baby-like figure on the screen.

When you’d gone for your 12 week scan, the baby hadn’t looked like a baby - instead looking like a paint splash so it was weird to know that it looked like a baby now.

“I’ll leave you two here whilst I grab you a gown and see what rooms are available. Is a standard room okay?”

“Can we upgrade? I can pay now if I have to.” Theo quickly said, standing up and getting his card out.

“Theo, no, I don’t—” you began to say but was quickly cut off.

“—You’re carrying a baby, the least I can do is pay to have you stay in a nice room.” He explained. “Please, let me pay for it.”

You nodded, knowing he’d do it anyway.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, one of my colleagues will be in shortly to explain what we’re going to do.” Gemma said, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

“Can you pass me my phone. I need to call less.” You asked Theo and he nodded, handing you your phone.

“I’m gonna call Jackson quickly too, I was supposed to meet him an hour ago.” Theo told you, letting out a small laugh.

“Sorry.” You whispered, a guilt of rush running through you. You’d completely stopped his whole day.

“Please don’t say sorry. I’d rather be here and know that you and the baby are okay than not know.”

You pressed on Alessia’s number before bringing the phone to your ear.

It rang a few times before Alessia picked up.

“Hiya, darling.” She answered. “I was just about to call you. We only got here about ten minutes ago. It’s a lovely hotel, it would be even better if you were here though.”

“I wish I was there too.”

“Are you okay? Where are you?”

Just as you went to answer, Theo laughed loudly over the phone.

“Was that Theo? Why are you with Theo?” Alessia questioned

“I… umm… there was — I started getting these pains in my bump. I’d gone to the gym and on the way back the pain got so bad. So I’m at the hospital. The nurse did a scan and the baby seems fine but they’re keeping me overnight to do some more tests.”

“Oh my god. Baby, I’m so sorry I’m not there. I can get someone to drive me back. I can be there within three hours.” Alessia said, pure panic in her voice.

“Less, I’m fine honestly. Please don’t panic. I’m not alone.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there.”

“You can’t help it, less. Please don’t say sorry. Look I’ve got to go, the doctors just walked in. I’ll update you as soon as I know.”

“Okay, babe. I love you so much.” She said, you could tell by her voice that she was crying.

“I love you too, lessi.”

At around two o’clock in the morning, you were told everything was perfect - your baby was perfectly fine.

The doctors put it down to pushing yourself too hard in the gym and your baby clearly didn’t like it.

You rested your head back in relief and exhaustion when the words left the doctors mouth.

They still kept you in for the night, just wanting to make sure that you were okay.

You had sent a quick message to Alessia, telling her that the doctors picked up no worries, before attempting to go to sleep.

Although you tried hard to get to sleep, you were held awake by Theo constantly trying to get comfortable in the tiny chair that he was given.

“Theo.” You said, annoyed.

“Sorry. I just, I can’t get comfy.”

“Come here.” You told him, budging up and patting the bed next to you.

Theo sent you a look and you immediately knew what he was getting at.

“She’ll be fine with it. Alessia knows you’re here and anyway, you’re my friend and I’d do that for any friend and she’d be fine with it.” You said — watching as he nodded coming to lay down in the bed next to you.

The room was tense for a minute as you both tensed up.

“They’re kicking.” You whispered, a smile on your face as your baby kicked gently at your skin.

You and Theo often met up on campus to discuss the baby but no matter how many times he’d tried to feel a kick, the baby never kicked when he was there.

“Are they?” He smiled, going to place his hands on your bump but quickly took them away.

“You can feel.” You told him, taking his hand and resting it on your bump where your little one was kicking away.

You watched his face light up as he felt it.

“They’re kicking. They’re actually kicking.” He exclaimed excitedly. “Hi, bubba. It’s daddy. You gave me and mummy quite a scare today. Please don’t do that again. I know you’re not here yet but I love you so much and I promise I’ll always be there for you. If you’re a boy, I’m gonna teach you how to play football, I’m gonna teach you how to throw and catch. You’ll be the best football player. And if you’re a girl, I’ll let you paint my nails and we’ll have tea parties together. Or if you are a girl and you want to play football then I’ll teach you, no matter what you are I’m gonna teach you how to play football.”

His head rested on your bump, whispering to the baby as his hand stayed - waiting for a small kick after every sentence.

Even if it was sometimes awkward with Theo, he was still the father of your baby and you weren’t going to stop him from having these moments with his baby.

You soon fell asleep, your eyes finally shutting and your mind at rest.

Your baby was perfect.

#woso #woso community #woso x reader #woso imagine #womens football #woso fanfics #alessia russo #alessia russo fluff #alessia russo imagine #alessia russo x reader

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berfgrimm · 3 days ago

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headache | kang daeho

pairing: kang daeho x reader warnings: heavy angst, set during the games, death, violence, blood, trauma note: i'll go on record now saying i'm sorry for this one and i love you all very much. i promise to make it up to you some day soon (maybe).

Everything with Daeho has always been complicated. Never intentional, he would always get himself into situations that were too sticky to get out of, leaving you to clean up the mess. Of course, you never found it a hassle – you were in love with him, after all, though you could never bring yourself to say the words.

Thinking of it, you can pinpoint the moment you fell in love with Daeho. You were ten years old, drawing pictures together at a restaurant around the corner from his house, when a group of boys approached. After the leader of the group threw out a handful of schoolyard insults, Daeho shoved him away, only to be bombarded with punches from the other three boys. It was the first time you stepped into a situation to help him, both of you walking home afterwards with a few bruises and a funny story. The wide grin on his face as he recounted a particularly powerful punch that you threw made you laugh, staring at him with hearts in your eyes.

From that day on, everything would play out the same way. Daeho would camouflage himself in a situation that he wasn’t equipped to handle, and you’d have to step in to help him. For a long time, it was harmless enough: you’d even the odds in a fight, make up excuses to a teacher when he skipped class, be his stand-in for a school play he changed his mind about. Until the day he turned nineteen.

At the behest of his father, Daeho intended to start his military term upon completion of his examination when he turned nineteen. While he’d always been active and fit, you worried the most about the mental exam. You’d never say Daeho wasn’t bright – holding strong in the top of all of his classes was proof of his intelligence. Your concern was the psychological examination and the impact his father’s tyrannical nature had on Daeho’s mental health.

Growing up with four older sisters, Daeho spent a lot of his time playing games, which his father felt made him too weak. Though his mother assured his father that there was nothing wrong with a child playing games, Daeho felt every hurtful word that his father threw at him, allowing it to fester beneath the surface, building a fear within him from an early age. Daeho would never admit that his father was unkind to him, and try as you might to voice your concerns, he was quick to dismiss them with a few optimistic words and a wide smile.

You were the first person Daeho saw after completion of his examination – grade five. In the passenger seat of your mother’s car, a look of fear and uncertainty flickered in his eyes as he described the supplemental service path he’d be forced to take once he finished his training. He couldn’t make eye contact with you, looking at everything else in the car, tears brimming his eyes: helpless.

It was the first time you couldn’t get him out of a situation – not by any legal means. With each detour he directed you on, in both the roads and the conversation, you knew he was stalling. All you could do was listen as he laid out the hypothetical path in front of him, but when he suggested the two of you running away together to avoid the shame he’d brought upon his family’s name, you laughed.

It was clear that Daeho flinched at your amusement, though you hadn’t realized it until later. He lamented to you for two hours before you needed to be home, and you watched the way his shoulders dropped when you pulled up outside of his house. Daeho dragged his feet as he took the walk to his front door to meet his disappointed father on the other side.

After that, you didn’t see or hear from Daeho for three years, only catching a glimpse of him at a club with some friends. You were there to lament a job loss, he was likely there to celebrate the end of his service. At first glance, you thought he seemed more confident than when you last saw him, but you could see it on his face when he thought no one was looking: it was only camouflage. He stayed silent when he wasn’t talking, drifting into the background as he’d always done when you didn’t pull him out of his shell. You opted not to talk to him, fading into the crowd to let him exist how he saw fit.

You’d think of him now and then, but as the years passed, your memories faded, only to be replaced with ones of sadness and loss. After fifteen years, you lost your family, your friends, your money, and your dignity, ending you inside the walls of a nightmare, watching your old friend Daeho affix a blue patch to his jacket.

It felt surreal. When you saw him, the memories flooded back, along with the love. It was like things hadn’t changed, but when Daeho walked past you, only sparing you a small glance before looking at the ground again, your heart sank. Fifteen years is a long time — maybe things have changed.

It took him several hours to approach you after that. You sat on your bunk, staring down at the food you were provided, your stomach too upset to think about eating. Daeho took his time to get to you, moving like a child avoiding the ire of their parents, but when he finally reached your bunk, he stood at the end and waited, as if he expected you to talk first.

“Hey,” he said, simply, stooping enough to peer underneath the top bunk to see you. His tone was aloof, too friendly for someone you hadn’t spoken to in fifteen years.

“What do you want?” You tried to keep frustration from your tone, but you couldn't, and you were certain Daeho heard based on the way he sighed.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“‘Okay’?” you asked, still not bothering to look in his direction. “From when I was running for my life or from when you voted for us to do it again? Or maybe from when you disappeared?” You stopped to scoff before continuing. “You’re just crawling over here now because you saw the look I gave you at the vote.”

“I didn’t see you at the vote.”

“Oh, so you’re a liar now?” Your eyebrows raised and you finally cut your gaze towards him, watching the way his eyes shifted around nervously. “As long as you’ve known me, you’ve never lied to me,” you added. “Took advantage of me, sure, but never lied to me.”

“I didn’t–”

“Didn’t what?”

Daeho sighed, and you saw the flash of fear in his eyes you’d seen many times before. Part of you felt bad for talking to him this way, but the hurt had built up for so long that you couldn’t stop the way it came out. You looked back at your food in your hand, pushing the egg around with your fork, hoping Daeho would take the hint and leave, but you caught him from the corner of your eye, shifting his weight between his feet.

“There’s enough people here that you and I don’t have to worry about each other,” you said, shrugging your shoulders. “You’ve done a good job of avoiding me for eighteen years, so this should be easy.”

“The next game is dalgona," Daeho said quietly, rushing the words out as if he was afraid of who would hear him.

“Great. Anything else?”

“Is he bothering you, señorita?”

A player whose bunk was near yours had found his way over, standing nearby with his arms crossed and what you assumed to be an intimidating look on his face. You couldn’t help but be amused by the man’s confidence, and when you looked between him and Daeho with a smile on your face, you were tempted to fan the flames.

“No, he was just leaving,” you said, giving Daeho one last look before he finally walked away.

The following day, you found yourself in another oversized room, painted to look like a playground and equipped with two circular tracks. As the voice rang out over the loudspeaker, you looked around for people to align with, spotting your purple haired neighbor making his way towards you with a determined grin. Before he could reach you, however, Daeho slid in front of you, giving a quick bow.

“I’m only joining your team to avoid that guy,” you muttered, following Daeho to the rest of his group. “He tried to talk to me the whole night.”

Along with Daeho’s group, you watched the other teams follow the course, cheering them on as they went. You noticed the way Daeho would flinch with each failure and your kinder side tried to convince you to comfort him, but you kept your distance, opting to watch him practice for his game.

“I guess all those games with your sisters finally paid off,” you muttered, not sure you’d be heard over the noise of the surrounding players. Daeho laughed, sparing you a quick glance before returning to his practice.

“Only if we survive,” he said, quietly.

“If we don’t, then…” you trailed off, trying to come up with a threat but falling short. “Well, it won’t matter, because we’ll be dead.”

“Why are you talking to me right now?” Daeho asked.

“You’d prefer I didn’t?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he hurries, shaking his head. “I’m surprised…that’s all. After yesterday—”

“My options are limited.”

You were mostly joking, but Daeho didn't laugh — of course you couldn’t tell him the truth that being near him again felt right, not right now anyway. So the day went on, and you survived another game, but you were privy to a few conversations that gave you insight into Daeho’s new technique for fitting in: lying.

Daeho the Marine with his chest puffed and a wide smile on his face was able to convince everyone of his farce by getting a tattoo. If it wasn’t so sad, you’d laugh. Having seen firsthand the treatment he received from his own father, you knew the kind of pressure he was under, the amount of stress and doubt he’d instilled in his only son. You assumed it was the only way he could get by, but you rolled your eyes as you kept quiet.

When the lights went out that night, Daeho was assigned to have first watch over the group, and you opted to join him, still too wired from the day to get any meaningful sleep. At first, you both sat in silence, looking out over the other bunks filled with sleeping players, until you decided to finally ask him the question you’d been thinking of for years.

“Why didn’t you call me after you finished your service?” you asked, rubbing your hands over your knees to avoid looking at him.

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“I thought things would have changed between us.”

“Hm, well,” you muttered, glancing around the dark room at the rows of bunks. “You could have talked to me about it, though. You were my best friend; I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to make you feel like–”

“I know,” he interrupted.

“You…you had to know that I was in love with you, right?” you asked, your voice cracking as you tried to force the words out before you lost your nerve. Daeho was quiet and it only worsened the ache in your chest as you waited for an answer.

“I did,” he said, before falling back into silence. The hum of the piggybank that hung overhead became deafening with Daeho’s lack of follow up, and you felt tears begin to sting at your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “That’s all I can say.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” you hurried, sniffling and wiping the tears from your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “You can’t force yourself to feel something for someone.”

“I tried—”

“I think I’m going to get some sleep,” you interrupted. “Wake me up in two hours so we can switch.” You crawled into the nearby bunk, pulling the blanket over your body, ducking your head underneath to avoid being seen as the tears began to flow.

Deep down, you knew you couldn’t be upset with Daeho for not having the same feelings for you that you felt for him. However, it didn’t soften to blow when he finally admitted the truth. You felt used, having spent so many years in your youth protecting him, so many years thinking about him, loving him. It brought a twisting sensation to your stomach that made you sick. In part of your mind, you wouldn’t take it back, because you enjoyed the time and company, but feeling so hurt in the moment, you wished you could go back and change it all.

You avoided Daeho for two more games before his group attempted a revolt. Though you wanted to join, both in support and to keep Daeho from doing anything foolish, you were convinced to stay behind by an older woman that had been part of the group. When you watched Daeho walk out of the room, fumbling with the gun, you expected to never see him again, but you hoped you were wrong.

It seemed like hours before Daeho finally returned to the room, scrambling to gather the remaining magazines from the guards, but as he tried to leave he froze and dropped the ammunition to the ground. Years of fear and disappointment finally came to the surface, and Daeho ran to his bunk, cowering in a way you’ve never seen before.

You wanted to go to him, to calm him down from his tears, but you worried it was no longer your place; would you still be able to help him in the way you used to? But the revolt failed. More players died, and the games were to continue. Many put the blame on Daeho for the deaths, and you could only watch him hide in his bunk, ignoring the words as he still shook with the aftershocks of his panic attack.

The dormitory was dark, only lit by the piggybank overhead, when you decided to check on Daeho. He sat at the edge of his bed, facing away from everyone with his shoulders slumped, but he didn’t bother looking up when you approached. You tried to talk to him, keeping your voice quiet and soft as you spoke, but the moment you placed your hand on his shoulder, Daeho shoved you away.

“Get away from me!” he snapped, his voice loud enough to alert players nearby. You took a stumbled step back, your eyes wide in surprise but your cheeks flushing in embarrassment from the attention that he had drawn. “What do you want from me?!” he yelled. “Why do you always think I need you? Go away!”

Tears stung at your eyes and you kept your head down as you returned to your bunk, avoiding eye contact with everyone for the rest of the night. Daeho had never yelled at you before, never disrespected you. Of course, you could write it off to the tensions and the genuine fear that everyone is going through, but his tone burrowed into your brain, replaying over and over again. You couldn’t stop seeing his face, red with anger as he yelled, eyes wide but still glassy with shame. You were certain you’d see it clearly for the rest of your life, however long that would turn out to be.

The next day, as you pulled on your red vest, you looked around at the remaining players, trying to find the most deserving target for the new game. You’d avoided harming any other players up until that point, and the idea of taking someone’s life was enough to make you sick. As your eyes scanned the room, you spotted Daeho, clad in his blue vest, trudging towards another player from his group. You tried your best to ignore the conversation, though you were reminded of Daeho’s response to you the night before; was this the real Daeho, or is this what the fear had done to him?

Screams echoed through the maze as you kept your focus on finding the player who you’d decided to kill. A much older man, Player 100 had been the main instigator throughout the games, and he was selfish enough to continue with no thought to how many lives were lost. You couldn't fully convince yourself that you’d be able to sleep again after killing someone, no matter how much he would deserve it, so you opted to keep your thoughts clear, walking faster in search of the man.

On your journey, you ran directly into Daeho, cowering in a stairwell, eyes wide and full of panic. He backed away from you like a wounded animal, like he was afraid of you. It made you laugh, a sour and tired laugh that could have turned into tears if you had it in you. Daeho held his hands up towards you in a sign of surrender, and you shook your head.

“You can’t think I’d actually hurt you,” you said, in disbelief. Daeho’s hands shook but they stayed up, his gaze breaking from yours for a moment to check his exits. You scoffed and threw your knife to the ground beside him, holding your own hands up to show your intentions.

“Have you seen him?” Daeho asked, breathing heavily as he looked back at you.

“Who? 456?” Daeho nodded in response, nearly wincing at the mention of the other man’s number.

“He’s after me.”

“Because he thinks you got his friend killed.”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

Daeho’s voice was different; it returned to the frightened tone you recalled from your youth but more frantic. You shrugged your shoulders, unsure of what else to say in response to Daeho, because a part of you sympathized with Player 456; he’d watched his best friend die in front of him while Daeho was hiding. If it had been you who watched someone you loved being killed, you’re certain you’d feel a similar rage inside of you. But this was Daeho, and you knew his heart.

“He was on another floor the last time I saw him,” you told Daeho. “Stay out of the stairwells.”

“Do you think you could–?”

“I have to find someone,” you interrupted, taking a step away from the door to clear the path for Daeho. “I can’t waste time or I’ll get myself killed."

Daeho’s shoulders dropped and his expression shifted to something unreadable. You stood there for a moment in silence, staring at each other, before Daeho finally hurried past you, pausing at the door to give you one more look before ducking out of sight. You picked up your knife, and leaned against the wall to take a few deep breaths before you continued your search for your target.

Which brings you to now. Sneaking up behind Player 100 with your knife at the ready. You stab him below his ribs, aiming for his kidney; he yells, grabbing his wound when you retract the knife. As he tries to run, you trip him, sending him face first to the ground with a thud. Before he’s able to collect himself, you drop to your knees on his back, pinning him down and applying pressure directly on his wound. He screams in pain, but you bury the knife in the side of his neck, closing your eyes when you press it in all the way.

The man struggles against you for a moment until you pull the knife out and fall onto the ground, landing on your backside. You can’t bring yourself to look at him and try your best to block out the sounds, until finally you’re met with silence. The robotic voice rings out over the loudspeaker, declaring you safe and Player 100 eliminated. You let out a shaky sigh, mixed with relief and shame as you look at the blood on your hand; you take a moment to collect yourself.

When you’re finally composed enough, you exit the room and begin to wander through the maze, having to duck down a hallway to avoid other players chasing one another. At the far side of the hallway, you catch a glimpse of green, the grotesque hue of the track suits you’ve spent the last several days living in. More specifically, you can make out what appears to be someone’s legs, the rest of their body just out of view in one of the maze’s many alcoves. You squint to get a better view, the exhaustion manifesting in your tired eyes enough to keep you from being able to make out much detail.

Your legs tremble as you walk, heavy with the exertion of the day and the terror that has yet to relent since your first day in these walls. The blood on the soles of your shoes has dried now, mixed with the dirt and grime of the floors enough to stop the rubber from sticking. Still, you keep your empty hand against the wall as you go, giving you some extra balance in your wobbly steps.

As you near the body, you first notice they’re only wearing one of their shoes; you add it to the list of degradations this place has perpetrated on its victims. On the ground on the other side of their body you notice a trail of blood that leads towards them, as if they lost it along the way, limping to find refuge. The pang of sadness in your heart at the thought of another lost life keeps you from stopping, wanting to pay your respects to this person who lost their dignity in their final moments.

When you reach the corner of the alcove, your steps slow to a halt, an icy sensation starting at the base of your neck that cascades down your spine. For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to move any closer, your eyes focusing on the blood on the ground beneath his leg. The tension that had been in your shoulders subsides, not from relief but from resignation, the last of your energy draining from your body when you finally see the number on his vest.

Breaths leave you in stifled sobs, huffs that begin to border on panting as tears prick at your eyes. You let out a shuddered breath that ends in a whimpered, involuntary sob, when you see his blood covered tracksuit. You inch yourself deeper into the alcove until you finally see his face: eyes open, mouth filled with blood, head tipped back to hang from the open door.

“Oh, Daeho,” you whisper, your words getting caught in a shaky whimper.

The agony takes over and you have to pull your gaze away from him, unable to handle the expression frozen on his face. You look at everything else that you’re able to, the painted sky ceiling, the cracks of the walls, the blood in the hallway, but it all leads back to Daeho, lifeless at your feet.

The knife sticks to your blood drenched hand as you unwrap your fingers from the handle, letting it clatter on the ground. Losing control of your breathing, you let out a whine that catches at the back of your throat, a hopeless whimper – a sound you’re certain you’ve never made before because you’ve never felt this degree of heartache in your life. The tears continue to fall from your eyes, trailing down your cheeks, but you only stay silent as they fall.

Unable to stay standing any longer on unsteady legs, you press your back to the wall and slowly sink to the ground, pulling your knees up to your chest with both hands. You can’t help but look at Daeho’s face again, taking in the blood that has begun to dry on his skin and the streaks of tears that had stained his cheeks. A sudden quick huff of breath escapes your lips when you notice the finger marks around his neck, and you can only cover your face with both hands to muffle your sobs.

Sorrow wracks your body, weighing you heavily into the ground as you think of how scared Daeho must have been. You wonder if he begged for them to stop, or if he called for you to help him like he had so many times before. You wonder how long it took for him to fade – how long he had to stare up at his murderer before everything went black. You scream into your hands, your fingers curling to dig your nails into your skin as you weep.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words getting lost in the palms of your hands until you finally drag them away so you can hug your knees closer to your body again. Your lips tremble as you speak through heaving breaths. “Oh, my god,” you lament, rolling your head back against the wall. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to will the tears away, but they only come harder. “No, no, no,” you mutter, wiping your nose with your jacket sleeve. You rub your hands up and down your shins when you look at him again, pleading with him for something he can’t give you. “This can’t…I can’t do this. Please don’t do this to me.”

In your desperation, you hurry onto your hands and knees towards Daeho, crawling through his blood to reach him. Slipping one hand behind his neck, you lift his head up from the edge of the doorframe and press one of your hands to his chest.

“Please wake up, Daeho,” you beg, your voice cracking with desperation. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

Part of you expects him to suddenly take a deep gasping breath like in the movies, blinking the life back into his eyes before he wraps his arms around you for a hug. But he doesn’t. He already feels cold and lifeless, his glassy eyes giving no sign of the playfulness you used to know, not even the fear – simply nothing.

“I can’t be alone,” you rasp, laying slowly onto the ground beside him. You rest on your back, staring up at the painted stars of the ceiling as you slip your hand into his. His hand feels still, but maybe it’s only in your mind, as you expect him to clench his fingers around your hand in response. “Please wake up,” you plead one last time, your voice getting lost in your throat as you realize the futility of the words. “I can’t do this alone; I’m too scared. Please don't leave me.”

As the words leave your mouth, you realize the truth. You were the one who left. You'd abandoned Daeho, not just in the stairwell, but when you dropped him off at his house eighteen years ago, and again three years later as he sat in silence with his friends. For years, you’d told yourself you saved Daeho dozens of times, and that he was the one who left. But you weren’t there for him when it mattered the most. And now it’s your turn to be afraid.

If you had run away with Daeho like he suggested or if you’d talked to him that night at the club, would it have made a difference? You could have gone anywhere in the world, starting fresh without the fear that sat below the surface waiting to boil over. Maybe Daeho could have loved you like you loved him, but maybe that wasn’t meant to be. Somewhere in your heart, you think it was inevitable: you both were destined to end up exactly where you are right now.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, the tears falling from your eyes, trailing down your temples to your ears. “I should have kept you safe. I'm so sorry, Daeho.”

At some point, you roll onto your side facing Daeho and close your eyes, focusing on the quiet electrical hum from the lights. The tears don’t stop, but you try to stifle your sobs, catching them in your chest to leave you trembling from the effort.

Time escapes you, with Daeho’s cold hand still clasped in yours, a part of you still hoping to will him back to life as you whisper how sorry you are. The sounds of scurrying steps blended in with the screaming, the female voice from the loudspeaker announcing who is safe and who is eliminated, until it all blurs into one shrill ringing in the back of your head.

It feels like hours that you stay there before something bumps your foot. At first it doesn’t register until the canned voice of a guard pulls you from your trance. You lift your head just enough to see three guards standing in front of you, two of whom are setting down a large black box with a pink ribbon on top.

“No,” you rasp, shaking your head. “Please.”

“Make your way to the exit,” the guard answers.

“Please, I’m begging you, don’t take him,” you implore, wrapping both of your arms around Daeho’s to pull him closer to you.

The guard speaks again, but you can't understand them, the sound drowned out by your own nonsensical pleading. When a set of hands grab you by your bicep, pulling you away from Daeho, you scream louder, trying to cinch your arms around Daeho’s body. The guard wraps their arms around your midsection, using more force now to tug you away from Daeho.

“You can’t take him!” you yell through sobs. “He can’t be alone! I can’t leave him alone again.” You thrash against the guard as he lifts you from the ground, your legs kicking to hit whatever you can find. All of your efforts are now focused on breaking from the guard’s grasp as they drag you out of the way, until you notice the two guards lift Daeho from the ground. “Get your hands off of him!” you scream, trying to pry the guard’s hands from around your body. “Don’t fucking touch him!”

You wind your elbow back again, connecting with the guard’s head hard enough to daze them, giving you the opportunity to break from their hold. As soon as you take a step towards Daeho, another guard appears, standing in your path with their gun drawn; you stumble to a halt, holding your hands up.

“The game is over,” the guard says. “Return to the dormitory.”

You watch past the guard as Daeho is placed into the box; with his pale skin, stained with blood, he’s nearly unrecognizable as you look at him in this light. Another involuntary sob hits you, and you make another attempt to reach him, not before you’re caught by the guard from before. Another guard comes to your side, both of them locking their arms with yours to drag you down the hall.

“Someone has to tell his mom!” you scream. “You don’t understand: he has sisters! They have to know what happened! Please, you can’t take him!”

You watch the final two guards place the lid atop the box, sealing Daeho in darkness – alone. You continue to use all of your strength to fight against the two guards that pull you away from the scene, but you’re lightheaded, sick, exhausted from the events of the last few days. So, as the guards carry Daeho’s box out of your sight, you finally relent, allowing the two men to drag your limp body towards the exit as you continue to sob.

The rest of the games don’t matter. As you think of it, the guard could have killed you in the hallway with Daeho, and it would have been better than this: sitting on a bunk all alone, staring at Daeho’s blood dried on your clothes. You don’t feel anything, all thoughts left your head as you watched your best friend be carried to an unknown location.

Maybe the only way out is through. Finish the games so you can tell people what happened here, tell Daeho’s family how he died. That's what you'd like to think Daeho would tell you, anyway. You find it hard to muster the strength to even stand as a guard calls for the vote, and you stand amongst the remaining players, your body swaying as you struggle to stand.

When your number is called, you slowly make your way to the front and press the blue button without hesitation. A few players let out frustrated groans, but you ignore them, dragging yourself back towards your bunk without waiting for the end of the vote.

You didn’t do it for the money, or the chance of survival. Not because it’s what you deserve, or because nothing is waiting for you outside of this place. No, you voted to die here so Daeho doesn’t have to be alone ever again.

tag list: @infinetlyforgotten, @wcnderlnds, @ldydeath, @ttturnitup, @breakmeoff, @cupidsonly, @bettelaboure, @multi-craze, @seungttttop, @florathewriter, @tenaciousstarfishfun, @youlikeex, @thelovelybireader, @sherxoo, @enidths, @carrotheadedtoast, @cyanidealice11, @tabibabib, @hydeonysus, @ilovethe141 , @s4intkwon, @thedeafdane, @szonyix6277, @crashmunson, @millytugby, @divinefeminineeeee, @look-attthe-moon, @jenni-wilk, @raynamorono23

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#kang daeho x reader #squid game imagine #x reader #player 388 x reader #kang dae ho #dae ho squid game #daeho x reader

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wuunderstruck · 2 days ago

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for @kingdonmicrofic day 3 — ROAD TRIP

(297 words, rated G, AO3 link)

She found him on the roof, which she supposed made sense—it was his favorite place back home, after all. She didn't even realize the shitty little motel had roof access until she passed the heavy metal door leading to the stairwell. And then it seemed like a no-brainer. Her footsteps echoed and sure enough, there he'd been, leaning with his elbows on the half-wall, looking over the city lights.

She came up beside him, their profiles aligned. She didn't say anything, giving him space to tell her what had clearly been eating at him since Abby called eighteen hours and three rest stops ago.

Finally, he spoke, his voice creaky from disuse. “I have to go back."

She wasn't surprised, but it hurt to hear all the same.

His eyes searched hers out, somehow bright in the darkness. She could sense the desperation emanating off of him like a fever before he even opened his mouth. “It's Tanner. Things aren't better—I missed the parent teacher conference. He's acting up. Abby’s stressed, and pissed, and she's right to be.” A hand ran through his hair to pull it out of his eyes, but the strands fell right back in his face anyway. There was an exhale; something weighed before he decided to continue. "And … it's just being out here. On the road. Running, but I can't… Y’know, ‘wherever you go, there you are’—?”

She knew.

Her heart twisted. She hated this part, even though she knew it was coming. Eyes burning with tears, she looked away, cleared her throat, looked back at him. Before she could lose her nerve, her hand darted out to cover both of his, as much as it could with their size difference.

"Okay,” she said, throat aching, voice husky. "Let's go back.”

#kingdon #kingdonmicrofic #kingdon fic #kingdon microfic #melfrank #melangdon #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fic #myfic #[Bernie meme] i am once again co opting The Roof for my kingdon agenda #this might be turned into a longer piece eventually #also met the exact word count! 🥳

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westcoasthazel · 2 days ago

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Prompt: road trip Word count: 297 AO3 link

It had started as a cost-saving measure. Gloria had been acting like her usual self, breathing down Robby’s neck about expense reports and annual budgets. It had gotten so bad that Robby had started seeking out Myrna’s company, as a deterrent. Recognizing a desperate man, Frank had taken one for the team and offered to drive their cohort to the upcoming EM conference in Cleveland. He could seat seven, so everyone would have plenty of room, and Gloria would just have to approve his gas receipts.

So that was how they all found themselves in the hospital employees' parking lot on a crisp October morning. Frank had insisted that they all meet there as it was a central location, and despite the fact that he was driving them all, he wasn’t actually a taxi service.

Mel had shown up 20 minutes before their arranged rendezvous time, a skip in her step as she made her way over from the bus stop. Trinity and Whitaker joined her a couple of minutes later, already involved in one of their typical bickering sessions over something inconsequential. Parker sauntered up just in time, a bag slung over her shoulder, coffee in hand, post nights.

(Jack had firmly declined the offer of a ride, stating that his sanity was worth more than spending three hours in a contained vehicle with them all. He figured the gas money would be cheaper than the amount he would have to fork over for therapy. )

“There he is!”

“Where? All I see is a tragic-looking soccer mom minivan.”

“Actually, Tanner does swimming, not soccer. And that’s Frank’s,” pointing to the Chevy Astro minivan. “Abby drives a Subaru.”

“A Subaru, you say?”

Mel pinched the bridge of her nose; it was going to be a long drive.

(Bonus line: "If I marry Abby, will that make me your sister-in-law?")

@kingdonmicrofic

#kingdonmicrofic #road trip #the astro minivan is baby blue #kingdon

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ghuleh-witch · 2 days ago

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Fandom: Ghost Rating: Explicit Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, Pregnancy, Prime Mover au, oral sex, ritual sex Relationships: Papa Emeritus IV/Copia x Female!Reader Additional Tags: friends to lovers, use of pet names, domestic fluff, developing relationship, no beta Word Count: 2069 Chapters: 5/6 Summary: When Papa Emeritus IV needs to find a Prime Mover, you volunteer yourself. Ao3 || Masterlist Parts: I — II —III —IV—V—VI

cw: pregnancy and pregnancy symptoms Note: I've never been pregnant, I'm just going on what I've seen friends and family have gone through and google, so if things aren't accurate about our character's pregnancy, I apologize.

Touring was hell.

You didn’t realize how hard it was going to be to hide your pregnancy symptoms, not that you were hiding it to begin with. Within the first hour of being on the road, all the ghouls knew you were pregnant.

“You have two distinct scents now,” Aurora explained as they watched you and Copia. “But don’t worry, we won’t tell.”

While Copia rehearsed during the day, you tried to relax and went on the spa trips Sister had booked for you. You spent your nights backstage with earplugs in, watching the love of your life perform in front of thousands of screaming fans. Afterwards, once Copia showered, and they were back on the road to the next destination, you made love quietly in the tiny room at the back of the bus. Other nights, you two fell asleep, too exhausted to do anything else.

One afternoon, a week into the tour, you went to a health clinic under a false name and had the pregnancy confirmed and made sure everything was good so far.

Between traveling, the fatigue, heartburn, and morning sickness, you started to notice your clothes getting tighter. You weren’t showing yet, but there was some definite weight gain. On top of all of that, you no longer could stomach anything with garlic in it, much to Copia’s dismay. The smell and taste made you gag.

By the time the first break of the tour came about, you were thankful to be returning home for a few weeks. It was halfway through your tenth week when you and Copia returned to the abbey. When the car pulled up front to drop you two off, you spotted Sister Imperator standing there, waiting for you. She stood rigid, cross-armed, and her eyes narrowed in a glare. “This can’t be good,” you said to Copia before getting out of the car.

“You were pregnant this whole time and hid it?” She seethed when you and Copia approached. “Do you know how reckless you were? What if something happened? What if you lost my gran-the baby?”

“I was fine. I’m not fragile,” you replied, holding your ground. You decided to ignore her almost slip-up. You knew Sister was Copia’s mother. He told you not long into the start of your position, but made you promise to keep it to yourself. You agreed but understood why she was so desperate for Copia to have a Prime Mover. You felt Copia’s hand on your lower back, a gentle reminder that he supported you through all of this. “I was safe. I’ve been taking the vitamins Doctor Miller recommended, and I had my list of doctors if something had happened. But it didn’t.” “Well, praise Satan for that,” Sister said, rolling her eyes. “You will not be going on the next leg of the tour.”

“But-” You began feeling panic. You had a month with him before he headed off for the next leg of the tour, and then he’d be gone for almost three more months. By the time he got back, you’d be over halfway through the pregnancy.

“No buts, you are staying here where we can take care of you and monitor you. Cardi will be back before you know it,” Sister said, casting a knowing look at you, then at Copia.

“What if Doctor Miller came with us on the next leg of the tour?” Copia suggests. “It would be safe then.”

“No, your Prime Mover is to remain here where she will get the best care and where there’s no stress of traveling,” she said with finality before looking back at you. “Now come on, the good doctor is waiting for you.”

According to the doctor, your pregnancy was progressing just fine. The baby’s heartbeat was strong, and they were developing nicely. It was still a little too early to confirm gender, but you weren’t in a rush. You were more focused on trying to enjoy the break Copia had before having to leave for the next leg of the tour.

You were officially in the 2nd trimester the week Copia had to leave again. On his last day with you, the two of you spend the day curled up in bed. His hand was on your belly, which had begun to show the beginnings of a baby bump. He spoke softly to your stomach in Italian, occasionally leaning down to kiss the bump and then your lips. His kisses turned from gentle and sweet to needy and full of lust. Then he had you spread out on the bed, naked, with his head between your thighs, eating you out like you were the last meal he’d ever have again.

By the time he finished with you, you lost count of how many times he made you come. The next day, when Copia had to leave, you sobbed.

It had been a month since Copia left for the tour. You were going stir-crazy. Copia called you and video chatted every morning when he woke up and again at night after each show. It still wasn’t enough for you. Your heart ached for him, and you wanted nothing more than to be by his side. Sister Imperator was making sure you went to every appointment, took every prenatal vitamin recommended, and made sure you were staying off your feet and relaxing.

All the while, she looked more and more run down as the days went by.

“Is she alright?” You asked Doctor Miller as you both watched Sister leave the infirmary, arm looped through ghouls for support. “She’s not my patient,” the doctor responded. “But in my professional opinion, no.”

Whatever was going on with Sister seemed to soften her up, and she allowed you to go visit Copia for the weekend, being accompanied by one of Copia’s old ghouls, Aether. When Copia met you outside the tour buses parked at their next destination, he held you in the tightest hugs, peppering your face with kisses and getting his black lipstick all over your skin. He then dropped to a knee and pressed his hands to the now obvious swell of your belly. “Ciao piccolino, sono io, tuo papà,” he whispered. (Hello little one, it’s me, your papa)

The sight made your heart melt, and you carded your fingers through his hair. “Your child is giving me wicked heartburn and making my fingers swell. I had to take off my rings,” you teased.

“Sii gentile con tua mamma,” he coos. (Be nice to your mama.) He then looked up at you and smiled. “I love you both so much.” He rose from his knees, took your hand, and led you into the bus to get you off your feet.

The further your pregnancy progressed, the more he took care of you, even from afar. While he was on tour, it was not uncommon for a package to show up for you at the abbey. He always filled it with your favorite self-care items. Occasionally, there was a onesie in the box that had some silly saying for whatever state the band was visiting, such as “My Daddy Visited Texas and All I Got Was This Onesie.”

And then Sister died.

You were five months in, just over halfway, and just had your check-up appointment with the doctor that day. Doctor Miller asked if you wanted to know the sex of the baby, but you said no. If Copia couldn’t be there to hear it, you didn’t want to know either. It would be a surprise to both of you when you gave birth.

You were expecting Copia’s call that evening and couldn’t wait for him to gush about how good the final show of the Re-Imperatour was. It was going to be recorded and turned into a concert film to be shown in theaters worldwide. You knew Copia was incredibly anxious about it. It was a huge stepping stone for him, but you also knew just how afraid he was.

The final show for Terzo had him pulled off stage, literally, and then, weeks later, killed along with Primo and Secondo. You knew Copia feared the same would happen to him. His fear of replacement and of becoming another relic added to the touring collection terrified him. You assured him that it would never happen. The ministry was doing better than ever with him as Papa. The Upper Clergy would be fools to get rid of Copia now.

But when Cumulus called you instead of Copia that night, you knew something had gone wrong.

“He’s okay,” the ghoulette said when she first answered. “But Sister Imperator passed…He needs you.”

That’s all you needed to hear.

Aether booked the flight at your request, and you updated Doctor Miller. You didn’t get her permission to travel. You did the courtesy of telling her you were leaving. No one was going to stop you. Ten hours later, you were outside Copia’s hotel room, knocking on the door. When it opened a minute later, you took in Copia’s red-rimmed eyes and paintless face. He looked surprised to see you, but said nothing as he pulled you inside and then pulled you into his arms. Once the door clicked closed behind you, he began to cry into your shoulder. You held him tightly, whispering soothing words as you stroked your fingers through his hair.

You guided him over to the bed and gently sat him down. His arms moved to wrap around your waist, careful of the ever-growing bump of your belly. “I am not Papa anymore,” he said after a moment, looking up at you with watery eyes. “I have her job now…I am Frater Imperator now.”

You cupped his face with your hands and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You will always be Papa to me. And you will be a papa to this little one,” you said, moving a hand to rest on your abdomen. “Your title doesn’t make you who you are, Copia. You are what makes you who you are. Whether you are Papa Emeritus IV or Frater Imperator. You’re still Copia. Still my Copia. And we will love you no matter what title you may carry.”

The shattered look on his face broke your heart, but your words seemed to pull him back together. The smallest hint of a smile formed on his lips before he pressed his lips to your belly. “I will always be papa to you,” he said before he looked up and met your eyes.

“Always,” you whispered in affirmation.

The next two months of your pregnancy were the most stressful time of your life. Upon returning to the Ministry, a fire broke out and destroyed much of the abbey. Luckily, you and Copia were out at the time, so neither of you was ever in danger, but the move to the new campus across the ocean was awful. You were so round and swollen, and it made sitting on a plane painful. Once you made it to the new monastery, Doctor Miller put you on bed rest.

“Too much stress,” she chided you while you sat up in bed.

“Kind of hard to relax with everything going on,” you quipped back.

And it was. Copia’s new duties as Frater took up a lot of his time. On top of that, he just found out he had another brother, a twin, actually, and they would be coming to the Ministry to be confirmed as the new Papa. This put Copia in a mood. He was bitter, and rightfully so. But he tried to keep a pleasant smile around you and keep his work life separate from the life you were building with him.

“His name is Perpetua,” Copia said one night to you while you were tucked into his side, and he rubbed the swell of your belly. “What kind of dumb fucking name is that?” You bit back your tongue, wanting to comment that his mother also gave him an unusual name and that he didn’t have room to talk. So you let him rant and rave about how he should still be Papa and that this new guy was going to ruin everything he worked so hard for. Eventually, Copia tired himself out and fell asleep with his head resting against yours and a hand holding your middle protectively as the baby kicked happily against it.

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